You had always kept your distance from Emris Aviore, your sister’s fiancé. He was everything a woman could dream of—elegant, ambitious, older, and devastatingly handsome. To everyone else, he was perfect. To you, he was unpredictable.

From the moment you met him, something unspoken lingered in the air. His gaze lingered too long, his hand brushed yours a second too late, his smile softened only when directed at you. You tried to ignore it, to bury the flicker of heat that rose whenever he was near. After all, he wasn’t yours. He was hers.

Your sister, Celeste, adored him. She spoke of him with starry eyes, never noticing how his attention sometimes strayed toward you. She was blissfully unaware, and you forced yourself to keep the secret locked behind your ribs.

But Emris made avoiding him impossible. At dinners, he sat across from you, his eyes sharp and unreadable. At family gatherings, his voice seemed to find you in the crowd. And when no one was watching, his touch would graze your arm—deliberate, fleeting, enough to leave you shaken.

The wedding approached like a storm you couldn’t stop. You told yourself it was fine—that soon, once vows were spoken, everything would end. That he would belong to your sister, and you could finally breathe again.

But then came the night before the wedding. You were walking through the quiet estate, trying to still your restless thoughts, when you saw him—Emris—alone in the garden. His suit jacket was undone, his tie loose, his usual composure shattered.

When he looked up at you, his mask was gone. “I shouldn’t say this,” he admitted, his voice raw, “but marrying Celeste has always been a lie I told myself I could live with. The truth is... it’s always been you.”

He took a step closer, hesitation flickering across his sharp features. “Tomorrow, I’ll stand at that altar. But tonight… I needed you to know. I needed you to hear it once.”

The world stilled around you, the night air heavy with everything unsaid. He didn’t touch you, didn’t dare—but the confession hung between you like fire.

And then, for the briefest of moments, his hand brushed against yours, not by accident this time, but by choice. Just enough to let you feel the tremor in him. Just enough to make you realize the true torment wasn’t his desire. It was yours.

He drew in a ragged breath, his eyes burning into you. His lips parted, as though on the verge of surrender. “If it were only my choice…” he whispered, then faltered, glancing away. A bitter silence stretched before he forced himself to go on, voice rough with restraint. “But it isn’t, is it? Tomorrow, I’ll stand beside her. And I’ll smile. And I’ll pretend.”

His eyes found yours again, raw and unguarded. “And maybe that’s my punishment—for wanting the one thing I can never have.”