Chapter 1 THE WEEDING NIGHT
The chandelier above the bed glowed softly, casting a golden sheen over the velvet-draped suite of the Grand Hotel of Lurex. Every surface gleamed—too polished, too perfect, like a stage set for someone else's life.
Erica Marcus stood by the mirror, fingers pressed to her flushed cheeks. Her reflection stared back at her — wide-eyed and red-faced.
She wasn't used to luxury like this. She wasn't used to being seen.
And now, she was Mrs. Erica Marcus — tied by name and ring to the third most powerful family in Central City.
Her breath caught. She still wasn't sure how it happened. Two months ago she had never even heard of Henry Marcus. Now she was married to him. Legally. Permanently.
A sound echoed down the tiled hallway — sharp footsteps, fast and deliberate.
She smoothed the lace strap of her nightgown and fixed her hair in the mirror. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
Was it excitement? Fear? She wasn't sure anymore.
The door opened.
Henry stepped inside, Armani suit still pristine, Italian leather shoes clicking softly against the floor. His phone was pressed to his ear.
"Get it done. There's no room for mistakes," he said, his voice low.
"What?" He looked up, eyes flicking to her as he hung up the call.
She blinked. "I… nothing. I just wanted—"
He walked past her, settling on the leather sofa, gaze already fixed back on his phone. The faint glow lit his face, casting shadows across his cheekbones. He hadn't even acknowledged the dress. The room. Her.
She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers knotting in her lap.
Her fingers moved to the diamond ring on her finger.
No warmth. No conversation. Just silence so loud it echoed in her bones.
Maybe he's busy. Maybe there's something urgent.
She stood and walked toward him slowly, the lace hem of her gown whispering across the marble floor.
"Henry? Is everything okay?" Her voice was soft, careful.
He didn't look up. "It's fine."
She stood there a moment longer, but only silence was present.
Her stepmother would say she should be grateful. That this was success. That being sold to the Marcus family was an elevation. And maybe it was — financially, socially. But standing there in that room, she didn't feel powerful. She felt like a paper doll dressed for a life she didn't belong to.
She sat back down on the bed, too aware of how her hands trembled.
Her eyes burned. Her chest felt tight.
"I just…" She tried again. "I thought maybe I could give you a massage. You seem tense."
His eyes finally lifted — and the look he gave her made her freeze. Cold. Flat. Like he was studying a stain.
"No," he said, voice like ice. "That won't be necessary."
A beat passed.
Then another.
She nodded. Her eyes dropped to the floor. She backed away.
Her heel caught the edge of the bedframe and she stumbled, falling hard onto the floor.
Pain radiated up her hip. She gasped, blinking back tears as she tried to push herself upright. "It hurts…"
Henry glanced over, eyes expressionless. Not even a flicker of concern.
"I—" Her voice cracked. "Water. Please… just some water."
For a moment, he didn't move. Then, without a word, he disappeared into the hallway. The silence he left behind was heavier than his presence.
When he returned, he held a glass loosely in one hand. His fingers trembled — not visibly, not enough to call attention — but Erica saw it.
He didn't offer it.
Just stood there.
She reached out and took it gently, careful not to touch him more than necessary. She drank quickly, the cold water shocking her dry throat, then placed the glass on the floor beside the bed.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He didn't respond. He returned to the sofa like nothing had happened.
She crawled back into bed, limbs aching, breath unsteady. Her head throbbed.
She had been here before — this feeling of being too much and never enough at the same time. People left. They always left. She had grown used to it.
But this felt different.
Her eyes drifted across the room to where Henry sat, his face lit by his phone, unbothered. Unreachable.
Her fingers found the ring on her finger again.
Maybe it was her. Maybe it had always been her.
What is wrong with me? Why can't anyone stay?
Her father had blamed her for her mother's death — Christiana Louis, gone in childbirth, and Erica the living reminder of that grief. Now Henry, who hadn't even offered a kind word since they said their vows.
Her chest clenched. She wrapped herself in the duvet, trying to disappear inside the silence.
"You crying?" Henry's voice pierced the dark.
She didn't answer.
He stood, walking to the edge of the bed. His finger jabbed toward her tear-streaked face. "You're always so damn dramatic."
"I'm not," she whispered. "I just—"
"I can't do this right now," he said sharply.
"What do you mean?" She sat up, wiping her face with both hands. "Don't go. Please. I won't cry anymore. Just… don't leave."
He paused at the door, hand on the knob. For one long second, she thought maybe he'd turn back.
He didn't.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt like a gunshot.
Erica stared at the door.
Her hand moved to her mouth.
One step toward it. Then her feet stopped.
She stood there, her fingers curling slowly into her palm.
Her legs folded and she sank back onto the edge of the bed.
She swung her legs out of bed, meaning to follow him — but the dizziness hit like a wave. She fumbled for her phone, fingers weak. It slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor. She tried to reach for it.
Too slow.
Too late.
Her body felt heavy. The walls pressed closer, the room shrinking around her until there was nothing left to hold onto.
She collapsed again, hitting the cold floor with a thud.
Darkness crept in at the edges of her vision, and this time, she didn't fight it.
