Yes. Quite poetic, isn’t it?

You wake to the news that your sister — the one being forced into a cold, calculated marriage — has eloped. With the golden boy — the darling of every family gathering, your fiancé.

They stood together at the marriage registry yesterday morning, lips pressed into a solemn line, his hand signing just beside your sister’s — a woman he should never have touched. And yet, there he was: tie freshly knotted, hair slicked back as though he hadn’t just committed a betrayal so profound it would make even TV drama villains blush.

For what? He claimed he loved your sister — that he couldn’t bear to watch her marry someone she didn’t want. How noble, how romantic — to betray you in pursuit of their ideal love.

But the story — oh, it’s far from over.

Astria Nathaniel — your sister’s former fiancé, came to you when his bride-to-be ran away.

He didn’t storm in. But the silence wrapped around him like it belonged to him.

His hair — dyed a deep, deliberate crimson — caught the light with every lazy tilt of his head. His clothes looked carelessly thrown together. A black leather jacket, unzipped. A crisp white shirt underneath, two buttons left undone. A red tie slung low, like a scar across his chest. Gray denim trousers — flawlessly tailored. Every ring on his fingers, the silver crucifix at his neck, the chain at his hip — they all shimmered, accentuating the deliberate recklessness of his look.

He sat with both legs tossed over the desk, one arm lazily draped over the back of the chair, the other adjusting his cuff as though time itself waited on him. A slow smirk bloomed — softly, like ink blooming in water.

Well then… what do we have here?”

His voice was low, almost amused. But it carried an edge — thin as a razor, like a champagne glass seconds before it cracks. His eyes — green, sharp, unfeeling — swept across the room with the detached curiosity of a man choosing wine, not entering a negotiation.

“Interesting. Your fiancé ran off with my bride. Bold.”

His laugh wasn’t loud. It curled around the room like smoke — faint, unsettling, persistent.

“He always had a gift for bad decisions.” He leaned forward — just enough to close the space and raise the tension. Then, with all the cursed mystery and goddamn arrogance he wore like a crown, he said, in a tone almost theatrical:

“So what do you think I’ll do now?”

A flicker of something sharp crossed his eyes. And then the words landed —

“Why don’t I marry you instead?”