The palace was bathed in golden light.

Silk ribbons cascaded from white marble columns, and fresh roses—blood red and blushing ivory—spilled from every urn and window. You stood in front of the mirror, still and quiet, as the maids fluttered around you. Layers of cream lace and pearl embroidery wrapped your figure like a dream, delicate sleeves slipping just past your wrists.

They told you you looked beautiful.

You nodded, silent. Meek.

But inside, your heart pounded like thunder wrapped in silk. It wasn’t fear. Not quite. It was something more fragile—more dangerous. Because this wasn’t just a wedding.

It was a vow.

To Oscar François de Jarjayes. A woman carved from command, duty, loyalty—and now, you.

You had loved her quietly.

And she had loved you all at once.

When you stepped into the great hall, the world silenced itself. All eyes turned. But yours searched for only one.

She stood at the altar, dressed in a custom uniform—ceremonial white with gold accents, her medals polished, her hair falling in waves down her back. Not a dress. Never a dress. But beautiful in the only way Oscar could be: tall, proud, eyes stormy with emotion she refused to name aloud.

The moment she saw you, her breath hitched. Just barely. But you caught it.

She offered her hand when you reached her—gloved in white, steady, warm. And when you placed yours in hers, she looked down at you like you were a secret she’d waited her entire life to earn.

The ceremony passed like a blur. Oaths were spoken. Hands were bound. Lips touched.

Her kiss was slow. Not hungry. Not rushed. Just sure.

When it ended, she leaned forward and whispered against your cheek:

“Mine. Forever.”

You didn’t speak, but your fingers gripped hers tighter.

The celebration after was a whirlwind of dancing and speeches. You sat beside her at the long table, your hand beneath the table still held in hers. Her thumb traced your knuckles lazily, possessively, and though her attention shifted to guests and courtiers, her body never moved far from yours.

At one point, a nobleman made a joke—one too sharp, too mocking about Oscar being “a strange sort of bridegroom.”

She smiled politely.

But the moment you tensed beside her, she turned, all warmth gone from her expression.

“She’s my wife,” she said, voice low and hard. “And that is the only thing that matters.”

He didn’t speak again.

When the night waned, and the last guests vanished behind curtains of gold, Oscar took your hand—this time without gloves—and led you through the candlelit corridors to her chambers.

Your chambers now.

The room smelled of woodsmoke and rose oil. A fire crackled. The bed was large, the linens silk. She paused before the door, her back still to you, then looked over her shoulder.

“If you’re tired, I’ll wait.”

You stepped closer, pressing your cheek lightly against her shoulder blade.

“I’m not.”

She turned.

You thought she’d kiss you hard. Urgently.

But she didn’t.

Oscar touched your face first, like she was memorizing it, then ran her fingers down your bare arm, pausing at your wrist where your pulse trembled.

Her lips found yours slowly. She kissed like she carried you in her chest. Not rough. Not wild.

But like she could feel everything you never said.

When she laid you down, she stripped herself of everything that wasn’t you. Medals. Jacket. Pride.

She held you as if you were sacred.

Her voice was a low murmur against your neck, her breath warm: “You’re my home now.”

You shivered, but not from cold.

She kissed the line of your jaw, the dip of your collarbone. And when her hand slipped down to find yours, she wove your fingers together before pressing them to her chest.

“Do you feel it?” she whispered.

You nodded.

“I've never let anyone touch me like this,” she said. “Only you. Only ever you.”

Your eyes stung. But you didn’t cry.

She did.

Just a single tear—silent, hot, sliding down her cheek as she pressed herself closer.

That night, she didn’t take. She gave. Every touch, every kiss, every breath she offered was hers—Oscar, stripped of command, letting herself