The scent of lilies filled the hall — the same flowers I had chosen, the same fragrance I imagined would bless the air on my wedding day.
I stood before the mirror, veil cascading down my shoulders like spun moonlight, my hands trembling as the maid adjusted the last ribbon on my gown. Everything gleamed — the silver embroidery, the marble floor, the chandelier dripping with crystals. Everything looked perfect.
Except perfection, I would soon learn, has a cruel sense of irony.
"Lady Wynford," the butler bowed slightly, avoiding my eyes. "Lord Cedric requests your presence in the courtyard. It's… urgent."
Cedric. My fiancé. The man I had loved for six long years — through his failures, his ambitions, his every dream.My heart skipped in excitement, foolishly unaware of the noose tightening around it.
I walked through the corridor of Wynford Manor — every step echoing off the marble walls, my gown whispering against the floor like the hush before a storm. Outside, the autumn wind danced among the crimson leaves, scattering them across the stone path.
Cedric stood by the fountain, tall and regal in his navy coat, his golden hair catching the sunlight. For a moment, he looked just as he always did — the man I would have followed into any war, the man I was ready to vow my life to.
But then I saw her.
My stepsister, Clarisse — pale, fragile, draped in white silk as though mocking my bridal attire. She leaned weakly against him, her head resting against his chest. His arm was wrapped protectively around her waist.
Something inside me stilled.
"Cedric?" My voice cracked softly. "What's… going on?"
He turned, and the guilt in his eyes was sharper than any blade."Elara," he began, voice low. "There's something I must tell you before tomorrow."
Tomorrow. Our wedding day.
He took a step forward, and with it, tore my world apart."Clarisse… she's dying."
The words barely sank in before the next ones shattered me completely."She has only a few months left. Her last wish… is to be married to me."
For a moment, silence strangled the air. The fountain's soft trickle mocked the pounding of my heart.
I laughed. I actually laughed.It was the kind of laugh that breaks halfway through, the kind that sounds like choking."You're joking."
"Elara, listen to me—"
"You're joking," I said again, louder this time, because the alternative was unbearable.But the tremor in his voice killed every hope I had left.
"I have to do this for her. Once I grant her this, I'll return to you. We'll be together. I swear it."
Return.As if I were a place he could come back to after his detour through another woman's heart.
The veil slipped from my head. I didn't even notice.
"So," I whispered. "My wedding becomes her pity ceremony. My love becomes your charity. And my loyalty—" my voice cracked, "—becomes a joke you'll tell yourselves when you're playing house in her deathbed."
"Elara—"
"Don't," I hissed, my nails digging into my palms. "Don't say my name as though you still have the right to it."
Clarisse looked up at me then, her lips trembling. "Sister, please understand… I don't have long. I only wish to experience happiness once."
Her frail innocence would have melted anyone else's heart. Mine was already burning.
I turned to Cedric, my eyes dry, my soul hollow."Then grant her that happiness, Cedric. Marry her. Bury your conscience with her when she dies."
And with that, I walked away.
The veil trailed behind me, dragging through the dirt until it caught on a thorn. I didn't stop to free it. Let it tear — like everything else in my life had.
That night, Wynford Manor held no warmth for me.Mother's words were cold as the marble floors."Elara, you're being selfish. Clarisse is dying. Must you begrudge her this one joy?"
Joy.
I had given up my inheritance, my ambitions, even my dignity for that family — and now they called me selfish for wanting to keep what was mine.
"I am not begrudging her joy," I said quietly. "Only mine."
Father didn't even look at me. "Enough. Pack your things. You'll leave for the countryside tomorrow."
So it was done. Cast out by the people I'd bled myself dry for.
As I packed my few belongings, a storm began outside — rain slamming against the windows, wind howling like the grief in my chest.
I pressed my hands against the glass and whispered to my reflection:"Six years. Six years I gave you everything. And you chose pity over love."
My reflection smiled faintly — not out of madness, but revelation.
"Fine. I'll let you have her. I'll let you have your wedding, your sympathy, your little tragedy."I turned from the window, gathering the torn veil in my hands."But when the mourning is done, when the tears dry… I'll be the storm that buries what's left of your peace."
Lightning split the sky, painting my shadow on the wall — and for the first time, I saw what I truly was.Not a bride. Not a victim.
A beginning.