By the third morning, the world outside Seraphina's window had already decided her story.
She heard it first in the rustle of newspapers Marcelline brought up with the tea tray she never touched. The bold black letters screamed across the front page: The Wedding That Burned Before the Vows. A smaller caption followed beneath, cruel and mocking: Lucian Marrick Exposed in Pre-Wedding Affair with Maid of Honor.
Marcelline tried to fold the paper quickly, to hide it from her sister, but Seraphina had already seen the words. They burned worse than the photos themselves.
So it wasn't only hers to grieve anymore. It belonged to the city now Valebridge's newest scandal, passed like wine across tables and whispered behind manicured hands.
Seraphina pulled the blankets tighter around her shoulders, her body weak from two days of neglecting food, her eyes raw. "They've turned me into a headline," she rasped, her voice foreign even to herself.
Marcelline placed the folded paper face-down on the dresser, her jaw set in quiet fury. "They can rot in their gossip. None of them matter, Sera. None of them."
But they did matter. They mattered because she could feel them even here, pressing against the walls the neighbors, the strangers, the society women she had once dined with their pity and their hunger for more.
By afternoon, it became impossible to stay hidden.
Vivienne Armand, her boss, arrived in a tailored black coat, smelling of expensive perfume and cigarette smoke. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her eyes sharper than ever.
"Darling," Vivienne said coolly, though her gaze softened just slightly at the sight of Seraphina's pale frame swaddled in blankets. "You cannot hide forever. The city is already feasting on your blood. If you let them see you break, they'll never let you stand again."
Seraphina blinked, her throat tightening. "So I'm supposed to smile while they laugh at me?"
"No," Vivienne said, striding forward to pour herself a glass of water from the carafe. "You're supposed to let them choke on your indifference." She drank, then set the glass down with a deliberate click. "Come tonight. A dinner at the Armand estate. It will not be pleasant, but it will be necessary. If you don't appear, they will bury you. If you walk in with your spine straight, they'll hesitate before sharpening their knives again."
Marcelline bristled. "She's barely eaten in three days. She's not ready to parade herself in front of those vultures."
"Life doesn't ask if you're ready," Vivienne cut back. Then she leaned down, her perfume enveloping Seraphina as she spoke softer, almost tender. "Think of it as the first step. If you can face them, you can face anything."
That night, Seraphina let Marcelline dress her in a black velvet gown. It clung to her body loosely — she had already lost weight from the days of refusing food but the darkness of the fabric sharpened the pale glow of her skin, made her look less broken and more statuesque, a widow of love itself. Marcelline lined her eyes with kohl, brushed her hair into sleek waves, but nothing could quite hide the red rims around her gaze.
"You don't have to speak much," Marcelline whispered as they sat in the carriage. "Just hold your head high."
The Armand estate was already ablaze with light. Inside, the drawing room was filled with laughter, clinking glasses, the hiss of gossip running beneath polite conversation. The moment Seraphina entered, the air shifted. Dozens of eyes turned to her, curiosity sparking like flint against steel. She heard the whispers ripple, too low to catch entirely but sharp enough to wound: that's her… the betrayed bride… poor thing… imagine the humiliation.
She walked forward anyway, her heels clicking on the marble floor, each step deliberate. If her knees shook, she did not let them see.
Vivienne greeted her with a glass of champagne, her smile razor-thin but approving. "There she is. Every eye in the room is yours, darling. Use it."
But Seraphina did not feel powerful. She felt like glass held up to the light, transparent for everyone to inspect.
Conversations drifted around her like venom. "They say she threw the veil on the floor" "Lucian begged, right there at the altar" "And the friend, Isolde? She's disappeared. Off to the coast, apparently, too ashamed to show her face."
Each word made Seraphina's chest tighten until she thought she might suffocate. She excused herself, slipping through a side corridor toward the gardens, needing air.
The night outside was cool, carrying the scent of roses and damp earth. She leaned against the stone balustrade, gripping it with white knuckles, her breath shaking.
"Running from them already?"
The voice was low, smooth, carrying no judgment but something else amusement, perhaps, or curiosity. She turned sharply.
A man leaned in the shadows near the hedge. Tall, shoulders broad beneath a charcoal coat, his face half-lit by the lantern glow. She recognized him vaguely Kaelen Drevane, though they had never spoken more than a few words at charity galas. His reputation followed him: enigmatic, ambitious, whispered to be dangerous.
"I'm not running," Seraphina said hoarsely, her voice raw.
"No," he said, stepping closer, eyes steady on hers. They were a gray so pale they seemed to reflect the moonlight itself. "You're bleeding. And they're all waiting to see how long before you collapse."
She stiffened, her pride flaring. "I won't collapse."
A corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. "Good. Then maybe you're not as breakable as they think."
She stared at him, unsure whether his words were meant as comfort or challenge. Before she could answer, voices from the drawing room spilled into the garden, calling her name. The moment fractured.
Kaelen stepped back into the shadows, his gaze lingering on her for a beat too long. "Go on," he murmured. "They're hungry for their spectacle."
And then he was gone, swallowed by the darkness, leaving her heart pounding with confusion.
She drew a long breath, gathered the scraps of her composure, and returned inside. The whispers resumed instantly, sharper now. Yet in the back of her mind, through all the noise, one voice lingered the strange, unsettling voice that had seen her not as a headline, not as prey, but as something else entirely.