The Man From My Dreams: He Came Back For What Was His

Chapter 4:Mistaken...Then Claimed

Murmurs rippled through the hall, not loud but felt. Every step echoed too clearly now as she moved forward, toward the altar, but she didn’t stop. Not until she reached the altar where the groom stood waiting.

A mistake. A terrible one.

Why didn't she just quietly take his hand? And what was she doing, standing in front of the altar beside another woman’s groom? One thing was clear: she must not get caught, and yet, escape didn’t seem like an option anymore.

“It seems our bride is eager to meet the groom,” the announcer said lightly, trying to ease the atmosphere.

The groom smiled, more out of habit, but it didn't quite hold. Because, now up close with his bride, something felt... off. She was too stiff and too quiet. Sara was never quiet.

His gaze lingered on her, trying to place the discomfort settling in his chest.

Behind them, Alaric had stopped moving. Instead, he watched. His eyes narrowed slightly in thought.

That step had been too fast. Sara would have taken her time; she would have owned the moment and enjoyed the attention. His gaze dropped to her hands and shoulders. Sara was expressive, dramatic even, but this bride was restrained.

His grip tightened around the head of his stick. With a slow breath, he stepped forward.

At the altar, the groom’s smile had completely faded. His eyes moved over her again, trying to make sense of the unease crawling up his spine.

“Shall we begin—” the priest started.

However, Alaric didn’t let him finish. He stepped forward then asked, “Who are you?”

The question echoed across the hall without mercy. Nyla froze, her fingers twitching faintly at her sides.

“And what have you done with my daughter?” A pause lingered. “You imposter.”

The hall erupted.

The groom's eyes widened; he moved instantly, reaching for her veil, but Nyla held on tightly as if her life depended on it.

“No—!” she strained, her hold slipping as she fought to stay hidden.

Too late. He yanked it off. The sharp sound of fabric tearing sliced through the hall.

Nyla froze; gasps erupted around her, but all she could hear was her own heartbeat.

Her fingers trembled as the ruined veil slipped from her grasp.

This wasn’t the bride.

The groom’s expression darkened, and only then did she properly look at him.

“I knew something was off,” Jacqui muttered, stepping closer.

Nyla’s heart pounded violently as Alaric approached again. Bit by bit, she stepped back. Oh God, I’m going to die.

Alaric stopped right in front of her. His tone was harsh and laced with fury.

“I ask again, who are you?”

Nyla swallowed. Beads of sweat traced paths down her face; her mind searched for something, anything to say, but nothing came. Before she could think further—

A voice cut through everything. “Too noisy.” His voice wavered between anger and tiredness.

The entire hall stilled instantly, as if something unseen had pressed down and forced it into silence.

He stepped out of the shadows where he had been seated, a presence intentionally kept out of sight.

The moment he moved, something shifted, subtle yet undeniable. Conversations died before they could begin. Attention bent toward him without permission.

Each step he took was unhurried, the kind that didn’t need to announce itself because it was already known. The space in front of him cleared before he reached it. No one moved to stop him. No one dared. Not even Alaric, whose daughter had just been replaced.

Alaric stopped completely, his gaze locked onto the approaching figure. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. For the first time today, he waited. Not out of confusion, but calculation, because he knew that something about this man wasn’t to be handled lightly.

The space between them closed, causing her stomach to drop. Something in the air had changed. Even Alaric wasn’t pushing forth; that alone unsettled her.

Who was he?

Right before Nyla could recognize him, she felt it. That pull. The kind of presence she couldn’t explain. Her eyes widened in shock. No. It couldn’t be. But it was. He stopped in front of her. The man from her dreams. Except this wasn’t a dream.

He was real.

Close enough to feel, close enough that the world behind him seemed to fall away.

His gaze dropped to her face, like he had found something he had been searching for, and then it lifted. Locking onto hers.

Nyla swallowed hard at the sight of him. Memories from the dream rushed back all at once. The man in question felt too familiar, too perfect. His face was striking, like something carved from myth, the kind people compared to Greek gods they never truly believed existed.

And yet... he stood right in front of her. His eyes found hers, and just like that, her breath vanished.

His gaze held something. A quiet longing, as if he were taking in the sight of something he had searched for a long time.

Her chest tightened just from staring into his eyes. For a second—just a second—she saw it, hope. And beneath it... sadness. Then it vanished, like it had never been there.

The man tore his gaze away and turned to Alaric, his jaw set, eyes watchful as he stepped forward.

“You owe me an apology, Alaric.” The calm in his voice made it worse.

Alaric didn’t move at once. He held the man’s gaze for a moment before looking away, his fingers tightening around his walking stick, knuckles paling.

As if sensing Alaric’s hesitation, the man continued, “You called my bride an impostor, so I expect an apology.”