ASHES OF A PROMISE

chapter four

Liam's POV

I shouldn’t have gone to his room.

But rules were never made for me.

The reception had ended an hour ago, but the music still hummed faintly through the floors of the Deveraux estate. Guests staggered out, drunk on champagne and excess, all convinced they’d just witnessed the union of the century. A perfect wedding. A perfect bride. A perfect heir.

Perfect Ethan.

I rolled the last sip of whiskey over my tongue, leaning against the marble wall of the east corridor, just outside their suite. My brother was in there with his new wife, probably kissing her the way husbands are supposed to, touching her the way men are expected to on nights like these. And I should have left it alone.

But the thought of him playing dutiful husband made me grin. Because I knew the truth. Ethan wasn’t built for fairy tales. Not with the weight he carried. Not with me in the shadows of his story.

I didn’t go to congratulate him. I went because I wanted to see his mask crack.

The door opened. And there he was.

For a moment, we just stared at each other—two brothers, two sides of the same coin. His jaw tightened, that perfect composure of his slipping for the briefest second when he realized it was me. He looked pale, haunted, like a man already regretting the vows he’d spoken hours ago.

God, I loved it.

“Liam,” he said, voice clipped, controlled, but I heard the panic beneath it. “What are you doing here?”

I smirked. “Checking on the groom.”

The lie rolled easy off my tongue.

His bride appeared over his shoulder, radiant in silk and innocence, and her smile warmed the air. She welcomed me inside without hesitation, because of course she did. She didn’t know. She couldn’t possibly imagine.

But Ethan did. And that was enough.

I sat on the arm of a velvet chair while she chattered, asking if I had enough to eat, if I enjoyed myself at the reception. Sweet girl. Polished, gracious. The kind of woman our parents dreamed Ethan would end up with.

And he looked at her the way a husband is supposed to look—smiling, attentive—but I caught it. The way his eyes flicked toward me when she wasn’t watching. The way his fingers tightened around the glass in his hand as if it might shatter.

It was a silent language we had built over years. One glance, one movement, and I could read him.

The memory struck me then—years ago, in the study of our father’s house. Ethan nineteen, me twenty-one. He’d been furious about something, storming in, ready to fight me. But the fight turned into something else. Words turned into touches, anger bled into something darker. I remember the taste of whiskey on his mouth, the sound of his breath against mine, the way we crossed a line neither of us were supposed to.

He never forgave himself.

I never regretted it.

And tonight, I could see it in his eyes—the way he still carried it like a wound.

She excused herself to change, disappearing into the adjoining room, and the moment the door clicked shut, the air between us thickened.

“You look miserable,” I told him quietly, because it was true. His mask had slipped again, and I drank in the sight.

“Go home, Liam,” he muttered.

“Home is boring.” I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “This is more interesting.”

His chest rose sharply as I brushed my hand against his—just a whisper of touch, hidden in the space between us. He recoiled like I’d scorched him, jaw tightening, but his eyes… his eyes betrayed him.

“Stop,” he said, teeth gritted.

I smiled. “Tell me, brother. When you kissed her tonight… did you think of me?”

The muscle in his jaw ticked, and for a moment, I thought he might actually hit me. But then the door opened again, and she emerged—glowing, lovely, oblivious. Ethan stepped back, shoulders stiff, mask snapping back into place.

“Doesn’t she look radiant?” I said smoothly, voice innocent, eyes gleaming with the secret only Ethan and I shared.

She blushed, her hand brushing Ethan’s arm with such trust it almost made me laugh.

Because if only she knew.

Later, after I finally excused myself and left their suite, I walked the darkened halls of the estate, the night air cool against my skin. My footsteps echoed on the marble, but my mind replayed every second inside that room.

The panic in Ethan’s eyes.

The way he flinched from my touch.

The way guilt bled through him, raw and uncontainable.

He thought marriage would save him. He thought this woman—this pretty, perfect bride—would be enough to bury me.

But he’s wrong.

Because the more he tries to run from me, the more he’ll remember what it felt like when he didn’t.

This is just the beginning.

And I’ve never been patient with beginnings.

Isabella's POV

I used to dream of this night when I was a little girl. The gown. The vows. The kiss. The promise of forever. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I always pictured the ending credits of a fairytale rolling as soon as the bride and groom left the reception hand-in-hand.

No one ever tells you about the silence afterward.

The ballroom still rang in my ears—the applause, the music, the clinking of glasses—and yet in our suite it was so quiet that I felt my own heartbeat pulsing in my ears. I sat at the vanity, peeling jeweled pins out of my hair, my hands trembling with exhaustion and nerves. The weight of the day pressed into my skin like a second gown, heavy but sweet.

Behind me, Ethan leaned against the doorframe. He hadn’t said much since we walked into the room. The hush felt strange; the Ethan I knew always had some teasing remark, some playful smirk ready for me. But now, he just watched. His tie was loose, his hair falling in waves across his forehead, and his expression unreadable.

I caught his gaze in the mirror and smiled softly. We made it, I wanted to say. And I did. The words slipped out of me in a whisper: “We made it.”

He pushed off the door and crossed the room, his hand brushing my shoulder. Warm. Gentle. But there was something about his touch—a hesitation, as though he wanted to hold back even as he reached for me.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured. His voice was low, husky, but… different. Weighted.

I leaned into him, trying to melt the distance I could feel stretching between us. I kissed his palm before standing, letting the silk of my gown slide across the floor. “You’ve barely looked at me tonight.”

He gave a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been looking all night. You just didn’t notice.”

My heart swelled at his words, even though some part of me—the tiniest, most suspicious part—whispered that’s not true. I silenced it. Tonight wasn’t about doubt. Tonight was about beginnings.

When Liam had stopped by earlier, my stomach had twisted with something I couldn’t quite name. He had congratulated me, pulling me into a brotherly hug, his breath warm against my ear as he said, “You really do look radiant tonight, Isabelle.”

It had been innocent enough. But the way Ethan stiffened beside me wasn’t.

I brushed it off then, telling myself it was just brotherly banter. Liam had always been sharper around the edges than Ethan—playful, mischievous, with that smirk that could be either charming or dangerous, depending on his mood. But still… the look in his eyes lingered with me.

And the look on Ethan’s face lingered even more.

I shook the thought away as Ethan’s lips found mine. I wanted to drown in this kiss, to let it be proof of everything I wanted to believe. He loved me. He had chosen me. That was what mattered.

Later, as I slipped into silk, I caught him staring at me with something I couldn’t name. For a flicker of a second, I thought I saw guilt. Or maybe regret. But it was gone before I could hold onto it, replaced by that smooth, unreadable mask he sometimes wore in business meetings.

I crossed to him, wrapped my arms around his neck, and whispered, “You’re mine now. Forever.”

The words made me giddy, like a girl who’d stolen a secret. I kissed his jaw, breathing him in. His arms folded around me—warm, protective. And yet, there was still that sense that something between us wasn’t quite aligned. Like a song where one note is just slightly off-key.

I told myself it was nerves. Everyone warned me about the strangeness of the first night. About expectations pressing down too heavy. About how sometimes love didn’t look perfect in its beginnings.

I buried my face in his chest and smiled anyway. “I love you, Ethan.”

“I love you too,” he said.

The words were right. The tone was right. But a small, traitorous thought threaded through my head before I could stop it: then why does it feel like you’re so far away?

I pushed the thought down, deep enough to forget. Because tonight, I chose happiness. Tonight, I chose forever.

And forever, to me, still looked like him.