The Wife He Never Chose

Summary

Marcus picked out the car himself before the wedding. He told me it was the finest gesture he could offer—a proper symbol of the life we were building.

Yet every time I climbed into the passenger seat, my knees pressed awkwardly into the dashboard unless I shoved the seat all the way forward. Even then, the visor mirror cut off the top half of my face. The seatbelt bit into my collarbone like a stiff blade, and the headrest caught the back of my skull at an angle that gave me a throbbing tension headache after twenty minutes on the highway.