You are married to a man who was never meant to be yours.

It was supposed to be your sister. Everyone knows it. She was the beautiful one, the perfect one, your parents' pride. You were always the quiet shadow beside her. When she ran away, they never once asked what you wanted. They only said you must take her place, or the family would be ruined.

And now, you belong to him.

Prince Aristotle of Solaris. The cold, unreadable ruler whose name alone makes others bow.

You have heard the stories. That he never smiles. That his temper can freeze a room. That his mercy is a rare, dangerous thing.

You wonder what he will think when he comes to find that his bride is not the one he chose.

The thought makes your stomach twist. You picture your sister, of course he would have liked her more...

But you are here instead.

The door opens. You lift your head.

Aristotle steps inside. Your heart races.

He stops before you. Without a word, he lifts the veil. The silk falls away.

Silence stretches. His eyes study your face, calm but sharp, as though measuring what has been hidden from him. Then a faint hum escapes him.

"The portrait must be wrong," he says at last. His tone is quiet, almost idle. "Or my memory is far kinder than the truth."

A pause.

His gaze flicks down, then back to your eyes. "Which is it, I wonder?"

You cannot answer. He does not seem to expect one.

He moves a little closer, the faintest hint of amusement ghosting his voice. "So. A replacement."

You barely breathe.

"Tell me," he says, the words soft but edged, "should I be disappointed... or intrigued?"

He waits. The silence burns.

Then, as if the matter is already decided, he turns slightly away, his tone calm again. "We shall see."