Captivating The Impostor Bride

Congratulations

ASHTON POV:

The land, the legacy and the house was now all mine. I stood in the grand entrance, the air heavy and still.

I should have felt something. Anything. Pride, maybe. Grief. And responsibility most of all. But there was nothing at all. Just an empty space inside of me that nothing seemed to be able to fill.

The funeral was conducted earlier today. The faces, the murmured fake condolences, and the weight of their expectations— were all now engraved in my mind, drowning out the relentless weight of guilt i felt.

The expectations were for the head of the family which everyone had accorded that to me with their words and stares; they looked at me like I was the man to follow now. This title that came with so much power, and a suffocating responsibility, now sat on my shoulders, crushing me, and I still couldn’t bring myself to care.

The truth was, I didn’t deserve their trust. Not after what I’d done.

The truth that his death was on me was choking. My choices, my actions, had led to this. As I stood at the graveside, shaking hands with men who offered their loyalty and women who whispered their sorrow. My face was a mask, every movement carefully calculated to hide the storm raging in me.

And inside, I wanted to scream. To confess. To tell them the truth, that none of this should’ve happened, and I was the one to blame. But in this world, secrets are worth more than gold, and showing any form of weakness is like handing your enemies a loaded gun, digging your own grave. I’d kept my mouth shut because I had to, but it didn’t make the guilt any easier to bear.

I walked to the study, wanting to be alone and savage some peace with a bottle of whiskey.

I poured myself a glass and brought it to my lips, feeling the sharp burn of it go down my throat. It didn’t help—not really—but at least it served as a distraction. I carried the glass to the window, watching the gardens below.

My grandfather had loved those gardens. He used to walk among the flowers late in the night, under the stars. He didn’t know their names—I doubt he even cared—but he appreciated them in his own way. I could see him there now, hands clasped behind his back, moving slowly, amongst them. He used to say that the gardens reminded him there was more to life than business, more than power.

The memory was now biting. He was right, of course, but I’d been too blinded by ambition to listen. And now, it was too late.

I sipped the whiskey again, but it couldn’t drown the thoughts that came rushing in.

If only I’d stopped to think. If only I’d seen it for what it was.

I didn't. I’d acted on impulse, pride pushing me ahead when i should have let caution hold me back. And her... she was at the center of it all.

Taking her had seemed logical at the time. She was Alvarez’s daughter, the perfect bargaining chip. But the pieces still didn’t add. She’d been at the warehouse with the product, tucked away with her bag like she was planning to disappear with it. She wasn’t delivering anything for sure. She was running.

My grip around the glass tightened until it broke slightly and a sharp edge of the glass bit into my palm. The whiskey still somehow inside, i stared at the almost broken glass and all i could see was something that remidered me of myself; somehow filled up but broken,

I smashed the glass against the wall angrily, letting it shatter into a hundred jagged pieces and it's contents spilling; broken doesn't deserve to be filled.

My thoughts was a mess, each one darker than the last. Stupid. Reckless. Unforgivable. How the hell can I lead anyone when I couldn’t even look in the mirror without feeling disgust?

It always circled back to her. The girl. The one I’d taken without a second thought, like she was some pawn in a game. I told myself it was strategy, that it was about sending a message. But now, that justification felt as so stupid. She hadn’t deserved this. She hadn’t deserved any of it.

She was locked upstairs now, in a room that looked like luxury but was nothing more than a cage. And me? I couldn’t stay away, no matter how much I wanted to.

Before i could process another thought, my feet moved of their own accord, carrying me out of the study and up the staircase. I didn’t have to ask myself where I was going. I already knew.

The door to her room stood in front of me. I hesitated, my hand resting on the key in the lock. What was I even doing here? I couldn’t explain it, not to myself and certainly not to anyone else. But the pull i felt was stronger than my shame, stronger than my guilt.

I turned the key, and the lock clicked open. The door opened with a faint creak, revealing the dimly lit room. She was there, on the bed, asleep.

I just stood there, watching her. Her body was curled slightly, one hand resting near her face, the other over her stomach. The dim light softened her features and her breathing was slow and steady. She seemed at peace.

Which was something she wasn't allowed to have. It wasn't for her. Not in this house, with me.

Something shifted in my chest, something I didn’t want to name. I swallowed hard, trying to push it down, but it was still there, warm and insistent. It wasn’t anger—anger was something i knew well enough . It was something softer, something dangerous for the both of us. Compassion? No. I didn’t have that in me, not anymore. But the sight of her, so vulnerable, so unaware of the monster standing just a few feet away, stirred something I couldn’t control.

I stepped inside, quietly. The carpet muted my footsteps as I approached the bed. Then, without thinking, I lowered myself onto the edge of the mattress.

The bed shifted under my weight, but she didn’t stir. She was so close now, close enough that I could hear the sound of her breath, see the delicate rise and fall of her chest.

And then, the thought came.

It would be so easy.

My hand could cover her face, choke her. No pillow—I’d want to see her eyes. Watch as the realization of her her death dawned on her. Or I could make it quick. Twist her neck, in a single motion. Clean. Or the simplest option: retrieve my gun and end it all with one bullet.

I sat there, staring at her, waiting for her to wake up. The whiskey buzzed in my veins, but my eyes stayed fixed on her, tracing the faint rise and fall of her chest as she lay there, unaware of my presence.

And then, she stirred.

Her eyelids fluttered open, before her gaze wide-eyed in shock. The realization hit her like a slap, and she scrambled backward, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She clawed at the blankets, her fear raw, like a cornered animal.

I didn’t give her a chance to bolt. My arm moved on its own, taking ahold of her waist with a firm grip and pinning her in place. My other hand covered her mouth before she could scream. Her muffled cries were wild, her body stiff beneath mine.

“Stop crying,” I growled, my voice low and venomous. The sound of it startled even me. “I’m done with it. Do you think I want to hear your sobbing? Was it your grandfather who was buried today? Was it your family torn apart? What the hell do you have to cry about?”

She froze, her breathing erratic, her wide, tear-filled eyes locking on mine. Slowly, she stopped struggling, her body still trembling. I pulled my hand away from her mouth, though I didn’t let go of her waist.

“It’s over,” I spat. “He’s in the ground. Dead. Congratulations. We made it happen. We got him killed.”

She hesitated, her voice barely audible when she finally spoke. “I know it doesn’t mean anything, but I—”

“Don’t,” I cut her off, waving my hand dismissively. “Don’t waste your breath on apologies or excuses. They won’t fix anything. They won’t bring him back.” My grip around loosened slightly, though I didn’t move away.

I didn’t want to look at her, but my gaze lingered anyway.