Escorting The Bride

Oriana paused, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing her delicate features. She stared up at the imposing figure of the Crown Prince, her brow furrowing slightly. "I beg your pardon, Your Highness. What did you just say?"

Evander stared down at her, his voice a blade of ice cutting through the warm afternoon air. "Since you have so publicly declared your intention to marry my uncle, you can stop trailing after me. That kind of persistent affection is revolting."

The harsh words hung in the quiet courtyard. For a long, silent second, Oriana stood perfectly still as the sheer magnitude of his arrogance washed over her. In her previous existence, standing before this man had been a brutal test of endurance. A desperate, clawing fear of losing his favor had always kept her silent and subservient. She used to swallow her pride daily, terrified that choosing the wrong words might earn her even deeper scorn. She would twist herself into knots trying to be whatever he demanded.

But today, looking at the sharp, disdainful lines of his face, she realized something profound. His harsh opinions held zero weight in her heart anymore. The invisible chains that once bound her to him had shattered.

She met his intense gaze without a flinch. Her voice rang with piercing clarity. "Your Highness, I have never intended to cling to you. At the family banquet, I made myself perfectly clear to His Majesty. I do not have feelings for you. Not in the slightest."

Evander’s expression tightened. A mocking sneer touched his lips, disbelief written plainly across his face. "Is that so? Then what, did you lose your way and happen to wander here by chance, only to run into me?"

Before Oriana could formulate a response, a calm voice broke the tension.

"Her Majesty did indeed summon Lady Oriana."

Irma stepped forward, her posture respectful but unyielding. She offered a polite smile, effectively erasing Evander's baseless assumption. The older woman had served the Queen for decades; her word was law within the inner palace. Oriana was not stalking him; she was here on royal business.

A muscle feathered along Evander’s jaw. The sudden dismantling of his narrative visibly chafed him. He shifted his tactics, delivering a harsh, cruel reminder designed to break her composure. "My uncle has been unconscious for years. The court physicians say Duke Gideon might never wake from his coma. If you marry him, you will spend your life alone, tied to a corpse."

Instead of faltering, Oriana simply smiled. It was a look of pure serenity, devoid of any hidden agenda or lingering sorrow. She looked Evander straight in the eye. "Thank you for the warning. But as I have said, I admire the Duke. As long as I can remain by his side, it truly does not matter whether he wakes or not."

Without offering Evander a single backward glance, she turned her back on him. "Let's go, Irma. We should not keep Her Majesty waiting."

Evander did not move a muscle. He stood rooted to the cobblestone path, watching her receding figure until she disappeared around the corner. The deeply ingrained memory of her past, unwavering devotion suddenly shattered in his mind. The image of her looking at him with shy, hopeful eyes splintered into nothingness. In its place, a heavy, suffocating ache bloomed in his chest—a distinct, unsettling feeling of something precious slipping permanently beyond his grasp.

Inside the opulent walls of Briar Hall, the Queen sat surrounded by plush velvet cushions and gleaming silver tea sets. As Oriana entered and offered a flawless curtsy, the monarch greeted her with a bright, hollow smile. The fabricated warmth in her eyes failed to reach her expression.

"Oriana, come sit," the Queen urged, gesturing to a delicate gilded chair. "I am overseeing the arrangements for your union. We must select a date."

A polished mahogany table sat between them, holding a piece of heavy parchment. Two specific dates were written in looping, elegant calligraphy.

The Queen tapped a manicured finger against the paper. "I believe the nineteenth of October would be a wonderful choice. It gives us ample time to prepare. What do you think?"

Oriana’s breath caught for a fraction of a second. October nineteenth. She vividly remembered that exact date from her past life. It was the day she had married Evander. They had called it a joyous, auspicious day, but the heavens had fiercely disagreed. A relentless, freezing rain had poured from dawn until dusk. It had been an ill-omened disaster. The storm had drenched her delicate silk gown, ruined the intricate floral decorations, and reduced her grand procession to a damp, miserable joke. The musicians had fumbled their notes, and the nobility had whispered cruel remarks from the sidelines, branding her a cursed bride who would bring ruin to the royal house.

She would not repeat that nightmare.

Oriana offered a gentle but firm shake of her head. "Thank you, Your Majesty. But I insist on the third of June."

The Queen frowned slightly, her fake warmth dimming. "June? That is mere weeks away. It would be far too rushed for a royal wedding."

"I understand," Oriana replied, letting a soft, eager tone coat her words. "But I wish to marry the Duke as soon as possible. I want to be by his side."

Just then, the heavy oak doors of Briar Hall swung open. Evander stepped inside the grand room, arriving just in time to hear her declaration of devotion to his comatose uncle.

His jaw visibly tightened. His dark eyes locked onto Oriana, flashing with unreadable, turbulent emotion.

"Evander, perfect timing," the Queen said, eager for an ally. "Help me persuade Oriana. She insists on a June wedding, but I think October allows for better preparations."

Evander’s gaze remained fixed on Oriana, his voice dripping with cutting coldness. "If she is so unbelievably eager to marry my unconscious uncle, we should not deny her." He stepped further into the room, bringing a chilling presence with him. "Let her have her June wedding. If we delay it until October, she might just start complaining behind the royal family's backs."

The words were meant to sting, a venomous lash designed to make her cower and apologize.

Utterly unbothered by his hostility, Oriana met his glare and smiled. "His Highness is quite right. June third it shall be. I appreciate your support."

Her calm agreement acted like fuel poured directly onto a roaring flame. Evander’s expression darkened further. The stark realization that his sharpest barbs could no longer draw blood seemed to infuriate him. Without another word of greeting or farewell, he abruptly pivoted on his heel and strode out of the room, the heavy doors shutting with a resounding thud behind him.

The Queen watched him go, a calculating glint appearing in her eyes. She turned back to Oriana and offered a devious suggestion. "Since Duke Gideon cannot fetch you himself, we need a royal representative. I think Evander should stand in for the unconscious Duke to officially escort you from Thorne Manor."

Oriana knew Evander intimately. He would only use such a public, highly visible role to further humiliate her on her wedding day. He would drag his feet, make mocking comments to the crowd, or perhaps abandon the procession halfway just to watch her suffer the indignity.

"I must decline," Oriana said flatly, leaving no room for negotiation. "His Highness carries too many responsibilities for the crown. I suggest the unmarried Percival Belmont instead. He would be a fine choice."

The carriage ride back to the quiet grounds of Thorne Manor was accompanied by the steady, rhythmic clatter of wooden wheels against the stone streets. Oriana leaned her head against the velvet seat, watching the bustling city blur past the glass window.

Despite her best efforts to keep her thoughts disciplined, her mind drifted to her shared childhood with the Crown Prince.

She remembered the bright, sunlit days when they had been inseparable. Her grandfather used to bring her to the palace training grounds while he instructed Evander in riding and archery. They would sneak away, laughing without restraint, dreaming up grand futures.

She vividly recalled the terrifying afternoon a runaway carriage had barreled down a crowded market street. She had thrown herself forward without a second thought, pushing a young Evander out of the crushing path of the panicked horses.

The act of sheer bravery had saved his life, but the heavy carriage wheel had clipped her leg, slamming her knee against the unforgiving cobblestones. The permanent injury had left her bedridden in agony for days.

She remembered the aftermath with painful clarity. A desperate, crying Evander kneeling beside her bed, his small hands gripping hers so tightly it bruised her skin.

"I will take care of you forever," he had sworn, tears streaking his face.

Oriana closed her eyes, the rhythmic swaying of the carriage rocking her tired body. She no longer wondered exactly when or why his childhood warmth had mutated into such vile disdain. Was it the heavy burden of the crown? The toxic whispers of the royal court? Or simply the changing of his own fickle heart?

In her previous life, she had chased that very answer until it literally broke her. She had wept through countless solitary nights, wearing her spirit thin. Her injured knee would throb endlessly in the damp winter cold, serving as a cruel reminder of her sacrifice, while her eyesight deteriorated from the ceaseless stream of tears.

She opened her eyes, the dim light of the carriage casting soft shadows across her composed face.

She took a long, deep breath, letting the crisp afternoon air fill her lungs.

Then, she let the question go completely. It drifted away from her mind like smoke scattering in the wind. The reasons did not matter anymore. He did not matter anymore. Aside from life and death, everything else in this world was trivial.

Time moved swiftly. As the June wedding rapidly approached, the royal estates transformed into a vibrant display of impending celebration. Lavish golden decorations, intricate floral arrangements, and miles of gilded silk engulfed the palace grounds, Grimwood Manor, and Thorne Manor alike. Every courtyard, every archway screamed of the upcoming marriage.

Trapped within the confines of the Crown Prince's Wing, Evander found himself surrounded by the unavoidable, festive reminders.

Every crimson banner hanging from the parapets felt like a personal affront. Every time he heard a passing servant mention the Duke's bride, a muscle ticked in his jaw. A dark, nameless irritation mounted higher day by day, wrapping around his ribs and squeezing tight. He could not focus on his state ledgers. He could not spar with his royal knights without snapping at them over minor faults. The psychological distress of losing her, though unacknowledged, clawed at his focus.

Desperate for a breath of fresh air and an escape from the suffocating red and gold silk covering his home, he stepped out of his private chambers into the hallway.

He barely made it past the threshold before he was immediately met by his cousin, Percival Belmont.

Percival looked obnoxiously cheerful, his bright eyes scanning the lavish decorations with clear amusement. He wore a crisp tunic and a wide smile, looking every bit the carefree nobleman.

Evander scowled, turning back and leading his cousin into the quiet sanctuary of the royal study. He slammed the heavy door shut, cutting off the distant, irritating sounds of musicians practicing their wedding marches in the courtyard below.

Inside the study, Percival leaned against the heavy oak desk and grinned unabashedly, ready to discuss the wedding logistics.

"Well—Uncle Gideon is getting married, isn't he? Her Majesty wants to appoint someone from the royal family to escort the bride from Thorne Manor…"