The Vows He Was Never Meant to Break

The Hawthorne estate chapel corridor smelled of wax and cold stone. Eveline walked with her hands hidden under her sleeves because her fingers would not stop shaking. Three days before the wedding, her veil lay folded in a cedar chest upstairs, and still her thoughts kept returning to Matthias’s last message—his careful words, his steady signature, the way he always sounded like he was already standing beside her.

A servant had told her to wait near the chapel. “An official will come with a mark from the court,” the woman said, like that meant calm. Eveline had nodded, because what else could she do? She had learned early that being brave did not stop other people from deciding what you needed.

The corridor doors opened at the far end. Two guards stepped aside, and a courier in royal blue entered with a small case held to his chest. His boots were clean, his face was flushed from riding, and his wax seal shone as if it had never touched air.