📖 Episode 2 – The Substitute Bride
The chapel bells tolled in triumph, their echoes spilling through the sprawling gardens of the Baleworth estate. Each chime was meant to herald love and unity—but to Nora, it was the sound of a thousand knives sinking into her chest.
The world moved in slow motion as she lingered in the shadow of the corridor. Guests in glittering gowns and tailored suits leaned forward, sighing with admiration. Richard stood tall at the altar, jaw firm, eyes steady. His hand was outstretched—not for her, but for Isabella.
Nora's stepsister floated down the aisle, clad in a gown that shimmered with pearls, her veil arranged to paint her as a fragile angel. Her every step was calculated weakness, her every smile sharpened with victory.
That should have been me.
The thought seared Nora's mind as the guests rose to their feet. Her fingers dug into the doorframe, her knuckles whitening. The dress she had worn, the vows she had rehearsed, the future she had built—all of it stolen, replaced by this grotesque parody of a wedding.
When the priest's voice rang out, Nora's heart clenched.
"Do you, Richard Baleworth, take Isabella Smith to be your lawful wife?"
Richard's answer was steady.
"I do."
Nora's breath hitched.
"And do you, Isabella, take Richard Baleworth as your lawful husband?"
Through her veil, Isabella's lips curved. "I do."
The crowd erupted into applause. Nora's stepmother dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, whispering proudly to the woman beside her: "My Isabella was always the better choice."
Nora's chest hollowed, her pulse ringing in her ears. She tried to look away, but her eyes betrayed her, clinging to Richard's face as he leaned forward to kiss Isabella.
The kiss was polite, chaste—yet it shattered Nora's world more completely than any cruel word could have.
Tears blurred her vision.
She turned sharply, her heels clattering against the marble floor as she fled the hall. No one noticed her go. No one stopped her. To them, Nora Smith had already ceased to exist.
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The city outside glittered in celebration, but for Nora it was a wasteland. By nightfall, she found herself alone on the bridge that overlooked the river. The wedding fireworks burst in the sky, painting it red and gold. Her reflection trembled in the water below, a ghost of the bride she was meant to be.
Laughter echoed behind her. She turned to see three young women from society, gowns swishing as they walked arm in arm.
"Is that Nora Smith?" one of them whispered loudly. "The discarded bride?"
Another giggled cruelly. "Poor thing. Imagine being replaced by your own sister."
The third smirked. "Well, at least Richard upgraded. Isabella looks radiant. Nora was always plain."
Their laughter cut deeper than blades.
Nora forced herself to stand tall, but her knees trembled. She wanted to scream, to demand justice, but her voice caught in her throat. Instead, she walked away, clutching her stomach as if holding herself together.
She wandered aimlessly until exhaustion forced her to a stop. By the time she reached her family home, the windows glowed warmly with celebration. Music drifted out. She paused at the gate, her eyes falling on the grand house that had once been hers too.
Inside, Isabella's laughter rang out, mingling with Richard's deep voice.
Nora stepped forward, but a hand blocked her path. It was her stepmother, Helen Smith-Baleworth, her expression sharp as glass.
"You shouldn't be here, Nora."
"This is my home," Nora whispered, her voice shaking.
Helen's lips curled. "No, it isn't. You lost that right the moment Richard chose Isabella. Do you know what people are calling you now? A curse. A woman abandoned before the altar. You'll bring nothing but shame if you stay."
Nora's eyes stung. "You're casting me out?"
Helen's gaze was cold. "You were never truly one of us. You've always been a burden. Tonight proves it."
The door slammed shut behind her. Nora stood frozen, the night air biting against her skin.
---
Hours later, she found herself at the steps of a small inn. Her gown was soiled, her hair undone, her eyes swollen from crying. The innkeeper barely glanced at her before shaking his head.
"No rooms left."
"But—please—"
"Try elsewhere."
He closed the door.
Nora stumbled back into the street, her body trembling. She sank onto a bench, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The city, once familiar, felt foreign now—every corner filled with whispers, every shadow heavy with judgment.
She pressed her palm to her stomach, her breath shallow.
"I will not break," she whispered to herself. "I can't… I won't."
But as the night deepened, so did her despair.
And then—it happened.
Her vision swam, her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the cobblestones. The world tilted, the sound of laughter and carriages fading into silence.
As darkness threatened to take her, she felt strong arms catch her.
A voice, deep and commanding, cut through the haze.
"Easy. I've got you."
Nora blinked weakly, her eyes meeting a stranger's gaze. Piercing, magnetic, dangerous—and yet, for the first time that night, she felt the faintest spark of safety.
He carried her as though she weighed nothing, his stride steady and powerful.
"Who…" she whispered faintly.
His lips curved into a shadow of a smile.
"Someone who doesn't let what's his fall."
Before she could question, her eyes slipped closed.
Nora wakes hours later in an unfamiliar bed, wrapped in warmth. A stranger's coat rests over her shoulders. From the shadows of the room, his voice rumbles low:
"You don't know it yet, Nora Smith. But from tonight onward… your war is mine."
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