The wedding invitations had been delivered to every noble house from Holloway to Eastcrest. Silk ribbons and gilded ink, announcing what the Duchess called "a union befitting the prestige of the Mickelson family."
To everyone else, it was a celebration.
To Selene, it felt like a funeral.
The gown was fitted three days before the ceremony—layers of ivory lace, pearls, and embroidery that shimmered under candlelight. The maids gasped and praised her beauty, but when Selene looked in the mirror, she saw only a girl being wrapped in burial cloth.
"You look radiant," her mother said that afternoon, arranging a necklace of diamonds around her neck.
"I look resigned," Selene replied.
The Duchess's smile faltered. "One day you will thank us for protecting you from your own sentimentality."
Selene turned her eyes back to the mirror, expression empty. "What a strange way to describe ruin."
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't weep. In fact, she had barely spoken since the night Hakeem tried to flee. The house had grown quieter with her—almost reverent, or perhaps afraid.
The Duchess left without another word, and Selene stood alone in her wedding gown, unable to breathe.
---
Across the manor in the west wing, Hakeem stood before his father in the study.
The Duke was seated behind his desk, examining ledgers with the same calm precision he used for everything. There was no rage. No emotion at all. That was how Hakeem knew the man was furious.
"You will attend the ceremony dressed properly," the Duke said without looking up.
"And afterward?" Hakeem asked. "Will you lock me in again?"
"You will do as you are told."
"I won't marry her," Hakeem said. "I won't sign the contract, I won't play your game, and I will not let you sell another Mickelson for politics."
The Duke's eyes lifted—flat, cold, unshaken.
"You believe your defiance makes you righteous," he said calmly. "But you are not righteous, you are reckless. You think love makes you brave. It makes you weak."
"It makes me human," Hakeem replied. "Which is more than I can say for this house."
The Duke's voice remained steady. "You do not understand what we are protecting. Nobility is not a choice. It is a weapon. And you would throw it away."
"I would," Hakeem said. "Gladly."
For the first time, the Duke's composure cracked—only briefly, but enough to reveal a flicker of fear beneath the steel.
"You are my heir," the Duke said quietly. "And I will not allow you to shame us further."
"Then you should have learned to be something worth inheriting."
There was a long silence.
When Hakeem finally left the study, he did not feel triumphant—only tired. But the fire inside him was no longer flickering. It was growing.
---
Meanwhile, far beyond the manor walls, Hyacinth was sweeping the courtyard of the small coastal inn where she now worked. The sea wind tugged at her shawl, carrying the sharp scent of salt and the distant calls of gulls.
She had been here nearly two months now. The air was different from the north—wilder, open, carrying the taste of freedom. Yet at night, she still dreamed of rain and iron gates.
The inn at Holloway's Cliffside Road was small but busy—travelers, merchants, sailors passing through. Hyacinth watched them all with quiet curiosity, searching for news without seeming to ask for it.
She avoided anything that mentioned the Mickelsons—until the news found her anyway.
A merchant and his wife were dining near the hearth when she overheard the words:
"…the Lady Selene, yes. She's to be married this week. They say she hasn't spoken a single word in days."
"Poor thing," the woman whispered. "They say she used to sing."
Hyacinth froze.
Selene—married? Already?
Her heart twisted painfully. She remembered the girl who had once slipped her pastries in the kitchen, who had smiled with gentle eyes, who had said, "You deserve to be seen."
And now she was being buried alive in silk.
Hyacinth waited until her shift ended before stepping outside, the night air cold against her feverish thoughts. She stared out toward the sea, chest aching.
She had told herself she would not go back. That she would stay silent. That she would not put Hakeem at risk again.
But Selene had not been cruel. Selene had not condemned her. Selene had begged her to run.
And for the first time since fleeing the manor, Hyacinth whispered aloud:
"Maybe… I left too much behind."
---
Back at the manor, Selene stood on the balcony outside her room. The night air was cold, but she welcomed it. The stars glittered faintly through drifting clouds.
She imagined a different world. One where she could choose her fate. Where she could say no and still be loved.
Her wedding day was in forty-eight hours.
And she had never felt farther from living.
Behind her, someone cleared their throat.
She turned to find Vincent leaning against the doorway—coat unbuttoned, tie loose, eyes tired.
"You're not going to jump, are you?" he asked with tired humor.
"No," Selene said, almost smiling. "Not tonight."
Vincent exhaled. "Mother's threatening to cut me off if I don't stop visiting the lower district. Imagine that. A Mickelson caught associating with someone unapproved."
Selene's voice was soft. "You love her."
He scoffed. "I don't know what it is. But she looks at me like she sees a man, not a title. That's worth more than every coin in father's vault."
Silence settled between them.
"I envy you," Selene said.
"Me?" Vincent looked tired but amused. "I'm the disgrace of the family."
"You're still fighting," she whispered. "The rest of us… we're just drowning quietly."
Vincent looked at her carefully.
"If you ran," he said, "would you let me help you?"
Her eyes shone, but she shook her head. "I already chose my fate."
"No," Vincent said, voice tightening. "It was chosen for you."
For a moment, Selene nearly broke—nearly confessed the storm of despair beneath her calm. But the words stayed trapped in her throat.
She simply placed her hand on her brother's shoulder and said, "Take care of Hakeem. And take care of yourself."
Then she walked past him, into the dark corridor, leaving Vincent alone beneath the cold moonlight.
---
And somewhere far away, Hyacinth made a decision.
She pulled out the silver hairpin she had once traded to survive, now bought back after weeks of saving—her last tie to the life she'd lost.
She held it tightly in her hand, and for the first time since the night she ran, she turned her steps north.
She did not know if she was returning to hope or ruin.
Only that some part of her still belonged to that house.
Not because of obedience.
But because of love.
---
Back in the manor, Hakeem stared out his window, unaware that beyond the hills and sea, the girl he had lost was walking back into his world.
And beneath the same roof, Selene whispered her vows into the dark—not to her future husband, but to herself:
> "If I cannot change my fate, I will at least refuse to die quietly."
The storm was no longer coming.
It was already here.