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“It’s okay.” I spread my arms, giving my little sister a hug. The door opens behind us, and Maggie steps through. She gulps at the sight of me, wrestling her lips into a weak smile. Wrapping her arms around the two of us, my sisters and I stand in a silent hug.
This isn’t where I thought I’d be just a month after the Christmas ball at Farcliff Castle. I never should have gone. I wouldn’t be pregnant or engaged or feeling like my life was ending.
But here I am.
What choice do I have? If I don’t marry the Count, I’m not only securing a fall from grace for myself, but I’m basically ensuring that my entire family will follow. I’d be stopping Kiera’s higher education and failing to provide stability for my parents.
I have to do this.
But as I stare at myself in the mirror, dropping my gaze to my still-flat stomach, my heart clenches. I’m carrying the Duke of Blythe’s child, but he’ll never know. He’ll see me bear a child with the Count. Maybe he’ll imagine me in bed with Count Gregory, desecrating the memories we created together.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The thought of Count Gregory touching me anywhere—let alone down there—makes me want to throw up.
But this is what I have to do. It’s what my family needs. It’s what my child deserves—a stable upbringing without the disapproving whispers of society. Without the shame.
A knock on the door signals that it’s time to go down to the main hall. We’re in Count Gregory’s mansion, in a room in the east wing.
I turn to the door, nodding to Maggie. She opens it up, greeting the footman on the other side. My sisters and I exchange one last glance, then start walking. It’s a slow, somber procession through the shadowy halls of the Gregory Castle.
My new home.
This place has none of the warmth and lightness of the Duke’s estate. None of the family photos and easy comfort. None of the love. It’s cold and lifeless. Dread snakes through my chest, emotion crushing my ribs so tight I can’t breathe.
Our footsteps echo in the silence, until we round a corner and hear the faint music of the classic wedding processional song. Each note hammers another nail in my coffin, and I blink back tears.
I need to do this. I need to do this. I need to do this.
It’s for my family. My sisters. My parents. My child.
I need to do this.
It’s a mantra, repeated with every step. But as we get closer to the chapel, my stomach clenches. Every instinct tells me to run. The arched doorway leading to the chapel opens like a wide maw, waiting to swallow me whole.
I shiver.
My mother exits the chapel, nodding. This is it. In minutes, I’ll be a married woman. My honor will be saved, and my family’s future will be secure.
So why does it feel so awful?
I pause outside the chapel, letting my sisters walk ahead. I hear the shuffling of fabric, like a small crowd of people turning to watch their entrance. Closing my eyes, I swallow my emotion. I’m next.
One step forward, and I cross the threshold. Another, and I’m in the aisle. A third, and the Count comes into view.
His thin lips are curled into a mean smile, his narrow, dark eyes dropping down the length of my body. There’s a dirty, possessive look on his face. And something else glittering in his eyes.
Triumph. Like he’s won a prize.
I feel sick.
I take one more step, my bottom lip trembling. I know I should hide it. I know I should pretend to be happy—but why? My family knows I don’t want this. The only other guests are a few witnesses for the Count, and a few members of his staff. Who cares if I cry?
The Count’s smile widens, darkness unfurling across his features. He likes my suffering.
Then, his smile freezes. The edges of his lips drop a fraction of an inch, and I hear shouting behind me. The four-piece string orchestra falters, playing a few discordant notes before stopping.
I pause, turning to look behind me.
My eyes widen, a tear finally spilling down my cheek.
