Chapter 1: The Wedding That Never Was
The grand cathedral was silent. Too silent.
Lady Isadora Everhart stood at the altar, the weight of hundreds of watchful eyes pressing down on her. The murmurs had started softly, rippling through the noble guests like a slow-moving storm, growing louder with each passing second.
She forced herself to stand still, gripping the bouquet of white roses in trembling hands. The scent, once delicate and sweet, now clung to her throat like poison.
Her father, the Earl of Everhart, stood beside her, his fingers twitching at his side. His anger was a silent thing, cold and sharp. Her mother, usually composed, looked pale, her lips pursed in a tight line.
The doors at the end of the grand aisle remained closed.
A chill swept through Isadora, tightening around her ribs. Killian Blackmoor, Duke of Ravencourt—her betrothed, her future—was not here.
The priest cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably as he glanced at the Earl for guidance. A muscle in her father's jaw ticked, his patience wearing thin. A footman hurried toward them, his head bowed, whispering something into her father's ear.
The words made the Earl's face darken, his fury barely contained. A hush fell over the cathedral as the tension reached its peak.
Then, her father turned to her, his voice a blade cutting through the air.
"He is not coming."
The world seemed to slow. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as the whispers turned to open gasps.
Killian had abandoned her.
Before the entire kingdom.
Isadora swallowed against the humiliation clawing at her throat. The weight of judgment was suffocating, pressing down on her chest with cruel finality.
She could feel their eyes—watching, waiting for her to crumble.
No. She would not break.
With deliberate grace, she loosened her fingers, letting the bouquet slip from her grasp. The roses hit the marble floor, petals scattering at her feet like remnants of a shattered dream.
She lifted her chin, meeting the sea of noble faces with unwavering poise. "Very well," she said, her voice calm despite the tempest raging inside her. "It seems I have been freed from a grave mistake."
Gasps rippled through the crowd, but Isadora did not falter. She turned, ignoring her father's seething fury and her mother's mortified expression. One step, then another. Each stride down the aisle was a battle against the storm within her, a fight to keep herself from shaking.
She would not let them see her bleed.
As she reached the cathedral doors, a noblewoman's sneering voice rang out above the whispers.
"You will never recover from this."
Isadora did not turn. She merely walked forward, her spine straight, her steps deliberate.
She did not need to recover.
She would rise.
Killian's POV (Flashback)
Hidden in the shadows of the cathedral's upper balcony, Killian Blackmoor watched. His hands were clenched at his sides, his knuckles white beneath the pressure.
The moment Isadora's bouquet hit the floor, something inside him twisted.
She was stronger than he had given her credit for. She did not cry, did not falter, did not run. She stood tall, proud, and untouchable, even as the world crumbled around her.
His chest ached.
"She will hate me," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "But at least she will live."
A figure shifted behind him. "You did the right thing, Your Grace," a voice whispered. "For both your sakes."
Killian said nothing. He could only watch as Isadora disappeared through the grand doors, knowing that when he returned to her… she would never forgive him.
And he would deserve every bit of her wrath.