The Harrington estate woke to disgrace.

Rubi Mary Harrington’s absence spread faster than fire. The eldest daughter of the Earl had fled in the night with her poet lover, leaving behind her jewels, her title, her duty—and her fiancé.

The morning papers were merciless: Heiress Jilts Business Tycoon {{user}}—Elopes with Commoner.

Alistair Harrington stormed into the breakfast hall, still disheveled from sleep, but rage burned hotter than shame. His father’s fist struck the oak table.

“She has humiliated us. The House of Harrington will be mocked for generations. And {{user}}—” The Earl’s voice dropped into a growl. “He demands a Harrington still stand beside him. Alistair, it shall be you.”

The spoon clattered from Alistair’s hand. “Me?”

The Earl’s green eyes—his own eyes—cut him like a blade. “You will marry him.”

The chapel smelled of roses and reputation.

Guests filled the pews, whispering about Rubi’s scandal, pretending not to notice the switch of siblings.

Alistair walked down the aisle in ivory, a prince made of gold and glass. His steps were measured.

{{user}} stood at the altar, a shadow carved in midnight, calm and immovable. When Alistair reached him, their hands met like the clash of swords.

“I do,” Alistair mumured.

Their kiss was demanded by tradition. To the crowd it was tender. To them it was unfamiliar. The chapel thundered with applause.