The night of the wedding unfolded like a dream spun in silk and shadow.
The grand Valtore estate, draped in velvet roses and golden lights, pulsed with whispered excitement. Crystal chandeliers shimmered above the ballroom like constellations. The air was thick with perfume and anticipation. Soft violin music threaded through the hallways like a lullaby meant to calm a beast.
Estella stood near the side entrance of the ballroom, hands trembling slightly around a bouquet of white peonies she had just finished arranging. Her chest was tight, her nerves prickling—not because of the occasion, but because of the eerie stillness in the house. Something was wrong. The silence wasn't usual. It was waiting for something.
Guests had begun to murmur.
Arthur moved briskly through the corridors, face unreadable, scanning for answers that no one could offer.
And then, the whisper became a truth.
The bride had vanished.
Panic bloomed in soft gasps. Whispers curved into corners like smoke. A servant stammered something about locked doors. Another swore they saw a car flee down the garden path.
But at the center of the chaos, Cedric stood still.
Motionless. Composed.
His storm-gray eyes scanned the room like an ancient general on a battlefield. Only the clench in his jaw betrayed that something inside him had cracked.
Then, his gaze found her.
Estella.
Her head bowed, her soft lilac dress kissed the floor. Her curls brushed her cheek. She was a calm in the eye of a storm—just like the woman he was supposed to marry.
Or so he thought.
His breath caught in his throat.
Why is she standing there? Alone. Like nothing happened.
He stepped forward slowly, boots echoing on the marble floor. A few murmurs died down as his towering presence parted the crowd.
Estella turned just as he stopped before her.
Her breath caught.
"Mr. Valtore…?"
But Cedric didn't hear the tremble in her voice.
All he saw was a bride who looked at him with unfamiliar eyes.
Why is she acting like she doesn't know me? Is this her rebellion? Her punishment?
Behind him, Arthur approached cautiously. His brows furrowed. Even he couldn't understand Cedric's intent.
Arthur had never met Stella. He'd only seen glimpses of a reserved silhouette behind tall curtains. In his eyes, Estella was randomly choosen bride by Cedric to avoid the scandals.
So he said nothing.
Neither did Cedric.
His thoughts raced beneath his cold exterior.
She's changed. Something's different. Her eyes. Her silence. But she's here. She's the only one who didn't run.
His hand slowly lifted. From the crook of his arm, he pulled the bridal veil—the one meant for Stella.
"I don't know what games you're playing," he said lowly, his voice like thunder pressed into silk, "but this wedding will happen. Tonight."
Estella's eyes widened.
She stepped back, shaking her head, but her voice caught.
"Wait... I'm not—"
He stepped closer, towering above her now.
"You will wear the veil."
"I'm— I'm the decorator—"
But Cedric's eyes were wounded. Bleeding confusion. Anchored in denial.
And he interrupted her with a quiet command.
"You are my bride."