Cursed by your love

The fifteenth Union

❧

The cathedral was filled with dukes, duchesses, earls, countesses, marquesses, and barons, their voices blending into a low murmur beneath the stained-glass windows. Royal heralds stood at the entrance with shiny trumpets in hand, awaiting the moment they would announce the union to the kingdom.

Court historians and scribes occupied the side aisles, carefully recording the ceremony that would one day become part of the Sterling-Windsor legacy.

The wedding was certainly the social event of the decade, a monumental merging of two of the oldest, wealthiest, and most powerful families in England.

In the third row, Lady Florence Earnshaw, a stately dowager duchess who had attended every royal wedding since the 1800s, leaned subtly toward her companion. "The Hart-Ashford girl is beautiful," she murmured, her sharp eyes tracking the front of the mass. "But I remember the scandal. Her father... such a tragedy."

"Twenty years have passed," her companion whispered back behind a gloved hand, keeping her eyes fixed forward. "Yet the Sterlings have never forgiven them. It is a miracle they are standing in the same cathedral."

"Then why allow the marriage at all?"

"The curse, my dear," the companion said, her voice dropping to a barely audible breath. "The firstborn son must marry a woman of the Hart-Ashford bloodline before his thirty-fifth birthday, or his heart simply stops. It has been that way for fifteen generations."

Lady Florence nodded slowly, a chill settling in her bones as she glanced toward the groom. "And Alexander is the fifteenth?"

"The fifteenth," the companion confirmed. "If this union fails to break the spell, the direct bloodline ends with him. He has less than a year left."

"Then let us hope," Lady Florence said softly, "that this bride is stronger than the fourteen who came before her."

The cathedral was lit with thousands of candles. Endless rows of fresh white roses lined the aisles, their heavy scent perfuming the air with a sweetness that felt less celebratory and more like a funeral shroud. Massive crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls of ice, casting a sharp, golden light across the ancient marble floors. High above, the pipe organ swelled with a melody of triumph and joy, a complex composition commissioned specifically for this day from Europe’s most renowned maestro.

The pews were packed to capacity with the absolute cream of British aristocracy. Dukes, duchesses, lords, and ladiesthe old money of the continent had gathered in a heavy, expectant silence to witness the union of two great, fractured houses.

Fifteen generations. Fifteen weddings. Fifteen times these two families had come together at the altar to break the generational curse that had haunted the Sterling-Windsor heirs for centuries.

The guests smiled for the cameras. They applauded politely. They raised their crystal flutes of champagne. But beneath the glittering veneer of high society, everyone knew the dark truth. Everyone whispered. Twenty years ago, Richard Hart-Ashford had brutally murdered Lady Margaret Sterling-Windsor. It was a scandal that had stained the aristocracy in blood, a tragedy endlessly dissected in smoke-filled drawing rooms.

Yet nobody cared about the blood feud today. Today was about survival. Today was about the fifteenth generation. The marriage had to happen; love was never part of the equation.

At the back of the cathedral, Seraphina Hart-Ashford stood in the deep shadows of the stone archway, her hand trembling vigorously against her grandfather’s arm.

She was the fifteenth Hart-Ashford bride. She was the daughter of a murderer, walking directly into the lion's den.

Delicately, her fingers flew to her throat, brushing against the smooth metal of the silver heart-shaped locket she’d worn for as long as she could remember. She never took it off. It was her only anchor to a past that no longer existed.

Her gown was a breathtaking masterpiece of silk and heavy lace, hand-crafted by a celebrated couturier in Paris. The bodice was meticulously embroidered with thousands of tiny pearls, and the train stretched twenty feet behind her, cascading down the stone steps like a waterfall of frozen moonlight.

She looked like a fairy-tale princess.

"You're trembling, sweetheart," her grandfather whispered beside her.

The current Duke of Ashford was an old man now, his hair stark silver, his frame frail and bent, his eyes clouded with age and the heavy burden of his family's sins. But his grip on her arm was still firm. Still protective.

"I'm terrified, Grandfather," she admitted, her voice barely a breath against the roaring organ music.

"You don't have to do this," the old Duke said fiercely, leaning in closer. "There is still time. We can turn around right now. I will handle the humiliation. I will handle the Sterlings. Let the curse take him."

Seraphina shook her head slowly, her gaze fixed straight ahead. "I have come too far to turn back now."

"Seraphina—"

"I know what awaits me," she cut him off softly, her jaw tightening. "He hates me. The whole world knows what my father did. But the curse has to be broken. Alexander has to survive. That is the only thing that matters."

The Duke sighed, a sound heavy with defeat. "I only ever wanted you to be happy."

"I will be," she lied, forcing a serene mask over her features. "In time."

She looked down the long, rose-lined aisle. At the altar stood a tall, dark figure, waiting in absolute rigidity.

Alexander Sterling-Windsor.

She had spent two decades following his life from afar, tucked away in her American exile. She had often wondered if he ever thought of her.

Now, looking at him, she had her answer. He remembered, and he despised her for it.

He was devastatingly handsome- sharp cheekbones, a jawline carved from granite, and ice-blue eyes that could freeze a man's blood. His black morning suit was flawlessly tailored to his broad shoulders.

But he wouldn't look at her. As she began her long walk down the aisle, his gaze remained fixed entirely on the stained-glass window above her head. He refused to give her even a glance.

Seraphina took a deep breath, anchored her gaze on his frozen silhouette, and stepped forward.

Alexander Sterling-Windsor stood at the altar, his teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached.

For months, he had dreaded this day. For months, he had counted down the hours until he would be forced to face the daughter of the man who had destroyed his life.

Now, she was walking toward him.

Seraphina. The girl he had loved in what felt like another lifetime. The girl whose laugh he had spent twenty years trying to erase from his memory violently. He had tried to kill every lingering spark of affection he had ever felt for her.