Evelina's eyes snapped open, and she turned to see everyone else in the room doing the same.
Her breath caught as she saw him.
A tall handsome young man with neatly styled black hair, wearing a sharp black suit. His amber eyes, piercing and intense, scanned the room as he casually walked down the aisle, an earbud in his ear. His polished shoes clicked against the marble floor, each step reverberating through the room like a metronome. The faint scent of his cologne—a mix of spice and smoke—wafted past Evelina, leaving her slightly dizzy.
Her heart skipped a beat. Is he my husband-to-be?
The man reached the altar and stood by her side.
The crowd fell silent, all eyes fixed on the mysterious man. Evelina's mind raced as she struggled to maintain her composure. His presence was magnetic, commanding the attention of everyone in the room without a single word.
He removed the earbud and slipped it into his pocket. Then he turned to Evelina, his amber eyes locking onto hers. For a moment, she felt as though he could see right through her veil.
He looked away and addressed the priest. "Please commence."
Evelina straightened her posture, determined not to betray the storm of unease building within her. She kept her gaze fixed on the priest as the man beside her adjusted his cufflinks. It was obvious he was impatient, each motion sharp and deliberate.
The priest stepped forward, clearing his throat to begin.
"We are gathered here today—"
"Skip to the vows," the man interrupted, his tone clipped and businesslike. He didn't even glance at the priest, his amber eyes scanning the crowd as though calculating how much time this charade was costing him.
The room fell silent, stunned by his boldness. Evelina's lips tightened into a polite smile, but she couldn't help the flare of irritation rising in her chest. What kind of man treats his wedding as if it's a board meeting? Was this all just an inconvenience to him?
The priest hesitated, then nodded quickly. "Of course. Ms. Maya Moore, do you take this man to be your lawful husband, to honor and uphold your union in all matters?"
Evelina glanced at the man beside her, searching for any hint of warmth in his rigid posture. There was none. He stood like a statue, exuding an aura of authority and detachment. She drew a breath, masking her uncertainty with a practiced smile. "I do."
The priest turned to the man. "And do you, Mr. Leone Hargrave, take this woman to be your lawful wife, to honor and uphold your union in all matters?"
"I do," he replied tersely, his deep voice carrying no emotion. He checked the sleek watch on his wrist, making no effort to hide his impatience.
The priest cleared his throat. "Now, the rings."
A young attendant stepped forward, carrying a small velvet tray with two gold bands neatly placed on it. Leone's gaze flicked to the tray, his expression unreadable. Evelina, however, noticed the faintest twitch of irritation in his jaw.
The attendant offered the tray first to Evelina. She picked up the ring meant for Leone, her hands steady despite the pressure of the moment. Turning to him, she hesitated only briefly before sliding the band onto his finger. His amber eyes met hers for the briefest moment, unreadable and cold, before he looked away.
The attendant then stepped toward Leone, who picked up Evelina's ring without ceremony. He took her hand, his grip firm and impersonal, and slid the band onto her finger in one fluid motion. His fingers were warm, but the touch was mechanical—impersonal. Evelina fought the urge to pull away, her pulse quickening beneath his grip.
"Done," he said flatly, releasing her hand as though even that brief contact was too much.
The priest, clearly flustered, quickly moved to conclude. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may—"
Leone raised a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. "That won't be necessary." His voice was ice, his gaze already shifting away from Evelina. "It's done."
Without waiting for acknowledgment, he turned sharply, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor as he strode toward the exit.
Evelina stood frozen at the altar, her veil still in place. Around her, the murmurs began to rise.
"My goodness, is that the son of Camille Hargrave?" whispered an older woman in pearls. Her companion frowned. "The Hargrave heir? I expected him to be more… sophisticated."
"Don't you think he's a bit too harsh?" a man hissed. "He asked the pope to skip most of the ceremony!"
Evelina's fingers curled into fists at her sides, the gold band on her finger feeling more like a shackle with each passing second.
So this is the man I married, she thought bitterly. And he doesn't even have the decency to pretend to care.
Evelina watched Leone's retreating back as he exited the grand hall without so much as a glance in her direction. Her chest tightened, and for a moment, she fought the urge to tear off her veil and follow him—not out of affection, but to demand an explanation for his brazen disregard. Yet, she remained rooted to the spot, forcing a serene expression onto her face, even as whispers swirled around her like a storm.
"Doesn't even wait to kiss the bride," someone murmured.
"Such arrogance," another voice chimed in. "No wonder the Hargraves have so many enemies."
Camille Hargrave sat in the front row, her finely gloved hands pressed against her temples as if to stave off the impending headache her son was causing. She was a woman of poise and prestige, the matriarch of the Hargrave family and no stranger to maintaining appearances in even the most trying situations. But this? This was enough to make her question if Leone was deliberately trying to provoke her into an early grave.
First, he had the audacity to arrive late, sauntering into the ceremony as if it were an afterthought. Then, to her utter mortification, he had dismissed every sacred tradition as if they were nuisances, reducing the entire event to a clinical transaction. And now, this grand finale—storming out of his own wedding without even acknowledging the bride. Camille's lips tightened into a thin line as she fought the urge to shout after him.
"Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath, her sharp amber eyes following Leone's retreating figure. "Does he think this is some kind of statement? Refusing to kiss his bride, treating her like a business partner? What is he trying to prove? That he's above all of us?"
"Camille," Ambrose, patriarch of the hargrave family, murmured cautiously. "Lower your voice. The guests are watching."
She shot him a glare. "Let them watch. They'll have plenty to talk about after this circus. It's a miracle I don't keel over from sheer humiliation." Her eyes flicked to Evelina, still standing at the altar, her posture as composed as ever despite the obvious insult.
Camille felt a pang of guilt as she studied the young woman.
Leaning back in her seat, Camille inhaled deeply, forcing herself to regain her composure. This is salvageable. Somehow. She refused to let Leone's stubbornness ruin everything she had worked so hard to arrange. The Hargraves' reputation might be frayed after this, but she wasn't about to let it unravel entirely.
Camille's fingers tapped impatiently against the armrest of her chair, the murmurs in the room growing louder with each passing second. Her patience was thinning rapidly. Finally, she turned to Ambrose, her expression resolute. "Send someone after him," she hissed, her voice sharp. "Tell him to get back here before I drag him myself."
Ambrose sighed, rubbing his temples. "You know Leone, my dear. Once he's made up his mind—"
"Then he can unmake it!" Camille snapped, her eyes flashing with a cold fury. "If he thinks he can waltz out of this marriage unscathed, he's sorely mistaken. I won't allow his arrogance to ruin the Hargrave name. Not after everything we've sacrificed."
Ambrose gave a half-hearted chuckle, his tone dry. "I think he takes after someone," he muttered under his breath, an almost playful hint in his voice.
Camille shot him a withering glare, her lips pressing into a thin line. Ambrose raised a reluctant hand in surrender, gesturing to a nearby attendant, who hurried to receive his whispered instructions. Camille straightened in her seat, smoothing her dress, preparing herself to address the guests if necessary. If Leone won't act like a proper Hargrave, I will.
As the commotion continued, Camille's gaze shifted to Evelina, who was descending the altar steps with an air of grace, handling the unfolding disaster far better than Camille could have imagined. Stronger than she looks, Camille mused, a faint spark of approval glinting in her eyes. Good. She'll need that strength if she's going to survive being married to my idiot son.
But just as Camille was about to look away, a strong wind from the fans blew Evelina's veil, revealing her features for a brief moment. Camille's eyes widened. Isn't that the Moore family maid? What about their daughter, Maya?
Her heart sank, the bitter taste of betrayal quickly spreading through her chest. She turned her gaze toward Richard, who was mingling with the other guests, Claire standing close by his side. Did they trick me? Camille's thoughts spiraled into a frenzy. By disgracing my family like this? By giving a maid to marry my son? This is unacceptable.