• The Grand Wedding That Feels Like a Funeral

The cathedral loomed like a solemn monument of fate, its towering arches casting elongated shadows across the marble floors. Gilded chandeliers hung like frozen constellations, bathing the hall in warm candlelight. The scent of roses—dozens of bouquets lining the pews—mingled with the sharp tang of incense, lingering like a quiet lament.

Lady Evelyne Langford stood at the altar, her hands trembling beneath layers of ivory lace. Her gown shimmered with pearl-threaded embroidery, delicate as frost, but her heart beat with the weight of dread. The world around her was blurred at the edges, as if she stood at the center of someone else's dream. Or someone else's life.

Beside her, Lord Adrian Sinclair cut a sharp figure in tailored black and silver. He was still as stone, jaw locked, eyes staring ahead with cool indifference. Not once had he looked at her. Not when she arrived. Not when she walked down the aisle. Not even now, as the priest recited their vows before hundreds of watchful eyes.

The air inside the cathedral grew heavy with anticipation.

The priest’s voice echoed like thunder:

“Do you, Lord Adrian Sinclair, take Lady Evelyne Langford to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and cherish, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

A hush fell.

Evelyne held her breath. Her fingers gripped her bouquet tighter, the thorns of the roses biting into her gloved palm. The silence stretched so long it felt as though the world itself had paused.

Then, at last, Adrian spoke.

“I do.”

Two words. Clipped. Hollow. Like steel on stone.

He didn’t glance at her.

A ripple moved through the crowd—an awkward shifting, a murmur behind lace fans and velvet sleeves. Evelyne’s throat tightened. The priest turned to her, his expression soft but rehearsed.

“And do you, Lady Evelyne Langford, take Lord Adrian Sinclair—”

"I have no choice."

The thought came unbidden, sharp as a knife. Her lips parted, dry and trembling.

“I do,” she whispered.

The priest gave a small nod and gestured forward. “You may now kiss the bride.”

But Adrian didn’t move.

A heartbeat passed.

Then another.

He turned slightly—not toward her, but to the guests—and offered a shallow bow. Without a glance, without even a brush of fingers, he stepped back, leaving Evelyne alone beneath the vaulted ceiling and the solemn stares of nobility.

There was no kiss. No touch. No whisper of comfort.

Only silence.

A thousand eyes watched her, but Evelyne kept her head high, swallowing the lump in her throat. Her wedding—the day little girls dreamed of—felt like a funeral dressed in gold.

• The Carriage Ride to the Mansion

The grand cathedral doors had long closed behind them, and the jubilant music had faded into memory. The golden sunset bled across the horizon, casting the landscape in warm, flickering hues—but inside the lavish black carriage, there was only silence and coldness.

Lady Evelyne Langford sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, the lace of her wedding gown stiff and heavy around her. Her fingers, still gloved, trembled slightly as they clutched the bouquet—now a wilting bundle of ivory roses, petals bruised from her tight grip. The tiara on her head, so carefully placed by the maid earlier that morning, now felt like a crown of thorns.

Beside her, Lord Adrian Sinclair sat with the ease of a man untouched by the gravity of the moment. One gloved hand rested on the armrest, the other on his knee. His sharp profile was illuminated by the fading daylight that filtered through the curtained window. He stared outside as if she didn’t exist.

The silence between them was not merely awkward—it was suffocating.

Evelyne swallowed and shifted slightly, the silk skirts rustling like whispered apologies. She opened her mouth, hesitant.

“My lord—”

He cut her off without turning. “We don’t need to pretend when we’re alone.”

The words, cool and flat, dropped between them like ice into water.

Evelyne’s heart sank.

He finally turned his head, and for the first time since the ceremony, their eyes met. His gaze was sharp, almost cruel in its detachment. There was no anger in his eyes—only the practiced indifference of a man who had built walls too thick to peer over.

“This marriage,” he said, his tone as cold as the evening breeze, “is a formality. A contract. You and I both know that.”

His voice held no malice, but no warmth either. Just apathy. He might have been discussing business terms, not the woman now bound to him for life.

Evelyne pressed her lips together. Her throat was dry, but she managed a soft, “I understand.”

He didn’t respond.

The wheels of the carriage thudded rhythmically over the cobblestone road. Outside, the Sinclair estate was still some distance away, its towering silhouette just visible against the horizon. Inside the carriage, the silence returned—heavier now, laced with unspoken things neither of them had the courage or desire to voice.

She glanced at him again, hoping for even a flicker of humanity. But Adrian had turned back to the window, his features calm and unmoved, as if this day had no more significance to him than the weather.

Evelyne looked down at her hands. Her fingers tightened slightly, her nails biting into her gloves. She had told herself she would be strong. That she would endure. But already, the loneliness was settling in, curling around her ribs like smoke.

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

When the carriage finally rolled through the tall iron gates of Sinclair Manor and came to a gentle stop in the circular driveway, Adrian stepped out first. He didn’t offer his hand.

Evelyne followed slowly, one gloved hand gathering her skirt as she descended the steps on her own.

As she looked up at the grand stone mansion—the place that would now be called home—an unfamiliar chill ran down her spine.

Not even the golden lights in the windows could warm what waited inside.

• The Cold Wedding Night

The grand halls of Sinclair Manor echoed with a haunting stillness as Evelyne stepped inside. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor, each step a hesitant echo in the vast emptiness. The corridors were dimly lit, lined with ancient portraits of stern ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow her as she passed, their expressions forever frozen in judgment.

In front of her, Lord Adrian Sinclair walked with the unhurried pace of someone returning to a place that meant nothing to him. His tall frame cast a long shadow beneath the golden sconces. He said nothing, not even as a maid finally appeared from a side hall and bowed low, her face carefully blank.

“Your chambers have been prepared, my lord,” the maid said softly. “And for the lady as well.”

Adrian nodded curtly, then turned to Evelyne for the first time since they stepped out of the carriage. His expression remained impassive. “Come.”

She followed him up the grand staircase, her gown heavy and rustling behind her like a reluctant train. The air grew colder with every step, or perhaps it was just the weight in her chest making it harder to breathe.

At last, they reached the master suite—a vast and opulent room adorned with dark wood furnishings, tall windows shrouded in velvet drapes, and a bed so large it seemed to mock her solitude.

Adrian walked in without hesitation, shedding his coat and placing it carelessly on the back of a chair. Evelyne lingered at the threshold for a moment, her fingers brushing the carved wooden frame as if uncertain whether to enter.

She stepped in.

The fire in the hearth was small, crackling quietly in the corner. It cast flickering light across the bed’s crimson sheets and the polished furniture. But the warmth it offered felt distant.

Adrian began undoing the buttons of his cuffs.

Evelyne’s voice came out in a whisper, hesitant. “Where… where will you sleep?”

He didn’t look at her.

“Not here.”

The answer struck harder than she expected, leaving her chest hollow. She shouldn’t have asked. She should have known.

He tossed his waistcoat onto the chair and finally looked at her, his gaze unreadable. “You may have the room,” he said flatly. “I’ll return at dawn. Only to maintain appearances.”

She bit her lip, nodding faintly. The words stung more than she wanted to admit.

As he moved toward the door, something in her broke.

“Why?” Her voice trembled. “Why did you even agree to this marriage?”

Adrian stopped, his back to her. The pause lingered, heavy.

His hand rested on the doorframe, and when he finally spoke, his tone was devoid of feeling.

“Because I had no choice.”

Then he left.

The door closed behind him with a soft but final click, and Evelyne was alone again. The silence returned, wrapping around her like a veil of frost.

She stood in the middle of the room, the echo of his words rattling in her mind.

Because I had no choice.

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry. Not tonight. Not for him.

Slowly, she crossed the room and stood before the large gilded mirror. The reflection staring back at her was unfamiliar. A bride in white lace, a stunning tiara sits on her head, her makeup faded but still elegant. But her eyes—her eyes were tired. Hollow.

She didn’t recognize the woman looking back.

With slow hands, she removed the tiara from her head, setting it gently on the vanity. She sat on the edge of the bed and reached down to take off her shoes. Then change her heavy wedding dress into a comfortable silk nightgown. her movements mechanical, distant.

The fire crackled, filling the silence with soft pops of burning wood. Outside the windows, the wind howled faintly.

She slipped under the thick covers, the cool silk sheets brushing against her bare shoulders. She stared up at the dark ceiling, tracing invisible lines between the carved wooden beams.

The space beside her remained untouched. Cold.

Somewhere down the hallway, footsteps echoed—his footsteps. She imagined him walking past her door without a glance, without a thought. He would sleep in a room as empty as his heart.

She turned to her side, facing the emptiness.

But just before her eyes closed, she moved. Pushing herself out of bed, she crossed the room to her luggage. Kneeling, she opened the smallest pocket and withdrew a carefully folded cloth.

Wrapped inside was an old, faded photograph.

Her grandfather.

His eyes were kind. His smile was warm. He was the only one who had ever made her feel truly seen. Her fingers trembled as she brushed them across his face.

She closed her eyes and held the photograph to her chest.

“I’m doing this for you, Grandfather,” she whispered. “You believed in them... so I will endure. Even if I have to walk this path alone.”

She pressed a kiss to the photo, tucked it beneath her pillow, and returned to bed.

Tears slid silently across her cheeks, but her gaze was firm, filled with quiet defiance.

This wasn’t love.

Not yet.

But it was a war she hadn’t chosen—and she would not lose without a fight.

—————————————————————

• Evelyne’s Loneliness

The fire had long since faded to embers, casting faint, flickering shadows that danced across the high ceiling of the grand bedroom. The velvet curtains, drawn halfway, swayed gently with the breeze that seeped through the windows, carrying with it the chill of midnight air.

Evelyne lay in the middle of the enormous bed, her hands folded on her stomach, dressed in her silk nightgown. The sheets beneath her felt cold. Not just from the air—but from the absence of the man who should’ve been beside her.

She sighed, the sound barely more than breath, and stared at the ceiling again.

It was strange how a day so full of ceremony and grandeur could end in such silence. Not a single genuine word of congratulations. Not a kind smile from her husband. Not even a warm goodnight.

Her gaze drifted toward the heavy wooden door.

Was he sleeping now? Or awake like her? Did he feel the weight of what had happened today, even just a little?

"No," she muttered to herself, her voice raw. "I still have pride."

She wouldn’t fall in love with him. She couldn’t.

Not with a man who hadn’t even looked at her with kindness. Not with someone who left her alone on her wedding night. A man who made her feel like nothing more than a burden, an inconvenience forced upon him by duty.

The quiet stretched on.

And outside her door, a shadow passed.

Adrian.

He paused in the hallway, his footsteps halting for just a breath.

The silence beyond the door pressed against his senses. He thought he heard something—soft, fragile.

He lifted his hand halfway toward the doorknob.

And then, slowly, lowered it.

Whatever it was—sorrow, guilt, hesitation—he wasn’t ready to face it. Not yet.

He turned and walked away, the sound of his boots disappearing into the depths of the mansion.

Inside the room, Evelyne finally closed her eyes.

Not in peace. Not in sleep. But in surrender.

To the pain.

To the silence.

To the war that had only just begun.

—————————————————————

From the corner of the dim hallway, a maid stepped silently out of the shadows, her gaze fixed on Adrian’s back as he disappeared into the dark.

Clutched in her apron pocket was a small velvet pouch—its contents carefully prepared, just as instructed.

She glanced toward Evelyne’s closed door and smiled faintly.

“Tomorrow, my lady,” she murmured under her breath. “You’ll begin to break.”

• A Bitter Welcome

Morning light spilled into the grand dining room of the Sinclair estate, filtering through tall windows framed by heavy velvet drapes. The golden rays danced upon the polished floor and glinted off crystal chandeliers, bathing the long mahogany table in a warm, deceptive glow. The room, though beautifully set with gleaming silverware, fresh-cut roses, and delicate porcelain, carried a weight far heavier than its grandeur suggested — the weight of judgment, of tradition, and of silent expectations.

Today marked Evelyne’s first formal breakfast as a Sinclair. And though her new title was yet to settle into her bones, its burden already pressed heavily against her shoulders.

In the kitchen, where steam rose and clinking echoed, a maid moved with careful, almost robotic precision. Her eyes darted cautiously as she approached the tea tray set for the young lady of the house. From deep within her pocket, she withdrew a small cloth pouch. Inside, a fine, pale powder — odorless and nearly invisible. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pinched a small amount and let it fall into the steaming cup of tea meant for Evelyne. With swift, practiced movements, she stirred until it disappeared completely. No scent, no residue.

The tray, seemingly harmless with its assortment of flaky croissants, delicate fruit slices, and aromatic tea, was arranged to perfection before being carried into the dining room.

Inside, the Duke and Duchess of Sinclair sat at the head of the table, their faces carved from centuries of breeding and restraint. The Duke’s greying brows were furrowed in an expression that might have passed for mild approval, while the Duchess wore a serene smile as brittle as the fine china in her hand.

Also seated today were Lord Reginald and Lady Beatrice — Adrian’s uncle and aunt. Their fashion was impeccable, their jewelry tasteful, and their smiles so sharp Evelyne felt the edges pierce through every polite word they spoke. Lady Beatrice’s gaze, in particular, lingered on Evelyne with something akin to appraisal — or perhaps scrutiny.

Evelyne sat across from Adrian, their places set like opposing pieces on a chessboard. The space between them was carefully maintained, the kind bred from unfamiliarity rather than comfort. She kept her hands folded in her lap, knuckles slightly white from the pressure. Her back was straight, her chin lifted — a perfect portrait of poise, as she had been trained. But beneath the surface, her pulse fluttered like a bird trapped in a gilded cage.

"Welcome to the family, my dear," said the Duchess, her voice as smooth and sweet as syrup. She lifted her cup in a small gesture, eyes steady, smile unmoved.

"Yes," the Duke added. "We trust you will uphold the dignity of our house."

Evelyne offered a practiced smile, forcing the words out. "Thank you." and reached for her tea, the cup cool and fragile in her grasp.

She took a tentative sip. The floral aroma of lavender and rose danced on her tongue, but there was a strange bitterness that lingered after. Barely noticeable. She brushed it off as nerves, unaware of the subtle poison threading its way into her system.

Across the table, Adrian sat rigid, eyes lowered, face unreadable. He neither welcomed her nor acknowledged the subtle glances thrown between his relatives. His silence was as thick as the air, as if he'd rather be anywhere else but here.

The meal progressed slowly, filled with hollow niceties and vague compliments that felt more like thinly veiled assessments. No one asked Evelyne about her preferences, her dreams, or even her comfort. No one asked if she was happy.

No one expected her to be.

• A Chance Encounter

Later that afternoon, far from the rigid silence of the Sinclair estate, Adrian found himself seated at a corner table in a small, elegant coffee shop tucked between a row of townhouses in the older part of the city. The place had a quaint charm — carved wooden beams, shelves lined with worn books and trailing ivy, the scent of roasted beans and cinnamon hanging thick in the air.

He didn’t know why he had agreed to come. Perhaps curiosity. Perhaps guilt. Perhaps an echo of what once was. The moment he walked in, he regretted it.

Across the table from him, Lady Cassandra was a vision of practiced grace. She wore a emerald green velvet dress that matched the clarity of her eyes. Her auburn hair was swept to one side, loose curls falling artfully over her shoulder. Everything about her was intentional — from the soft gleam on her lips to the subtle perfume that lingered in the air between them.

She leaned in slightly, her hands wrapped around her porcelain cup, her posture relaxed — like a woman who still believed she had control.

"Adrian," she said sweetly, her voice a gentle lilt, as if they were lovers reunited after a long parting. "Surely you haven't forgotten all the good times we shared?"

Her tone was soft, but her eyes searched his face for a flicker — a weakness, a sign that he might still be hers to unravel.

Adrian didn’t answer immediately. He stirred his coffee with slow, deliberate motions, watching the swirl of cream dissipate. His fingers tapped against the side of the cup — a subtle sign of his discomfort.

"We had our time, Cassandra," he said eventually, voice low and controlled. "But it’s over. It’s been over for a while now."

Cassandra’s smile flickered, a ghost of uncertainty passing through her gaze before she gathered herself. She leaned forward, resting her elbow lightly on the table, her manicured fingers brushing against his hand — a gesture far too intimate for the present.

"We were good together," she whispered, her voice sliding into the space between them like silk. "You and I... we made sense. You don’t have to pretend that girl—what’s her name? Evelyne? She doesn’t know you like I do."

Her fingers traced slow, deliberate circles on the back of his hand, awakening muscle memory — the kind that once would have softened his resistance. Once.

But not today.

Adrian pulled his hand away with quiet finality, setting his cup down with a soft clink that felt louder than it was. His icy blue eyes, usually cool and detached, were sharp now, unwavering.

"I’m married," he said simply.

A long silence stretched between them. Cassandra’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. For a heartbeat, her practiced elegance faltered. She blinked, once, and the anger behind her lashes became visible.

"You married a girl you barely know," she said, her voice tight, her smile turning brittle. "You married her because of a dead man’s promise."

Adrian stood.

The scrape of his chair against the wood floor broke the delicate hum of the café. Conversations at nearby tables dipped for a second, then resumed. He didn’t look at Cassandra again, not even when she called his name under her breath.

He walked out into the crisp air, the scent of roasted beans replaced by the cold bite of the wind. His shoulders were tense, his steps purposeful.

Behind him, Cassandra sat frozen, her fingers still curled around her untouched cup. The warmth had begun to fade.

She blinked once, slowly, the cold hardening in her chest like ice around a flame.

Her hand clenched slightly around the edge of the table as she whispered to herself — a vow not of love, but of possession.

"I will not lose him again."

•Whispers in the Hall

The Sinclair estate was quiet that afternoon, the kind of heavy, watchful quiet that seemed to linger in its long corridors like a secret waiting to be spoken. The late sunlight slanted in through tall, arched windows, catching the dust motes in golden beams as Evelyne wandered the halls alone, a worn book clutched loosely to her chest.

She wasn’t reading it — not really. Her mind was far too cluttered, her thoughts too tangled with impressions she couldn’t quite place. Her feet took her past the grand portrait gallery, through the south wing, and toward the back corridors that connected to the kitchens and servants’ wing. It wasn’t a route she usually took, but something about the isolation appealed to her in that moment — a brief escape from scrutinizing stares and strained politeness.

As she passed the open doorway to the scullery, she slowed, the low murmur of voices drawing her attention.

Three maids, aprons dusted with flour and cheeks flushed from the warmth of the ovens, stood near a table piled with peeled potatoes. They hadn’t noticed Evelyne. Or if they had, they didn’t care. Their gossip was too delicious to stop.

"You know Lady Cassandra and Lord Adrian were practically promised to each other, right?" one said, her voice bright with mischief. "Everyone assumed they'd marry."

The other giggled softly, wiping her hands on her apron. "She’s everything the family wanted — noble blood, beauty, charm. Not like the quiet little dove they brought in instead."

Evelyne froze in place, heart thudding against her ribs.

"Poor thing," the first maid added, lowering her voice. "She doesn't stand a chance, does she? If not for the grandfathers’ old agreement, it would've been Cassandra in that manor right now, not her."

They both laughed — not cruelly, but casually, as if they were speaking of a fictional drama rather than someone standing just outside the door.

Evelyne took a step back, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t want them to see her. She didn’t want to know if their laughter would falter into shame or continue, unbothered, as if she were too insignificant to worry about.

She turned and walked quickly away, deeper into the hall.

The book pressed against her chest felt heavier now, its pages forgotten.

She didn’t know why the words affected her so strongly. Perhaps it was because they had simply confirmed what she had already suspected but had tried so hard to ignore.

Cassandra.

The name had weight now. Shape. Edges.

So she was real — not just a shadow in Adrian’s past, but a woman people still whispered about, a woman they had expected to be in Evelyne’s place. Someone who fit the role of duchess in ways Evelyne never had a chance to.

She found herself walking faster, the ache in her chest blooming silently, stubbornly.

She didn’t know why the thought bothered her so much. After all, she had no claim on Adrian. Their marriage had been a promise, a debt paid to their grandfathers. Nothing more. She couldn’t afford to feel jealousy. There was no place for it in her mind, not when she barely knew him, not when he barely knew her.

It shouldn’t have mattered. She told herself that over and over. Their marriage had nothing to do with love. It was duty, honor, legacy — all the words that made romance irrelevant. But the sharp sting of inadequacy was harder to banish than she’d expected.

She paused at a window, placing her hand against the cool glass, trying to calm the storm swirling beneath her composed exterior.

Somewhere behind her, the maids’ laughter had faded into distant echoes. But their words remained, etched into her mind like a bruise beneath the skin.

•The Weight of Gossip

Evelyne sat quietly in the rose garden, a book resting on her lap, though she hadn’t turned a single page in the past fifteen minutes. The soft rustle of leaves overhead and the gentle hum of bees were the only sounds accompanying her, yet her mind was crowded — not with the narrative of the book, but with the whispers she’d overheard in the hallway.

"They almost married... It could have been her..."

The words echoed in her head like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through her calm exterior.

She wasn't angry. Not exactly. Nor was she jealous, though the mention of Lady Cassandra had sent a curious tightness through her chest. What Evelyne felt was harder to name — a creeping sense of being misplaced, of being an intruder in a life that might have belonged to someone else.

She looked down at the page in front of her. The words blurred and reformed, her focus slipping again. Gently, she closed the book and folded her hands over it.

A warm breeze carried the sweet scent of roses across her skin, but even the garden’s beauty felt distant — like something she was allowed to witness but not belong to.

If not for the promise between our grandfathers, she thought, would I even be here?

She had grown up with modest comfort, in a family that valued quiet dignity and restraint. She had been taught grace, patience, and the value of keeping one's head high, no matter what storms passed through. But she had not been prepared for this — the subtle, elegant cruelty of noble life. The constant assessments. The veiled comparisons.

And now, Cassandra. A name that had never been spoken to her directly, yet loomed large in the walls of this estate.

She imagined the woman — beautiful, poised, confident. Someone who would glide effortlessly through rooms like this, who would know how to return every sharp comment with an equally sharpened smile. Someone who likely knew Adrian well, perhaps even knew how to draw warmth from him. Evelyne, by contrast, felt as if she barely existed in her husband’s presence.

Still, she reminded herself, it wasn’t love that brought her here. It wasn’t meant to be.

She was a promise fulfilled. A name added to a lineage. Nothing more.

And yet, beneath the cool rationality of those thoughts, a quiet uncertainty stirred.

What if I’m simply not enough for this world?

She wasn’t seeking Adrian’s affection — not yet. But she had hoped, perhaps naïvely, that kindness would grow in the cold space between them. That they might slowly come to understand one another. Now, knowing there had once been someone else — someone he may have truly wanted — made that hope feel even more fragile.

Not jealousy, no. But a subtle erosion of confidence.

She leaned back slightly, lifting her face toward the sun. The light was warm, but her limbs felt heavy, and a strange fatigue lingered in her head — not enough to alarm her, but enough to notice.

Maybe it was the morning’s tension. The endless watching eyes. The effort of holding her posture like armor.

She drew a slow breath.

Whatever this is, she told herself, I will survive it. I’ve made it this far. I will not break.

The roses swayed gently in the breeze, their petals catching the light like fragile flames. Evelyne sat among them, silent and still, not a heroine of romance, not a figure of envy — just a girl far from home, trying to find her footing in a world that didn’t yet welcome her.

And though she didn’t know it, someone was watching.

•A Silent Observation

The corridor was quiet, save for the soft creak of Adrian’s leather shoes against the polished marble floor. The sun filtered through the high arched windows, casting shifting patterns of gold across the walls and floor — but he hardly noticed the warmth. His mind was still tangled in the threads of his earlier encounter with Cassandra, though he’d tried to tuck the memory away. Her perfume still clung to his coat collar like a ghost.

He paused mid-stride, a flicker of motion catching his eye through the tall window that overlooked the estate’s southern gardens. The view was usually of no interest to him — a cluster of sculpted hedges, trimmed roses, and pristine gravel paths — all maintained to satisfy the Duchess’s obsession with appearances. But today, something in that garden pulled his attention.

There, sitting quietly beneath the bloom-laden rose arch, was Evelyne.

She wasn’t reading. Her book lay closed on her lap, one hand resting gently over it, as if forgotten. Her other hand absently traced the edge of the bench beside her, delicate fingers brushing over the aged wood as though searching for something grounding. Her posture was still straight, proper — but there was an air of quiet fatigue about her. The tilt of her shoulders, the way her eyes stared past the flowerbeds instead of admiring them, revealed a weight he hadn’t noticed before.

Adrian stepped closer to the window, hidden in the shadow of the heavy drapes. His breath hitched, inexplicably.

She looked... distant.

No — not merely distracted. Lonely.

He had grown so used to seeing her composed, dutiful, and reserved — the girl who had walked down the aisle beside him without flinching, who had met the calculated gaze of his aunt and uncle with quiet fortitude. But now, in this stolen moment, stripped of audience and performance, Evelyne appeared as something else entirely: a woman caught between two lives — one she had left behind, and one she had yet to belong to.

Her chestnut brown hair shimmered in the light breeze, lifting softly around her shoulders. Her face was turned slightly toward the sunlight, her eyes open but unfocused. A faint furrow between her brows gave her an expression of aching thoughtfulness — not sorrow, not anger, but something that twisted gently in the chest. A question left unanswered. A silence left too long.

Adrian’s fingers curled slightly at his sides. For the first time since their wedding, he wondered what truly lay behind those solemn hazel eyes. He had assumed her indifference mirrored his own, that her politeness was simply part of the arrangement — mechanical, distant, practiced. But now...

Now, watching her alone in the garden, he realized how little he knew her.

And how little effort he had made to.

The image of Cassandra’s outstretched hand flashed through his mind — the way her fingers had brushed over his as though she still held claim to something long lost. The familiarity that once excited him now felt suffocating. And then there was Evelyne — seated in solitude, untouched by expectation or memory. She was not trying to win him. She was not pretending to feel what she didn’t. She was simply... there.

Real.

His gaze lingered on her longer than he meant to, caught in the strange stillness between them, though she didn’t know he was watching.

Perhaps it was the contrast that struck him so hard — the burning desperation in Cassandra’s eyes compared to Evelyne’s silent grace. There was no demand in her posture, no pretense of entitlement. And yet, something in her presence drew him in more powerfully than Cassandra’s pleas ever had.

She reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and exhaled softly, as though letting go of something she couldn’t name. The simple motion made Adrian’s chest tighten unexpectedly.

He took a step back from the window.

Whatever that was — that stirring in his chest, that unfamiliar pull — he wasn’t ready for it.

Not yet.

Not while the boundaries between obligation and emotion were still so blurred.

Straightening his coat, he turned away, footsteps echoing through the silent corridor. He would not speak to her — not today. But something had shifted, imperceptibly. A seed of awareness planted. A silent thread now stretched between them, invisible but unbroken.

And though neither of them would say it aloud, from that moment on, neither would look at the other quite the same way again.