The lace gloves on Adele's hands were too tight. She didn't say anything as the seamstress adjusted the pearl buttons at her wrist, nor when her mother placed the antique veil over her face with shaking hopeful fingers. She stood still—like a portrait—graceful, serene, and beautifully unreadable.
Just as she had been taught.
"Adele," her mother whispered, smoothing the bodice of the silk gown. "You look every inch the Ashbourne bride. He will be pleased."
That word—pleased—echoed dully in her mind. It was always about pleasing. Never feeling.
She caught her reflection in the mirror and hardly recognized herself. The pale ivory of the dress, the subtle sweep of her collarbone, the delicate diamond necklace that once belonged to her grandmother—it all fit perfectly. Too perfectly. As if this moment had been stitched together long before she was born.
Her soon-to-be husband: Henry Ashbourne. Wealthy. Respected. Reserved. Ten years her senior and a name she'd known since childhood. The Ashbournes had always been present—looming at the edges of every event, every polite conversation—but while Adele bore the Wesley name, noble in blood, her family's influence had quietly faded. Title without fortune. Manners without power.
They were legacy.
The Ashbournes were legacy and control.
Her father had never pretended otherwise.
"He will take care of you," he had said the night they signed the contract—though he'd called it an agreement, a blessing, a future. Never a transaction. But Adele understood what it truly was. An alliance. An elevation. Something the Wesleys needed more than the Ashbournes ever would.
Henry wasn't her father's protégé. He was the solution.
Adele hadn't argued. She had nodded, smiled, and said all the right words. She always did. For her parents. For the family name. For everything that wasn't love.
The wedding ceremony was held in the Ashbourne estate chapel, with its high stained-glass windows casting golden light onto polished pews. The scent of lilies filled the air, almost suffocating in their abundance.
Her mother wept as she walked down the aisle. Her father held his head high, his smile proud. All eyes watched as Adele floated forward, her face veiled, her hands trembling ever so slightly.
At the altar, Henry stood like a marble statue—tall, composed, unreadable. He offered his hand. She placed hers in his.
Their vows were spoken with perfect clarity. No faltering. No emotion.
"You may kiss the bride," the priest announced.
Henry leaned forward. His lips touched her cheek—chaste, quick, formal.
Adele blinked once, twice.
And then it was all over.
She was no longer Adele Wesley.
She was Adele Ashbourne.
As the guests clapped and the music swelled, she scanned the crowd. Nobles and neighbors. Familiar faces, distant eyes. But one face was missing.
Jason.
The youngest Ashbourne brother. Her childhood friend. The one who made her laugh, who dared her to climb trees and sneak books from the manor library. The one who understood the ache of silence in a house full of expectations.
He wasn't there.
No smile. No farewell glance. No shadow in the back row.
His absence hit harder than any truth she'd tried to swallow.
And yet, she turned away.
Henry offered his arm, and she took it.
She was a wife now. A mother-to-be, perhaps. The face of a family.
And longing had no place in duty.