The scent of roses was thick enough to choke her.
Eliana Monroe stood motionless at the altar, her hand trembling beneath Adrien Sinclair's cold grip. Her veil hung like a curtain between her and the world, a gossamer illusion of purity masking the truth: this wasn't a wedding. It was a transaction.
The priest's voice blurred in her ears as her gaze flicked toward the casket at the far end of the grand Sinclair chapel. Elias Sinclair—Adrien's father—had been dead less than twenty-four hours. His portrait, propped on an easel beside the coffin, smiled down at her with the smug satisfaction of a man who got everything he wanted, even from the grave.
Especially from the grave.
Eliana's mouth was dry as she tried to speak her vows. Her voice cracked.
"I… I do."
It wasn't a choice. It was a requirement.
The ink on Elias's will was barely dry, but the clause had been clear: Adrien wouldn't inherit the Sinclair estate unless he married Eliana Monroe within forty-eight hours of his death.
No one ever said why.
No one ever asked her if she loved Adrien.
Especially not Adrien.
The priest turned to Adrien. His voice, smooth and unshaken, echoed through the cathedral. "I do."
They kissed—barely. More of a press of lips than passion. Cold. Public. Final.
As if sealing a curse.
The chapel erupted in polite applause. The Sinclairs stood, all dressed in black, all with smiles too tight to be real. At the center of the pews, Adrien's mother, Celeste Sinclair, clutched her pearls with the elegance of a queen and the steel of a general.
Eliana met her gaze.
Celeste did not smile.
⸻
The reception was held in the east wing of the Sinclair estate. A hall of chandeliers, wine, and whispers. The walls were lined with oil portraits of dead women—previous Sinclair brides, pale and wide-eyed, staring down at her as if in warning.
"Eliana," Adrien said behind her. "You've barely touched your champagne."
She turned, heart pounding. "I'm not in the mood to celebrate."
"It's not about celebration," he replied calmly, tipping his glass toward a group of relatives. "It's about appearances. They'll think you're weak."
"Let them," she said. "I didn't ask for this."
"No. You just signed the agreement."
Eliana flushed. "I signed to save my family. Not to marry into a mausoleum."
His expression tightened, and for a moment—just a second—she saw something flicker in his eyes. Guilt? Resentment? Or worse… indifference?
"Don't be dramatic," he said. "The will left me no choice. You knew that."
She stepped closer, voice low. "That's the part I don't understand. Why me, Adrien? Of all the women in your world—why me?"
Adrien sipped his drink. "Ask my father."
"He's dead."
"Exactly."
⸻
Later that night, the storm broke.
The first crack of thunder shook the estate as Eliana sat alone in the bridal suite, still in her wedding dress, her makeup smudged from tears she hadn't meant to cry.
She unzipped the gown slowly, every inch of skin it left exposed feeling like a wound. The moment it hit the floor, she caught her reflection in the gilded mirror.
She looked like a ghost.
Behind her, the door creaked open.
Adrien entered, loose tie, jacket gone. He closed the door behind him but didn't come closer.
"I'm sleeping in the blue room tonight," he said.
She didn't answer.
"You hate me," he added, as if trying to pull something from her.
She finally turned. "No, Adrien. I don't hate you."
He looked at her, wary.
"I pity you."
That hit him like a slap. He flinched but said nothing.
She stepped closer, no longer shaking.
"I've seen the way you flinch when your mother enters a room. The way you look at this house like it's a prison. You're just another heir in a bloodline that devours its own."
"Eliana—"
"No," she cut in. "You married me to get the estate. But your father didn't pick me for you because I'm obedient, or elegant, or convenient. He picked me because I'm dangerous. Because I don't fit. Because I break things."
Adrien's eyes darkened. "He picked you because he thought you could fix me."
She blinked. "What?"
"He said you'd keep me from becoming him."
Silence.
The thunder crashed again.
Adrien stepped back, shaking his head like the words were poison. "I didn't believe him. I still don't. But when I saw you standing at the altar, looking like you were ready to set the place on fire… I wondered if he was right."
They stared at each other. The tension in the room was electric.
Then he left.
And Eliana, still in her slip, locked the door behind him.
⸻
She couldn't sleep.
At 3:12 a.m., she slipped into the east corridor. Something pulled her there—the same place where generations of Sinclair brides were immortalized in canvas.
She stopped before a painting she hadn't noticed before.
The frame was dusty. The plaque below had no name.
But the face…
It was identical to hers.
Same hair. Same eyes. Same mole above the lip.
Her heart seized.
A chill ran down her spine.
"Eliana?"
She turned sharply. Adrien was behind her, barefoot and pale.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
She stepped aside, pointing. "Tell me who that is."
He froze.
His silence was the answer.
"You knew."
"No. I—" he swallowed. "I suspected."
"You suspected I looked exactly like a dead Sinclair bride?"
"She wasn't dead. She disappeared. A hundred years ago. No one found her body."
Eliana's voice dropped. "Was her name Eliana too?"
Adrien didn't reply.
The thunder outside boomed, and this time, the lights flickered.
Then the air shifted.
The door at the end of the corridor creaked open on its own.
Cold wind blew through.
Adrien looked past her. "This house… it remembers things."
Eliana stared into the darkness beyond the door.
"So do I," she said.