Adele couldn't feel her legs as she walked down the aisle.
The chapel glowed with late-afternoon sunlight filtering through stained glass, casting jewel tones across the marble floor. Everyone was watching her. Every step she took felt choreographed, rehearsed, expected.
Her gown rustled like falling snow, delicate and too beautiful to belong to her. The bodice was stiff with embroidery, the veil a sheer whisper clinging to her lips. She wore her grandmother's necklace. Layers of family memory pressing onto her skin.
And yet she felt—nothing.
No joy. No thrill. Not even fear.
Just a quiet kind of surrender.
Henry stood at the altar like a statue, carved from tradition and money. His expression was unreadable, composed to perfection. She had seen that look before—when he signed estate papers, when he nodded politely at the opera, when he inspected the horses.
Now he wore it for her.
She didn't know what she had hoped for. A flicker of warmth in his eyes? A hand that lingered too long? Something that might pass for affection?
Instead, when he took her hand, his fingers were cool and dry. Efficient.
Their vows passed like a dream she hadn't written. She repeated the words in a steady voice, though her throat felt tight.
Honor. Obey. Belong.
A kiss was placed—absentmindedly, distantly—on her cheek.
Then applause.
Then the beginning of her life as a wife.
The Reception
The ballroom was bright with chandeliers and perfumed with roses. Adele greeted every guest with grace, exactly as she'd been trained to. Her father beamed with pride, his hand firm on her shoulder, introducing her over and over as "my daughter, now Adele Ashbourne."
Her mother dabbed at joyful tears, saying to the other ladies, "She's made the match we always prayed for."
To them, Adele had fulfilled every dream a well-bred girl should want.
Henry's mother, the Dowager Ashbourne, had barely spoken more than a cool "welcome" and a reminder that Adele would now be in charge of the estate's charity functions. She did not smile. But Adele sensed that, in her silence, was approval.
And Leopold—Henry's brother—hovered at the edge of conversations. Watching. Always watching. His compliments were formal, precise. "You look exquisite," he said, eyes tracing her like she were a portrait worth cataloging. "A dress like that demands poise. You deliver."
Jason wasn't there. Not in the chapel, not among the guests, not waiting in the shadows of the reception hall. His absence echoed louder than any music or laughter. It was a silence she felt in her bones—as if a thread had been pulled from the fabric of the day, unraveling something only she noticed.
She searched for him once, just once, during the first dance. But he wasn't watching.
He hadn't come.
And somehow, that hurt more than anything
The First Night
The bedroom was too quiet.
Adele sat by the vanity, slowly removing her veil. Her fingers trembled as they unclasped the necklace. She stared into the mirror, at the version of herself they had all made—elegant, poised, married.
But not loved.
Not once, not even for a second, had Henry looked at her the way a man might look at his bride.
He didn't ask if she was cold.
He didn't ask if she was afraid.
He only said: "You may rest. There is no expectation tonight."
It should have been a kindness.
It felt like being dismissed.
She lay beneath the embroidered sheets, still in silence, the space between them wide as a river.
She closed her eyes and tried to summon some feeling for him. A spark. A pull. A woman should feel something, shouldn't she?
But there was only numbness.
And somewhere, buried beneath the surface, a quiet ache she didn't dare name.
Her Thoughts, Days Later
This is the life I was born for.
That's what Mother always said.
But no one asked me if I wanted it. They just told me I was lucky. Fortunate. Chosen.
They gave me jewels, gowns, a name like a crown—but I have never felt more invisible.
Henry is not cruel. He is not unkind. He simply does not see me.
And worse… I'm starting to fear I don't see myself anymore, either.