• 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."