The grand cathedral smelled of candle wax and incense, a sickly sweet combination that clung to Evelyn's throat. Before her, the towering stained-glass windows cast fractured colors upon the marble floor, but even their beauty could not warm the chill crawling up her spine.
She stood at the altar, veiled and silent, as the priest recited vows that did not belong to her.
I do not belong here.
She closed her eyes, the weight of the silk gown suffocated her. The lace gloves clung to her trembling fingers. Everything about this moment—this wedding—was stolen.
The man beside her had yet to say a word.
Nathaniel Carlisle, Duke of Everthorne, stood with an unreadable expression, his sharp profile bathed in the golden light of the cathedral. His black hair was neatly combed, a stark contrast to the polished gold of his epaulets and the crisp navy of his military uniform. Medals gleamed against his chest—symbols of victory, of unwavering loyalty to the empire.
And then there were his eyes. Cold, slate-gray, like a sky before a storm.
Evelyn pursed her lips and dared not meet his eyes for too long.
The last time this ceremony had been arranged, it had been for Eleanor Whitmore.
And Eleanor was dead.
Evelyn's stomach twisted as she risked a glance at her husband-to-be. His gaze was fixed ahead, his jaw tense. He had barely looked at her since she arrived. Did he know? Did he suspect?
The priest turned to her. "Do you, Lady Eleanor Whitmore, take His Grace, the Duke of Everthorne, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
For a heartbeat, Evelyn could not breathe.
She was not Lady Eleanor. She was Evelyn—a commoner, a fraud, a woman standing in the place of the dead.
But if she did not speak the words, if she did not become Eleanor in this moment, her brother would be sent to war.
'This is for Theodore.'
With a steady inhale, she pressed her shaking hands together and whispered, "I do."
Silence.
Then, Nathaniel turned to her at last.
His gaze flickered to the silver strands peeking from beneath her veil. His Eleanor had once worn this same color, but under the warm glow of candlelight, Evelyn's hair looked almost ethereal—like spun moonlight.
And then there were her eyes.
Amber.
Not golden, not hazel—amber, like honey caught in the embers of a dying fire. Not quite like Eleanor's. Not quite different either.
His lips parted slightly, and for a second, she thought—he knows.
But he said nothing.
Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing hers as he slid a cold ring onto her finger. The touch was fleeting, yet it sent a shiver through her.
It was done.
She had married the man who had once loved Eleanor Whitmore.
The ceremony ended in a haze. Applause rippled through the cathedral, but it felt distant—muffled by the pounding of Evelyn's heartbeat.
Nathaniel did not take her hand.
He did not meet her gaze again.
Instead, he offered his arm with the rigid politeness of a man fulfilling a duty. She hesitated before resting her fingers against his sleeve, and even through the heavy fabric of his uniform, she could feel the tension coiled beneath.
As they stepped down the marble aisle, past nobles with gleaming eyes and forced smiles, Evelyn kept her head high. She did not know if they whispered about her beauty or if they saw the cracks in her masquerade. Did they wonder why she lacked Eleanor's haughty grace? Did they notice her hesitation?
Evelyn closed her eyes for a brief moment.
I had no choice... Please forgive this lowly peasant for taking your place, Lady Eleanor.
When she opened them again, her gaze landed on a familiar figure near the grand cathedral doors.
Sir Bastian.
Lady Eleanor's most trusted aide.
Even among the sea of noblemen in their fine coats and polished medals, he stood out—not for his appearance, but for the way his sharp blue eyes never left her. He had been watching her all throughout the ceremony, his expression unreadable.
Evelyn swallowed, memories clawing their way to the surface.
Bastian had been the one to find her.
The one who had approached her in that dimly lit alley, his usual cold composure shattered by desperation.
"You must take her place."
She had nearly laughed in his face then. A nobleman, kneeling before a commoner from the slums, asking the impossible.
"You look just like her," he had said, voice tight with urgency. "The resemblance is uncanny. If you do this, you will live as Lady Eleanor Whitmore. You will have wealth, security… and your brother will be safe."
Evelyn had wanted to refuse.
But the moment he mentioned Theodore, she had listened.
The war had taken so much already. Her father. Her home. Soon, it would take her brother, too.
And so, despite the fear coiling in her gut, she had nodded.
She had agreed.
And now, here she was, walking down the grand aisle as a woman she could never truly be.
Bastian held her gaze for only a moment longer before bowing his head ever so slightly. A silent reminder.
Remember your role.
Evelyn clenched her hands, nails pressing into her palms.
She had to survive this.
Even if the man standing beside her—the one she had just vowed her life to—had once loved the real Eleanor.
And even if, one day, he discovered the truth.
The cathedral doors loomed ahead, its heavy oak panels carved with scenes of saints and warriors. Beyond them, the world waited—a world that believed Evelyn was Eleanor, a world that expected her to be the wife of Nathaniel Carlisle.
As they stepped outside, a gust of cold autumn wind cut through her veil, making the fine silk ripple. Evelyn shivered, though not from the chill. The sky was an endless gray, as if mourning the union that had just taken place.
A carriage awaited them at the foot of the cathedral steps. Black and gold, emblazoned with the sigil of House Carlisle. A fitting prison for a bride who was never meant to be.
Nathaniel helped her inside without a word. His grip was firm, careful, yet utterly devoid of warmth. Once they were seated across from each other, the door shut with a finality that sent a wave of dread crashing through her.
The crowd outside faded as the carriage lurched forward, the wheels rattling against cobblestone.
Evelyn folded her hands in her lap, pressing her fingers together to keep them from trembling. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. She forced herself to look at him, to study the man she had just married.
Nathaniel sat with his back straight, his gloved hands resting on his knees.
But it was his eyes that unsettled her the most.
They had once belonged to a man who had loved Eleanor Whitmore.
Now, they belonged to a man who sat across from her in silence, his gaze unreadable, his presence a reminder of the life she had stolen.
Evelyn swallowed hard as she hung her head low.
Should she speak? Thank him for the wedding? Try to ease the tension that coiled in the space between them?
Before she could find her voice, he finally spoke.
"You hesitated."
Her breath caught.
He was staring at her now, his gaze unwavering.
She forced a confused frown. "I don't understand—"
"At the altar." His voice was quiet, yet it carried the weight of something dangerous. "You hesitated before saying 'I do.'"
Evelyn's fingers curled into the fabric of her dress. "I was nervous," she said carefully. "I believe most brides would be."
His expression did not change.
A lie.
A small one, but a lie nonetheless.
Did he believe her?
Nathaniel leaned back against the seat, his gaze still fixed on her. "Of course," he murmured, though there was no agreement in his tone.
Evelyn exhaled slowly, forcing herself to hold his gaze.
This was only the beginning.
She had married the empire's most feared supreme commander.
Now, she had to make sure she survived him.
They arrived at his estate just as the last remnants of daylight faded into twilight.
The grand carriage rolled to a stop before Everthorne Manor—a towering estate of gray stone and gothic spires, its silhouette stark against the dying embers of the sky. The iron-wrought gates had parted for them long before their arrival, standing open like the maw of some great beast waiting to swallow her whole.
Evelyn's breath hitched as she took in the looming structure. Even in the dim light, she could see the manor's age in the ivy that clung to its walls, in the way the gargoyle statues seemed to watch her with hollow eyes. A fortress more than a home.
The footman opened the door, and Nathaniel stepped out first. He did not offer his hand this time, though she hadn't expected him to. He merely waited as she gathered her skirts and descended the carriage steps, the chill of the evening air curling around her like ghostly fingers.
"Welcome to Everthorne, Your Grace," a man in somber livery greeted them at the entrance. He was older, with neatly combed silver hair and the kind of face that had long since mastered the art of concealing emotion. The butler.
Nathaniel gave a curt nod. "Locke."
Evelyn felt the butler's gaze settle on her, measuring, assessing. He bowed, though there was something in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps even doubt.
"Your Grace." His voice was smooth, practiced. "We have prepared your chambers."
Nathaniel did not so much as glance in her direction as he strode forward. "See that the duchess is made comfortable."
Duchess. The title felt foreign against her skin, like a cloak too heavy to bear.
Evelyn followed, her steps careful as she crossed the threshold. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged wood, burning hearths, and something faintly metallic—ink, perhaps, or polish. Chandeliers flickered overhead, their golden glow casting long shadows against the high, arched ceilings.
The manor was as cold as the man who owned it.
Locke gestured toward the grand staircase. "If Your Grace would follow me, I will escort you to your room."
Evelyn hesitated, glancing toward Nathaniel, but he had already disappeared down one of the dark corridors, his footsteps echoing through the empty halls.
Of course.
She was his wife only in name.
Swallowing the uneasy knot in her throat, Evelyn lifted her chin and followed Locke up the winding staircase, her gloved fingers ghosting over the carved banister. Each step carried her deeper into her new life—a life built on deception, in a house filled with ghosts.
At the end of a dimly lit corridor, Locke stopped before a set of heavy double doors.
"Your chambers, Your Grace."
He pushed the doors open, revealing a vast bedroom draped in deep blue and gold. A grand canopy bed stood at its center, its velvet curtains pooling onto the floor like ink. A fireplace crackled softly in the corner, offering the only warmth in the cavernous space. To the side, a vanity of polished mahogany gleamed under the candlelight, its surface bare except for a silver brush and a single, unlit lamp.
And beyond the tall windows, the night stretched endlessly.
Locke inclined his head. "Should you require anything, the staff is at your disposal. The Duke has requested that you rest after your journey."
Evelyn managed a small nod. "Thank you, Locke."
He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before bowing once more and retreating, the doors clicking shut behind him.
And just like that, she was alone.
Evelyn exhaled, slow and measured, before stepping further into the room. She let her fingers trail across the cool silk of the bedding, the reality of it all settling over her like a suffocating weight.
She had done it.
She had stepped into Eleanor Whitmore's life, into her place at Nathaniel Carlisle's side.
But at what cost?
She turned toward the mirror above the vanity, the flickering candlelight catching in the strands of silver woven through her veil. With careful hands, she reached up, peeling the delicate fabric away, revealing the face beneath.
Eleanor's face.
No.
Her face.
And yet, as she stared at her reflection, she couldn't help but wonder—if the dead could see, if they could whisper from the beyond—was Eleanor watching?
Did she know?
A shiver crawled down Evelyn's spine.
She turned away from the mirror.
She would survive this. She had to.
But as she blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness, a thought lingered in the back of her mind.
Nathaniel Carlisle had watched her too closely.
And somewhere in that silence, in the way he had studied her beneath the cathedral's golden light—
She could not shake the feeling.
He suspects.