The imperial suite had been prepared with meticulous care.
Every candle was placed with intention. Every curtain drawn just so. Every silk sheet smoothed until not a wrinkle dared remain.
Marienne Lysford stood alone in the center of it all, staring at her reflection.
She wore red. Not the shy blush of rose or the quiet warmth of wine but a deep, deliberate crimson. The kind of color meant to command attention. To declare desire. To leave no room for doubt.
The gown clung to her body like a promise. Her hair fell loose down her back, perfumed and shining. Her lips were painted carefully, deliberately parted as she practiced a smile meant to entice.
Tonight was supposed to matter. Tonight was their honeymoon. Their first night as husband and wife. The night their marriage would finally become real.
She had planned everything.
The wine Cassian preferred— aged, strong, rare. The food he barely touched— set aside anyway. The bed— large enough to swallow silence, draped in scarlet and gold.
Red for passion. Red for victory. Red for possession.
She did not know— had never known— that Cassian Vale despised red.
To him, red was blood drying in dirt. Red was screams. Red was the aftermath of war.
What he loved were quieter colors. Black. White.
Innocence. Purity. The void. Things that did not demand him. Things that did not ask.
Marienne waited.
Each passing minute tightened something in her chest.
When the door finally opened, she straightened instantly, her smile blooming wide and practiced. But the man who stepped inside was not her husband.
It was a messenger in military uniform, face pale, posture rigid.
"My lady," he said carefully, eyes fixed on the floor, "forgive the intrusion."
Her smile faltered.
"What is it?" She asked, already knowing.
"The General has been summoned back to camp," the messenger continued. "An urgent report. Border movements. He is required immediately."
Marienne's breath caught. "But," she said softly. "Tonight is—"
"I'm afraid it cannot wait."
The words struck harder than any insult.
She turned slowly, just in time to see Cassian enter behind the messenger, already dressed for departure. His coat was buttoned. His sword belted at his side. His expression was unreadable.
Ready. As always.
"Cassian," she said, forcing warmth into her voice. "It's our honeymoon."
"I know."
He did not look at the bed. Did not look at the candles. Did not look at her.
"Then... just a moment," she said quickly, stepping toward him. "Just... stay a little while. The report can wait. The Empire will not fall in one night."
Cassian met her gaze. And for a brief, cruel instant, she thought she saw hesitation. Then it vanished.
"There is movement near the southern border," he said evenly. "If it escalates, thousands could die."
She swallowed hard. "And what about me?" She asked quietly.
Cassian did not answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Professional.
"You will be safe."
The words were not meant to wound. But they did.
He inclined his head slightly, the way he did when excusing himself from councils and war rooms.
"I will return when this is resolved."
Then he turned away.
No touch. No kiss. No glance back.
The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
Marienne stood frozen in the red-lit room, the candles flickering mockingly around her. The bed looked enormous now... unused, untouched, waiting for something that would not come.
Slowly, her hands curled into fists. She laughed once, quietly. Bitterly.
Of course.
Of course the Empire came first. It always had.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, the red silk pooling around her like spilled wine, and stared at the door long after Cassian had gone.
This night, like their marriage, had been claimed by something larger than her. And somewhere far away, beneath canvas and torchlight, Cassian Vale rode toward duty once more.
Leaving behind a bride who had dressed herself for love, and been answered by war.
---
Months passed.
Spring bled into summer, and summer began its slow descent toward autumn but nothing changed.
Marienne Lysford-Vale remained a married woman in name alone. Cassian never returned.
The battle on the southern borders, first spoken of as a skirmish, had erupted into something brutal and consuming. Entire regiments were swallowed by the fighting. Villages burned. Maps were redrawn with blood rather than ink.
The honeymoon that never began had been erased by war.
Marienne stayed in the imperial residence assigned to her as the War General's wife. The rooms were vast, immaculate, and unbearably quiet. Every morning she woke alone. Every night she went to bed untouched, unspoken to, unseen.
Other noble wives received letters. Stacks of them. Letters written in uneven hands, stained with dirt and sweat, full of longing and reassurance. Promises to return. Apologies for absence. Declarations of love scratched out between battles.
Marienne received nothing.
No ink. No seal. No words.
Weeks turned into months.
She learned to listen for boots in the hall that never came. She learned to stop expecting footsteps behind her. She learned to dine alone without looking at the empty chair across the table.
When she ventured outside— attending court functions, charity events, ceremonies— Cassian's soldiers always acknowledged her.
They saluted. They bowed.
"My lady."
Respectful. Precise. Distant.
If she dared to ask—
"How is the General?"
"He's alives."
"He is still fighting."
"He holds the line."
Always the same answers. Never more. Never less.
As if Cassian Vale existed only as a report on a battlefield— alive or dead, advancing or retreating— never as a husband. Never as a man who belonged to her.
At night, Marienne lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts circling like vultures.
She wondered... If it had been Seraphine. If Cassian had married her instead.
Would he still have left without hesitation? Would he still have chosen war over her bed? Would months have passed in silence?
Marienne clenched her jaw in the darkness.
No.
She knew the answer even as she tried to deny it.
Seraphine would not have been left like this. Seraphine would have received letters written in rare, careful words... because Cassian chose his words like weapons. Seraphine would have been remembered, carried, consulted in the quiet spaces of his mind. He would not have abandoned her so completely.
The thought festered.
And then, news came.
It was spoken quietly at first. Whispers behind gloved hands. Murmurs carried through drawing rooms and corridors.
Seraphine Arden had been confined.
Declared unstable.nRemoved from society. Sent away.
An asylum.
Marienne laughed when she heard it. A sharp, bright sound that startled the ladies around her.
"An asylum?" She repeated, disbelief and triumph tangling in her chest. "How fitting." She smiled, wide and unrestrained.
So the great love had broken her.nSo the woman who haunted her steps had finally shattered.
Seraphine... mad, ruined, locked away behind iron gates and padded walls.
Marienne felt something dangerously close to satisfaction. But the laughter died too quickly. Her smile faltered.
Because even as the word asylum echoed in her thoughts, something cold slid down her spine.
Seraphine was gone. And yet—
Marienne still felt her.
In the silence of her marriage. In the absence of Cassian's letters. In the way his name felt hollow on her tongue.
Even locked away, Seraphine remained between them.
A ghost. A shadow. A presence that refused to fade.
Marienne pressed her fingers against her temple, her breath slowing.
She realized then. Slowly, dreadfully... that Seraphine Arden would never truly leave her.
Not from Cassian's heart. Not from Marienne's mind. Not from the future she had fought so hard to claim.
The asylum might have taken Seraphine's body. But her existence... her hold... would haunt Marienne Lysford-Vale for the rest of her life.
Marienne stared at her reflection in the darkened window, her own face looking back at her like a stranger's. Slowly, bitterly, she understood...
No matter how legitimate her title, no matter how lawful her marriage is... she would always be standing in someone else's place.
And for the rest of her life, she would be the other woman.