Dawn breaks cold and brilliant, light stabbing through the window. The bed beside me is empty, the sheets still warm where Jasper lay hours ago.
The ache between my thighs pulses with every breath. His fingerprints burn invisible on my hips, and I press my hand over the ghost of his lips on my collarbone.
The maids arrive too soon. Mary, the court’s servant that was assigned to me, leads them in, efficient hands already reaching for silk and corsetry. "Arms up, my lady. We don't have much time before the ceremony begins."
I obey, wincing as the corset cinches tight over skin still tender from Jasper's grip. The wedding gown settles heavy—gold thread, Erdor's crest stitched across my bodice like a brand of ownership.
"You look beautiful," Mary murmurs, adjusting the pearled crown against my skull. "Every inch a queen, my lady. The king will be speechless."
"Every inch a liar," I whisper, too low for anyone to catch.
My reflection stares back at me—porcelain, perfect, and trembling inside silk gloves. Beneath the gown, my body hums with Jasper's ghost. The tenderness between my legs throbs in rhythm with my pulse, a secret rebellion stitched into my very flesh.
An hour later, Father takes my arm at the cathedral doors, his grip firm enough to bruise. The congregation rises, hundreds of faces blurring into one judging mass.
"You're doing well, sweetheart," he says quietly. "Chin up. Eyes forward. Smile like you mean it, and no one will question a thing."
"I can't feel my legs, Father." My voice comes out strangled, barely holding together. "I can't do this… I don't think I can."
"You can." His hand tightens with desperate reassurance. "And you will. One foot, then the next. That's all marriage ever is, darling."
Not reassuring at all.
The aisle stretches infinite before me, stone and candlelight and the weight of a kingdom. At its end, Alastair waits in ceremonial velvet and silver—resplendent, regal, smiling warmly.
Halfway down, I see Jasper. Rigid among the ranked knights, helmet hiding everything except those brown-green eyes burning through the narrow visor slit.
Red-rimmed. Devastated. Burning with the same hunger that had him trembling above me last night, whispering that he was mine, always mine.
My steps falter and the world tilts sideways, and Father's grip yanks me forward with.
"Steady," he hisses. "Every noble in this kingdom is watching you, Vivien."
"I know." My throat constricts so tight each word costs blood. "Believe me, Father. I know exactly who is watching me right now."
I force my gaze to Alastair. He smiles wider, and guilt twists through my stomach like a knife turning slow.
At the altar, Father steps back, letting Alastair take my hand—light, respectful, warm. I feel nothing except the ghost of Jasper's calloused palms gripping my thighs, his breath ragged against my neck.
"You look radiant, Vivien." Alastair speaks softly, for my ears alone. "I'm the most fortunate man in this entire cathedral."
"You're too kind, Your Majesty." My smile is porcelain—perfect, painted, hollow. I pray to every god listening that he cannot see through it.
From the front pews, Cecil Atwood watches with predatory stillness, scanning my face for any fracture in the mask. I give her nothing. Serene and bridal. Emptied of everything except the ache Jasper carved inside me.
The priest steps forward in ceremonial robes, ancient hands raised, and incense thickens the air until breathing feels like drowning.
"We are gathered here to witness the sacred union of King Alastair Beaumont and Lady Vivien Winthrope, in the presence of God and His faithful servants."
Alastair's thumb traces slow circles on my knuckles—gentle, patient, wrong. Every nerve screams because his touch isn't desperate enough, isn't rough enough, isn't Jasper's.
"Marriage is a covenant ordained by the divine," the priest intones, "binding two souls in duty and devotion for the prosperity of the realm."
Last night Jasper whispered he was mine.
Last night he trembled inside me like I was holy.
Last night was the only truth I have ever known.
"Before these vows are spoken," the priest says, turning to the king, "does Your Majesty pledge to honor and protect this woman and bind—"
"Wait." Alastair's voice cuts clean through the ceremony.
The single word drops into the cathedral's silence like a stone shattering still water. The priest freezes mid-gesture. "Your Majesty? Is something the matter? Shall I continue with the rites?"
Alastair releases my hand. His expression shifts to something formal and unreadable.
"I invoke an old prerogative of the crown. Before the vows are spoken, I require confirmation of the bride's purity."
Shock tears through the crowd. Whispers erupt—hissing, ravenous. Every face swivels toward me with curiosity, pity, and naked, hungry judgment.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I taste copper. My vision whites out, narrows to a single burning point of terror.
"Your Majesty, I must note this custom hasn't been enforced in many years," the priest says carefully, wringing his thin hands together with visible discomfort.
"It remains within my rights, and I intend to exercise them." Alastair's tone allows no argument. "The legitimacy of future heirs must stand beyond any question whatsoever."
"Alastair, you cannot be serious…" My voice shakes badly enough that I hear it crack through the vast stone chamber for everyone to witness.
"I mean no disrespect, Vivien." His gaze holds mine with terrible, patient expectation. "This protects us both. Surely you understand that."
"What I understand is that you're humiliating me." The words splinter on my tongue like broken glass. "In front of every noble house in this kingdom. On our wedding."
"It is tradition, Vivien. Not humiliation." He says it simply, without malice, as though tradition excuses everything it touches.
Father's hand lands on my shoulder from behind, trembling visibly through silk. "Your Majesty, this is deeply irregular and I must protest on my daughter's behalf—"
"Lord Winthrope, I respect your house immensely." Alastair's chin lifts. "Which is exactly why I wish to remove any shadow of doubt from this sacred union."
Cecil's smile sharpens in my peripheral vision—a knife catching torchlight. She knows. Or suspects. Either way, she already tastes my destruction on her tongue.
"My lady." The priest turns to me with ancient, pitying eyes. "Will you consent to the examination? The choice, as ever, remains yours to make."
Terror floods me in freezing waves. My thighs still ache from Jasper. His heat still marks me—evidence branded into my flesh that no priest needs holy wisdom to uncover.
I search for Jasper among the knights. Motionless. But through the helmet I feel his panic slamming into mine like a physical blow across the cathedral.
"Vivien." Alastair's voice gentles into something almost tender, almost kind. "A simple formality. Say yes, and we continue. Say yes, and you become queen."
Every eye fixes on me. The silence stretches taut as wire, sharp enough to draw blood and shatter bone if anyone dares to breathe.
Refuse and admit guilt. Consent and be destroyed. Run and confirm every whispered suspicion. My mind races through impossible corridors, each ending in a different shade of ruin.
The priest waits. Alastair waits. Father trembles behind me. Cecil circles overhead like a hawk spotting wounded prey too broken to fly.
I stand frozen at the altar steps, the secret I share with Jasper pressed against my ribs like his dagger—cold, sharp, and capable of destroying everything.
The entire court holds its breath, and I have no answer to give that won't set my world on fire and burn it all to ash.
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