Cameras flashed in blinding bursts, each click echoing like a bullet in the vaulted silence of the cathedral. The scent of lilies and polished marble should have signaled celebration, yet the air was heavy thick with pity, confusion, and the brittle tension of scandal barely smothered by lace and candlelight.
Adrian Vale stood rigid at the altar, a tall figure cut in black, the weight of the crowd's stares pressing on him like chains. His jaw was sharp, clenched too tight, his storm-gray eyes fixed ahead as though staring at something only he could see.
It should have been her.
The thought battered him again, ruthless and relentless. It should have been Helenagolden laughter, warm hands, a life he'd already planned with her. But Helena was gone, her body broken in twisted steel and shattered glass. And now, in her place, they handed him this girl: Elara Cross.
Helena's sister. The replacement they had chosen. The one forced into white silk because fate had stolen the bride he loved.
And she was walking toward him now.
The long train of her white dress whispered across the aisle, the delicate lace catching the light in brief, holy sparks. Her golden hair, dulled and brittle, spilled loose down her back, framing a face that should have been beautiful if not for the hollowness carved deep into her cheeks, the tired slope of her mouth, and the vacant calm in her eyes. She moved without hesitation, without trembling, without even the faintest flicker of life.
The thought battered him again ruthless and relentless. It should have been Helena golden laughter, warm hands, a life he'd already planned with her. But Helena was gone, her body broken in twisted steel and shattered glass. And now, in her place, they handed him this girl.
Elara Cross.
Helena's sister. The replacement they had chosen. The one forced into white silk because fate had stolen the bride he loved.
And she was walking toward him now.
The long train of her white dress whispered across the aisle, the delicate lace catching the light in brief, holy sparks. Her golden hair, dulled and brittle, spilled loose down her back, framing a face that should have been beautiful if not for the hollowness carved deep into her cheeks, the tired slope of her mouth, and the vacant calm in her eyes. She moved without hesitation, without trembling, without even the faintest flicker of life.
Like a lamb brought to slaughter.
The whispers rippled through the pews. That's the other one. The illegitimate. The Cross family really did it. How shameless.
Adrian heard them all. He did not silence them.
Elara reached the altar and stopped beside him. She did not look at him. She did not lower her head in shyness or raise it in defiance. She simply... stood. Like a doll posed where someone else had placed her. The priest's voice boomed through the cathedral sanctified and hollow. Words about union, love, God's blessing. They were background noise to Adrian's rage. He did not move until the priest said, "You may now kiss the bride."
Then he turned, his hand shooting out to grip Elara's wrist not tenderly, but with the sharpness of possession. Gasps echoed in the pews. He pulled her close, close enough that the crowd would see intimacy, but his lips never touched hers.
She wasn't breaking.
And why the hell did he feel like he already had?
When the gates of the Vale estate swung open, the carriage rolled into silence broken only by gravel crunching beneath the wheels. The house loomed, all glass and stone, lit like a sentinel in the night.
Elara stepped out first, her skirts brushing the ground as though she floated. She didn't look back at Adrian, didn't wait for his hand, didn't falter as the doors opened for them.
Inside, servants bowed. Their eyes flicked to her, then away quick and sharp as though looking too long might burn. She was already a ghost in her new home.
Adrian trailed behind her, his gaze cutting through her back like a knife. His chest ached with the ghost of Helena, with the sight of this woman wearing white where she shouldn't.
And Elara Elara simply walked forward, silent, steady, as though none of it mattered.
She already knew her life.
Already knew her place.
And Adrian Vale, for all his fury, could not shake the unsettling truth
He had just married a woman who looked at hell and did not flinch.