Cursed by your love

The vows

❧

Seeing her float down the aisle in a cloud of white silk, his traitorous heart stuttered. She was stunning. Her dark hair flowed down her back, and though her face was perfectly calm, he could see the slight tremble in her hands.

He forced his eyes away, staring blankly at the stone wall. Feel nothing, he commanded himself. If you feel anything, you break. And he couldn't afford to break. Not when the dark, cold shadows of the curse were already beginning to whisper at the edges of his vision. Not when fourteen generations of men before him had filled the family graves before their thirty-fifth birthdays.

"She's beautiful, brother," a low, smooth voice whispered to his right.

It was Marcus, the second-born. He was smiling, the charming rogue who always seemed to take life lightly. "You're a lucky man."

"Lucky," Alexander snapped back, his voice dropping to a lethal, flat whisper. "Being forced to wed a murderer's spawn to stay alive is the pinnacle of luck."

"You could at least pretend to be happy," Marcus murmured, his eyes lingering on Seraphina as she drew closer.

"I am not an actor."

From Alexander's left, Adrian, the fourth brother, leaned in. "She is stunning. The Hart-Ashfords have always produced stunning women."

"And terrible fathers," Julian added quietly from behind them. The third brother, adjusted his glasses, watching Seraphina with an upsetting intensity.

"She is not her father," Theodore, the youngest of the brothers, whispered. His eyes were full of gentle pity. "She shouldn't be punished for crimes she didn't commit."

Alexander’s jaw tightened until a muscle ticked. "She carries his blood. That is enough."

"She is also your wife as of today," Marcus countered, his easy smile firmly back in place. "And the only shield between you and an early grave. Try to be a little less... arctic, Alexander."

"I will be whatever I need to be to survive," Alexander snapped.

Seraphina finally reached the altar.

When Alexander reached out to take her hand, his fingers were like blocks of ice. There was no gentle squeeze, no reassuring warmth. He gripped her hand formally, firmly, as if handling a legal document or a heavy burden he was forced to carry.

The Archbishop began the liturgy, the ancient words washing over them like a distant tide. Seraphina didn't hear a word. Her eyes were locked onto Alexander's profile, searching desperately for a single trace of the boy who had once given her a silver locket and promised to protect her forever.

He gave her nothing. His face was an unreadable mask of stone.

"Do you, Alexander Sterling-Windsor, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Alexander paused. The silence stretched tightly through the massive cathedral. Hundreds of guests held their breath.

"I do," he finally said. His voice was flat. Lifeless.

The priest turned to her. "Do you, Seraphina Hart-Ashford, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Seraphina looked at the man who was now her stranger, her husband, and her entire future. "I do," she said, her voice ringing clear and steady through the abbey.

The heavy gold band slid onto her finger. It felt cold.

"You may kiss your bride."

Alexander stepped forward. His hand came up to cup her jaw, but the gesture wasn't gentle; it was a claim. A warning. His lips met hers in a kiss that was brief, bruising, and completely blank of warmth.

As he pulled back, his eyes bored into hers, flashing with a bitter, dangerous light. "Welcome to hell, Seraphina," he whispered, low enough only for her to hear.

Seraphina didn't flinch but before she could respond, the crowd erupted into applause, the organ thundered a recessional march, and the flashing lights of a hundred cameras signaled that the fifteenth generation had officially begun.

The wedding reception was held at Blackwood Castle.

The ancient fortress rose aggressively against the grey, overcast English sky, a sprawling monument to centuries of aristocratic dominance. Its jagged stone towers pierced the heavy clouds, and the estate stretched for miles, encompassing rolling, mist-covered hills, ancient forests, and a private black lake that shimmered like dark glass.

The grand ballroom was expansive, draped in heavy crimson silk and adorned by massive chandeliers.

At the head of the room stood Lord Alistair Sterling-Windsor. Silver-haired, imposing, and exuding an aura of absolute authority, he raised his crystal glass to the room, a practiced, charming smile on his face.

"To my son, Alexander, and his beautiful bride, Seraphina," Lord Alistair announced, his booming voice echoing off the stone walls. "May this long-awaited union finally break our family's shadow and secure our legacy for the fifteenth generation."

The guests cheered, raising their glasses in unison.

When the music shifted into a sweeping, elegant waltz, Alexander silently extended his hand to Seraphina for their first dance. He held her at strict arm's length, his hand on her waist completely rigid. He stared stubbornly over her shoulder, his expression entirely detached.

"You're an exceptional dancer," Seraphina noted quietly, following his steps perfectly. "Though your form is a bit stiff."

"You shouldn't care about my form," Alexander replied coldly, his eyes finally dropping to meet hers. "You should be focusing on how you intend to survive in this house."

"I know you hate me," she said, her voice dropping to a calm, soft register. "I know you blame my family for Lady Margaret. But this marriage isn't a farce, Alexander. It's survival. For both of us."

Alexander's eyes narrowed. "You talk of survival as if you have a right to it. Your presence in this castle is an insult to my mother's memory."

"Then let it be an insult," she whispered back, her gaze never wavering. "As long as it keeps you alive."

Alexander stiffened, caught off guard by the sheer fierceness in her eyes. Before he could speak, the song ended, and she gracefully pulled away.