The Wrong Sister

The Morning After

A knock woke Arwen up.

She sat up, disoriented. Unfamiliar room. Then it all came back—the wedding, the vows, Caelum disappearing into his room through a door that stayed locked.

The knocking continued.

“Mrs. Ravencroft?” A staff member’s voice. “Mrs. Marcelline is expecting you for breakfast in twenty minutes.”

Mrs. Ravencroft. That was her now.

“I’ll be ready,” Arwen called out.

She dragged herself to the bathroom. Her reflection looked like hell with smudged makeup, scattered hair and eyes puffy from crying.

Twenty-five minutes later, she’d done the best she could. She pulled her hair back, applied minimal makeup and wore one of Isolde’s casual dresses.

She stepped into the shared sitting room of the master suite.

Caelum was already there, dressed in a suit, reading something on his tablet. He glanced up when she entered.

“You look tired.”

“Good morning to you too.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Not really. You?”

“No.” He set down the tablet. “My mother wants us downstairs, for breakfast and photographs. The press is calling it the wedding of the century, apparently.”

“Great.”

“You need to look happy about that.”

“I’ll try my best.”

They walked downstairs together, maintaining a careful distance.

The breakfast room was set up like a stage. Photographers positioned by the windows. Marcelline was already seated at the head of the table.

“Good morning, newlyweds.” Her smile was practiced. “I trust you both slept well?”

“Wonderfully,” Caelum lied smoothly.

“Excellent. We have a full morning ahead.” Marcelline gestured to the photographers. “First, some casual family photos for the society pages. Then we’ll discuss your schedule for the week.”

The next hour was performance. Smile here, stand there, look at each other like you’re in love, touch his arm, laugh at something he said.

Arwen’s face hurt from fake smiling.

Finally, Marcelline dismissed the photographers. “That should be sufficient. Now, Isolde, there’s something for you.”

A staff member appeared carrying a velvet box.

Marcelline opened it. Inside sat a tiara, diamonds and sapphires, clearly worth a fortune.

“The Ravencroft family tiara,” Marcelline said. “Worn by every Ravencroft bride for four generations. It’s yours now.”

She lifted it from the box and placed it on Arwen’s head.

It was heavy, really heavy.

“Beautiful,” Marcelline said. “One more photograph, for the family records.”

Arwen sat there, tiara weighing down her skull, while they took pictures.

When they were finally done, she removed it.

Marcelline returned the tiara to its box. “Now. Let’s discuss your first week as Mrs. Ravencroft.”

They sat at the breakfast table, poured coffee and ate food.

Caelum pulled out his phone. “I’ve had Simone coordinate your schedule with mine. Monday, you’re attending the Children’s Hospital Foundation luncheon. Tuesday...”

“Wait, Monday? That’s tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“I thought we’d have a few days to... I don’t know, adjust?”

“There’s no adjustment period in our world. You’re a Ravencroft now and that comes with obligations.” He scrolled through his phone. “Tuesday you have a fitting for the Charity Gala gown. Wednesday is the museum board meeting... you’ll need to review the acquisitions proposals beforehand. Thursday...”

“Can I write this down?”

He looked up. “You don’t have your phone?”

“I left it upstairs.”

“Simone will send you a detailed calendar. Check it out tonight.” He went back to his phone. “Friday is the Gala itself. There would be five hundred guests, and you’ll be expected to give a short speech about the foundation’s work.”

Arwen’s stomach dropped. “A speech?”

“Three minutes. Simone will write it. You just need to deliver it convincingly.”

“And Saturday?”

“Brunch with the extended family. Sunday is the only day you have free.” He set down his phone. “For now, at least. Once the merger is finalized, there will be more events.”

Arwen looked at Marcelline. “Is this normal?”

“For a Ravencroft wife? Yes.” Marcelline sipped her coffee. “You represent the family now. Every word you say reflects on us.”

“So I’m basically working full-time.”

“You’re fulfilling your role,” Caelum corrected. “The role you agreed to when you signed the contract.”

Arwen picked up her coffee. Put it back down. “And what if I mess up? What if I say the wrong thing at one of these events?”

“You won’t mess up. You were excellent at the press conference. You’ll be excellent at these events too,” Marcelline said.

“That was different. I was defending Caelum from that reporter.” Arwen gestured vaguely. “This is being on display constantly.”

“Yes,” Marcelline said simply. “That’s the job.”

Arwen looked at the tiara in its velvet box. And at the weight of it.

“The tiara is heavier than the crown of thorns,” she said. “At least Jesus only had to wear his for a few hours.”

The table went silent.

Marcelline’s eyes widened slightly.

Caelum stared at her.

Then... a sound, short and rusty. Like something that hadn’t been used in years.

Caelum laughed.

Not polite corporate laughter. Not a calculated response to a joke at a business dinner.

A real laugh. Surprised and genuine and completely unexpected.

Every staff member in the room froze. One nearly dropped a coffee pot.

Marcelline, standing in the doorway about to leave, stopped and turned. She raised one eyebrow like she was recalculating everything she knew.

Caelum caught himself. The laughter died. He cleared his throat.

“That was...” He stopped. Started again. “That was inappropriate.”

“Was it?” Arwen asked.

“Yes. You can’t compare a family heirloom to religious torture.”

“Why not? Both involve suffering for someone else’s agenda.”

His mouth twitched. Like he was fighting not to smile. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being honest.”

“Honesty isn’t always appropriate.”

“Then what’s the point of talking at all?”

Marcelline moved back to the table. Sat down slowly. “Isolde, I’ve known you for six months. I’ve never heard you make a joke like that.”

Arwen’s heart hammered. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

“Clearly.” Marcelline’s eyes were sharp. “Caelum, when was the last time you really laughed?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You just laughed at your wife’s joke. The staff is still in shock.” She looked at Arwen. “What did you do to him?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You made him laugh. In three years of business dinners and family gatherings, I’ve never seen him do that.” Marcelline leaned forward. “So I’ll ask again. What did you do?”

“I just... I made a stupid joke about a tiara. That’s all.”

Caelum stood abruptly. “I have calls to make. Excuse me.”

He left.

Arwen and Marcelline sat alone at the table.

“Interesting,” Marcelline said.

“What’s interesting?”

“You.” Marcelline studied her. “When you first arrived, I thought you were putting on an act or playing a role. But this...” She gestured to where Caelum had been sitting. “This is something else.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My son hasn’t laughed since his father died. Three years. Not once. He’s been cold and controlled, exactly what his father trained him to be.” Marcelline’s eyes narrowed. “But you just cracked that. With a silly joke about a tiara.”

“I didn’t mean to...”

“Don’t apologize. It’s the most interesting thing I’ve seen in months.” Marcelline stood. “Keep doing whatever you’re doing, Isolde. Or whoever you are.”

She left before Arwen could respond.

Arwen sat alone at the breakfast table, surrounded by staff who were pretending they hadn’t just witnessed something shocking.

She looked at the tiara in its box. At the schedule Caelum had outlined. At the week ahead of her filled with obligations and performances and keeping up this lie.

Then she thought about Caelum’s laugh.

Real and human.

And she realized she was in even deeper trouble than she thought.