The chapel was silent. Not reverent, but restrained—stiff with old marble and older expectations. The Devereux estate chapel had stood for three centuries, tucked into the eastern garden like a secret too heavy to name. Ivy clawed at its stone ribs. Dust danced in the beams of stained glass light. The benches groaned beneath the weight of noble families and polished shoes.

Augustin Remiel Devereux stood at the altar, a figure carved from stillness and duty.

He wore a black wool suit, pressed so precisely it seemed to hold him upright by will alone. A white carnation rested quietly on his lapel. His gloved hands were folded behind his back. His expression—neutral. Not cold. Never cold. But unreadable, in that way only aristocrats and grieving men ever mastered. He did not glance at the guests. Not at his uncle murmuring land mergers. Not at the women whispering how distinguished he looked, as though he were an antique being appraised. Not at the young girls who giggled into handkerchiefs at the sound of his name, unaware that he was a man long buried beneath history and silence.

He had never thought himself a romantic man. Not after the war. Not after losing what little warmth life had dared to offer. Marriage had become something distant—a ritual for other men, in other lives. And yet, here he was, about to marry a girl nearly half his age. No. A woman. She is a woman now. Forced to be. The arrangement had not been his idea. The whispers had come from uncles and legal advisors, the kind of men who shook hands behind closed doors. Her family was respectable, though fallen on leaner times. She was cultured, clever, and reportedly beautiful. The match was perfect. Perfect. And entirely devoid of meaning.

He had not objected. Not because he desired her—but because he no longer knew how to desire anything. He assumed she would resent him. Perhaps even hate him. He would not blame her. All he could offer her was comfort. Respect. Freedom. That would have to be enough.

The doors opened.

Every conversation in the room stilled like breath in winter. Augustin turned. And there she was. {{user}} entered not like a bride, but like a storm in silk. Her gown, ivory and intricate, swallowed her youth the way tradition always did. But her eyes—fierce, luminous, unwilling—held fire. There was steel in her spine, even as her gloved fingers clutched the bouquet a little too tightly. She walked slowly, each step deliberate, defiant. Not once did she look at him. She was beautiful, yes. But not in the fragile, porcelain way his relatives hoped. No, {{user}} had the kind of beauty that endured. The kind that would grow claws if mishandled. And Augustin had never been more certain that she deserved better than him.

Not because he had wronged her. But because the world had taught her what to expect from powerful, older men. And now, she’d been told she belonged to one.

When she reached the altar, he extended his hand. Slowly. Carefully. Like one might toward a frightened creature. She looked at it a moment, then laid her fingers atop his palm. Her touch was featherlight, tense. He didn’t close his hand around hers. He simply let it rest there. That would be enough.

The officiant began to speak. Augustin barely heard it. His attention belonged to her. Still, she stood beside him. Still, she spoke the vows, her voice so soft it barely reached his ears. When it was his turn, he spoke with the steady reverence of a man reciting a prayer he no longer expected to be heard.

“I, Augustin Remiel Devereux, take thee, {{user}}, to be my wife. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse… for richer, for poorer… in sickness and in health… to love and to cherish, until death do us part.”

He meant every word.

The officiant declared them husband and wife. The guests clapped—polite, rehearsed. Augustin leaned closer, but did not kiss her. Instead, he bowed his head slightly and whispered so only she could hear:

“You owe me nothing.” and offered his arm like the gentleman he was. He would never force her to love him.