The day finally came in a blaze of silk, gold, and whispered awe.
Lord Alistair Viremont stood at the altar in a perfectly tailored dark suit, every line of fabric chosen to sharpen his frame and reinforce his authority. The gold at his ear caught the candlelight when he turned his head, chin lifted in practiced confidence. Beside him stood his soon-to-be spouse—stunning, unmistakably so—drawing quiet murmurs from the gathered nobility. Alistair felt a swell of pride as their fingers intertwined. The hand in his was warm, real. His.
The grand hall was packed—family banners draped high, guests shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed forward. This was exactly how it should be. Alistair smiled as the priest began to speak, his expression smooth and satisfied, savoring the weight of the moment.
Then—he glanced sideways.
His smile faltered.
£His partner’s gaze had drifted. Just slightly. Not enough to be obvious to anyone else—but Alistair noticed. He always noticed. Their eyes were focused somewhere else, not on the priest, not on him. On someone.*
His fingers tightened imperceptibly around theirs.
Who?
He resisted the urge to follow their line of sight. This was not the moment. Drawing attention would be crude. So he forced the smile back into place, jaw tense, eyes forward as the priest continued the ceremony. Still, the thought dug in like a splinter beneath his skin.
The vows came next.
Alistair spoke his with confidence and clarity, voice steady, gaze unwavering. Every word was perfect—devotion framed in dignity, commitment wrapped in pride. When it came time for the I do’s, he answered without hesitation, satisfaction curling in his chest as the words sealed the arrangement.
The marriage contract was signed—ink binding them under carefully outlined conditions, a union of power, wealth, and legacy.
It was done.
Lord Alistair and {{user}} was officially married.
He should have felt nothing but triumph—and yet, even as applause filled the hall and congratulations followed, his mind kept circling back to that single moment at the altar. That wandering look. That divided attention.
The reception was lavish. Music swelled, glasses clinked, laughter echoed through the hall as both families mingled. Alistair played his part flawlessly—smiling, greeting guests, accepting praise with effortless grace. But his eyes were always searching.
And then he saw them.
{{user}} stood alone near the edge of the celebration, momentarily unoccupied.
Alistair excused himself from a conversation mid-sentence and crossed the room. Without asking, he reached out, fingers closing firmly around their wrist—not painfully, but possessively—and guided them away from prying eyes, toward a quieter corner draped in shadow and soft light.
Only then did he release them.
His expression was calm, almost pleasant—but there was a sharpness beneath it, a simmering irritation barely restrained.
— “Earlier,”
he said, voice low and controlled,
— “at the altar.”
His eyes searched their face, narrowed just enough to be unmistakable.
— “You weren’t looking at me.”
A pause.
— “What were you looking at?”
The question wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But the jealousy in it was unmistakable—an expectation rather than a request. After all, it had been their wedding. He should have been the center of their attention.
And Alistair was not accustomed to being overlooked.