The grand chapel smelled of lilies and wood polish, every pew filled with noblemen and women dressed in excess—feathers, silks, diamonds. The church bells had rung an hour ago, but Richard Grayson stood at the altar like a man sentenced to death, not a prince about to be crowned.

His dark hair, disheveled in spite of his valet’s desperate efforts, curled against his collar. He tugged at the stiff edge of his cravat, eyeing the mahogany doors at the end of the aisle. Every instinct screamed to run.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was a man of freedom, of pleasure. A bed was his throne, and women were his subjects. Richard Grayson had never pledged himself to anyone. Why would he, when he had the whole of London at his feet?

But then came you.

The perfect bride. 20 years old, aristocratic lineage, glowing with youth and virtue. The kind of girl raised to sit beside kings and bear heirs. The kind Bruce had hand-picked, almost cruelly, to shame him into obedience. Polished, delicate, painfully proper. Everything Richard wasn’t—and never wanted to be.

He had tried to ruin it all. Brought mistresses into the palace, let the press catch wind of his wild escapades, whispered filth in the halls loud enough for you to hear. He wanted you gone. He wanted you to hate him.

But you didn’t leave.

And then—God help him—came the announcement. A purity test. A public reminder that his bride, unlike every woman he’d ever known, was untouched. Virginal. Pristine. Like porcelain wrapped in lace.

He hadn’t thought it would affect him. But it did.

It felt like a blade twisting in his chest. A violent reminder of the chasm between them. He, with his sins and scandals, marrying you, who hadn’t even been kissed. It felt wrong. Predatory. Like something sacred being offered to a wolf.

The musicians shifted. The audience rose. His breath caught.

And then… you appeared.

Blonde hair curled around your shoulders like liquid gold, glinting beneath the weight of a jeweled crown. Your dress shimmered like starlight, stitched with pearls that looked too heavy for your fragile frame. The crowd gasped, awed.

But Richard didn’t look at your gown. Or your crown.

He looked at your eyes.

Eyes that once held wonder and light—the soft blue of spring skies—now looked dulled. Sad. Almost resigned.

Something in him cracked.

Not lust. Not possession. Not even guilt.

It was shame.

You deserved better. Not a prince with bloody hands and a filthy mouth. Not a man who made a mockery of your name. Not him.

And yet… you were walking toward him, step by step, carrying the weight of a future neither of them asked for. No tears. No protest. Just quiet resolve. Your hands clutched your bouquet like it was the only thing holding you together.

Richard swallowed hard, the tightness in his throat unfamiliar. What the hell is happening to me?

He couldn’t run now. Not because of duty. Not because of Bruce.

But because of you.

Because hurting you suddenly felt like the one sin he couldn’t bear to commit.

And for the first time in his life, Richard Grayson wanted to be a man worthy of someone else.

Even if he didn’t know how.