The smell of incense and cold stone usually calmed me. Not today. Today, it smelled like my funeral.
"You may kiss the bride."
The priest's voice echoed through the Grand Cathedral of Ethelwold, hollow and haunting. I felt the collective gasp of the nobility behind me. They weren't waiting for a romantic moment; they were waiting for the "Blood Duke" to snap my neck right there on the altar.
I looked up. Galen von Drakenhof loomed over me like a shadow carved from obsidian. His black hair was swept back, revealing a face so handsome it felt like a sin, but his eyes... they were dead. Cold, violet orbs that saw me not as a wife, but as a nuisance to be disposed of.
'In the original novel,' I thought, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, 'this is where Cherise faints from terror, and Galen leaves her shivering on the floor, marking the beginning of her miserable, short life.'
I wouldn't be that Cherise.
As Galen leaned down, his breath cold against my skin, he whispered only for me to hear: "Don't bother screaming. It only makes the end noisier."
He expected me to recoil. Instead, I leaned into him. I reached up with trembling, pale fingers—the "fragile" bride he expected—and grabbed the lapel of his gold-embroidered tunic. I didn't pull away. I closed the distance.
Our lips met.
His body went rigid. It was like kissing a statue of ice. I could feel the confusion radiating off him, the sudden hitch in his breath. I pulled back just an inch, my purple eyes shimmering with unshed tears I had practiced in the mirror for hours.
"Then make it quiet, Grace," I whispered back, my voice a delicate thread. "I've always preferred the silence of your company anyway."
For the first time, a spark of something—interest? irritation?—flickered in his gaze. He didn't kill me. He didn't even push me away. He simply gripped my waist with a hand so large it nearly covered my entire side, and led me down the aisle.
The Reception: The Viper's Trap
The wedding banquet was a sea of fake smiles and poisoned wine. I sat at the high table, my white dress spread around me like a cloud. I barely touched my food. I had to stay sharp.
"Duke Galen, Lady Cherise," a voice dripping with honeyed malice interrupted.
Elena.
She approached us, flanked by two maids carrying a large, velvet-covered box. Her blonde hair was perfectly coiled, her smile radiant, and her heart as black as coal.
"I couldn't let the night pass without offering a personal gift," Elena said, bowing low. "A tribute to the Duke's glorious lineage. A dress for the new Duchess."
The maids opened the box. The room went silent.
It was the Phoenix Dress.
It was a masterpiece of lace and silk, but it glowed with a faint, eerie crimson light. In the book, this dress belonged to the woman Galen truly loved—or so the rumors said—and wearing it was considered a desecration of his past. The moment the original Cherise put it on, Galen had nearly choked her to death in a fit of rage.
"It's breathtaking," Elena chirped, her eyes darting to Galen to catch his reaction. "Surely, a bride as delicate as Cherise deserves to wear the Duke's most precious memory tonight."
Galen's aura shifted. The wine in his glass began to ripple. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. He wasn't looking at the dress; he was staring at the table, his knuckles white as he gripped his silverware.
"Elena," Galen's voice was a low growl, vibrating with the threat of a landslide. "You overstep."
"Oh? I only thought..." Elena feigned surprise, her hand over her heart. "Since Cherise is so... fragile... perhaps the strength of the Fénix would suit her."
I saw the trap. If I accepted, Galen would hate me. If I refused, I would look like a coward in front of the entire court.
I stood up slowly, my legs "shaking" just enough for Galen to notice. I reached out and touched the hem of the cursed dress.
"It is beautiful, Elena," I said, my voice soft but clear. I looked at the dress, then looked directly at Galen. I didn't look scared. I looked devastated. "But I cannot wear this."
"And why not?" Elena pressed, a triumphant glint in her eyes.
I turned to Galen, catching his cold gaze. I let a single tear roll down my cheek—perfect timing.
"Because I am not a memory," I whispered, loud enough for the nearby nobles to hear. "And I will not be a ghost in my own home. My Grace... Galen... if you wanted me to be her, you should have killed me at the altar."
The silence was deafening.
Galen stood up, his towering frame casting a shadow over me. He looked at the dress, then at my tear-stained face. His hand reached out, and for a second, I thought he was going to strike me.
Instead, his thumb brushed the tear away. His touch was rough, unpracticed, but heavy with a new kind of tension.
"The dress," Galen said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "Burn it."
Elena's face went pale. "But Galen—!"
"Now," he commanded. He turned to me, his grip on my arm firm. "And you. Since you're so eager to remind me you're alive... let's see how long you last in my bedchamber."
He hauled me toward the exit. I caught Elena's horrified expression over my shoulder. I had survived the first act. But as the heavy oak doors of the Duke's private wing closed behind us, I realized the real battle was just beginning.
I was alone with the villain. And he was no longer looking at me like a nuisance. He was looking at me like prey.