Devilish secretary - Chapter 259

Chapter 259: Chapter 259 Forced merriage (2)
Meanwhile, outside in the middle of the tribe, chaos was happening but a very festive chaos.

Villagers were hanging colorful ribbons between the trees. Drums were being beaten loudly. Women were tossing flower petals into the air, and children were running around laughing.

In the middle of all this—

Ethan Carter was suffering.

Two large old men were practically dragging him toward a small wooden platform built under a large tree, decorated with red cloth and bright forest flowers.

Ethan dug his heels into the ground like a stubborn donkey.

“No! No! Listen, there’s been a mistake!” he cried out desperately. “I’m too young! I’m too handsome to settle down! My career! My freedom!”

The villagers just laughed joyfully, misunderstanding his struggles as “nervous groom jitters.”

One man patted his back so hard Ethan stumbled forward.

“Good boy! Very healthy! Strong like bull! Good for making many babies!”

Ethan gasped in horror.

“Many—?! I’m not even ready for one!!”

Another woman threw a garland around his neck, shouting something about good luck and strong sons.

Ethan clutched the garland like it was a noose, his face full of pure panic. “Where’s my lawyer! I didn’t agree to this!”

They finally pushed him onto the small wooden stage, where he stood miserably in his traditional tribal groom clothes, looking like a shiny, panicked rooster decorated for a festival.

He turned his head left and right, looking for an escape route, but everywhere he looked—

Smiling faces. Drums. Dancing.

They were serious about this wedding.

Ethan placed his hands on his head, groaning loudly.

“I just wanted a nap. A NAP. Not a wife, not a village, not fifty future babies!!”

And just when he thought it couldn’t get worse—

The crowd parted slightly, the drums slowed—

And Tara appeared.

She walked slowly toward him, wearing the beautiful simple tribal red gown, flowers in her dark hair, the morning light hitting her soft face.

For a second—

Ethan forgot to breathe.

Everyone else disappeared from his view.

Just Tara.

Looking a little scared. A little shy. A little lost.

But stunning.

She kept her eyes down, walking quietly toward him.

The moment Tara stepped onto the small platform beside Ethan, the drums started beating again—loud and cheerful.

Ethan stood there stiff as a stick, his hands awkwardly pressed to his sides, eyes flicking around in terror like a trapped squirrel.

The old village priest—an ancient man with barely any teeth and a beard so long it touched his waist waddled up holding a big decorated stick.

He pointed it dramatically at Ethan.

“First ritual!” he shouted.

“The groom must spin around three times without falling!”

Ethan blinked.

“Huh?!”

Before he could even protest, two men grabbed his shoulders and spun him.

One spin—

Two spins—

Three spins—

Ethan stumbled like a drunk goose, waving his arms, nearly falling off the platform.

Tara covered her mouth to hide her laugh, her shoulders shaking.

“I’m gonna throw up my soul,” Ethan mumbled, trying to stand straight as stars danced in front of his eyes.

The priest clapped happily.

“Good! Second ritual—bride must hit groom with flower three times!”

A little girl handed Tara a big bunch of flowers tied together.

Tara looked at Ethan, her lips twitching.

Ethan gave her a pleading look.

“Go easy on me, please. I’m fragile.”

Tara didn’t even pretend to be gentle.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

Three playful hits on his chest, not too hard but enough to make him wobble backward.

“Ow! Domestic violence already?!” Ethan cried dramatically, clutching his chest.

The villagers roared with laughter.

The priest nodded solemnly like it was the most important part of the ceremony.

“Third ritual—exchange sacred items!”

An old woman came forward, holding two strange things:

a crooked chicken feather for Ethan and a shiny river stone for Tara.

Ethan took the feather carefully, staring at it.

“…Do I have to eat this?” he whispered to Tara.

Tara snorted. “No, idiot. Just exchange.”

They awkwardly handed each other the items, their fingers brushing briefly.

Both of them froze slightly at the touch.

The crowd cheered again.

Finally, the priest raised his stick high and shouted,

“Now, the final blessing! Tie them together!”

Two old ladies came forward with a giant, thick red cloth. Without warning, they wrapped it tightly around Ethan and Tara, binding them chest to chest, arm to arm, so close they could feel each other’s heartbeats.

Ethan stiffened instantly.

Tara’s eyes widened, face turning pink under the veil.

They stood there wrapped like two awkward, blinking burritos.

“You may now begin your eternal journey together!” the priest announced proudly.

The villagers clapped and threw flower petals in the air, dancing around them.

Ethan whispered under his breath, face three inches from Tara’s, “If you laugh, I swear I’ll cry.”

Tara was already shaking from holding back her laughter.

She could barely breathe.

As the villagers danced and celebrated around them,

Ethan and Tara stood wrapped tightly in the thick red cloth, faces so close they could feel each other’s breath.

The drums were loud, the laughter even louder, but somehow, in that tiny space between them, it felt quiet.

Just the two of them.

Ethan, still a little dizzy from everything, leaned his head down slightly, whispering,

“Okay… please tell me none of that was black magic.”

Tara let out a soft laugh, her voice gentle, meant only for him. She shook her head lightly, her forehead almost brushing his chin.

“No… it’s not black magic,” she whispered back. “They’re old customs… very old.”

Ethan, still confused but curious, tilted his head closer.

“Then what were all those crazy rituals about? Spinning? Getting hit with flowers? Being tied up like a sandwich?”

Tara smiled shyly, her voice low, her eyes glinting with a little warmth now.

“The three spins… are to show that no matter how dizzy life makes you, you must stay standing together.”

Ethan blinked slowly, his chest tightening slightly without reason.

“The flower hits…” Tara continued, her cheeks pink,

“are to test if the groom can take small pains without leaving the bride.”