The Throne of Broken Hearts

CHAPTER FOUR

Third person pov.

Henri.

Two weeks would pass in preparation. Two weeks of inevitability. A cousin’s wedding first, then his own. Henry said nothing. He did not . He could not. He walked round the castle and performed orders for the court as though nothing had changed but his hands had developed scars from his fingers constantly piercing his palms, a testament of his grief.

The morning arrived carrying a humid atmosphere, threatening rainfall. He wished that the rain would start earlier and sweep away the arranged bride who was already on her way but he had gotten news from Charles the night before that she had arrived safely at the borders of the village.

The dawn of morning brought anger and a cold, gnawing sadness. Thoughts of her—the one he could not have—clung to him like smoke. “ I have to see her… at least to inform her of my impending betrayal”. Henri wore a clock over his groom's attire and set for the north wing where she was. He thought she would not be awake but he was surprised when he met her in front of the vanity. He stood there for a while — contemplating decisions, suppressing grief and guilt.

“ I know you love the mirror ma chere but at least give the sun a chance to have a taste of what it's missing and besides the candles are crying for relief”, he crossed over to her bedside and sat on the stool”.

They faced each other for a moment and Henri through his studies over the years carefully identified the evasion from the eyes of Marie. She knows, he concluded as tense silence hung in the air between them.

“ Marie I…I” he started to explain

“ I understand mon cher, I'm unable …t… to do anything but be a burden and…”, her voice cracked as tears glistened in her already swollen eyes, a testament to her previous anguish. “I can't allow the court to take advantage of this incident to usurp your rights of the throne from you, you have to do this Count Henri”. She concluded with finality,her eyes dimming with unspoken burdens.

Henri blanched at her address for him. She had never called me by my title…. He wanted to speak but she had turned her back to him, The chapel bells chimed, he stood up and walked out of the chambers towards the Chapel.

Henri made his way to the chapel with the mechanical precision of a man following a script not written by him.

The ceremony was brief. Henri met the daughter of the Marquis he was supposed to get married to for the first time. Lady Éloise de Valnoir was more graceful than he had previously imagined, he could not help but notice her eyes like clear emeralds that seemed to suck in everything around it, her face clear and her expression placid and neutral as though she were not the bride in question of today.

She sat upright, composed, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the room. She did not look at him. He did not try to meet her eyes, barely taking cursory glances at her, nor did he seek warmth where there was none. He felt irritated at her distance, though it was merely formality that kept her reserved.

The vows passed, the words exchanged like coins: cold, obligatory. Henry noted each movement, each gesture, without meaning or desire to memorize them. The ceremony ended. The guests departed to their chambers, they had been informed to return for the celebratory dinner and right now only duty remained.

Now married, he had to share space with a stranger. A stranger whose name he would speak with obligation, whose presence reminded him of the cost of politics, the weight of expectations, and the absence of love he could not reclaim.

And for the first time that morning, he wondered if anyone could survive this without losing something essential, not that he would mind – he had already lost Marie, the bane of his existence.

Henri stood by the stone-mullioned lancet, his hand resting on the cold masonry.

Outside, the sky was bruising—a deep, sickly purple. The clouds didn't just move; they hovered over the jagged hills of Auvergne, heavy with the scent of ozone and the tension of a rain that refused to break. It felt like the weight of the crown—a storm held in place by a thread.

Eloise.

The first drop struck the glass like a pebble. Éloise didn't flinch. She watched from the same window where his shadow had just been, her breath fogging the pane.

The rain finally fell—not a drizzle, but a violent, cleansing downpour that blurred the world outside. She felt that same cold release deep in her chest; the clouds had finally broken, but her heart remained under the weight of the flood.

The wedding was over before she could even breathe. The count had left as though the ceremony had been nothing more than another chore, and she was left standing in a room that suddenly felt too large, too empty. Her maid guided her upstairs, murmuring apologies for the day’s chaos, but she could barely hear her.

Eloise changed quickly, the fabric of her dress heavy and suffocating even as she removed it. Then she lay down on her bed, pulling the covers close. She wanted a short rest, but not the soft, dream-filled kind—cold, deliberate rest, a pause from the betrayal she carried quietly.

She thought of him—her past—and wondered if he even knew how thoroughly her heart had been reshaped in a single morning. There were no tears, not yet. Only the quiet ache of disbelief.

Evening came with a summons she had no energy to resist.

The ceremony had gone as she had expected. She suspected that the count had no say in the issue of this marriage too and in all honesty that brought her a little relief. He might just let me go.

She thought as she pulled off the white silk gown she had worn for the wedding. It was hard to take off but she had sent the servants away and besides she needed something to take her mind off her predicament.

She thought back to the angular face of her new husband, they did not look at each other, she spoke her vows half-heartedly, her eyes looking through the rose windows of the chapel to the fields. But she could feel his indifference towards her and the lines that marred his lips as he had said his own vows.

At the dinner banquet, the count sat at his side of the table, the lines of anger sharp on his face. Eloise met his gaze briefly, no recognition, no apology, only the storm of fury she had expected. Perhaps even satisfaction at seeing the weight of sadness reflected in him.

Around them, the court whispered and laughed. On the women’s side, they praised their “perfect match,” noting how well the Henri and her complemented each other, and how naturally they

would produce heirs. On the men’s side, the same conversation swirled—calculations about alliances, the strength of the Montreval name, and the potential support he would secure now that the count was married.

Eloise said nothing, letting them chatter and scheme around her. She only watched, noting the way the count's jaw tightened as he considered each word, how his hands curled slightly around his goblet. The anger in his eyes was a shield she could not pierce, but she sensed, beneath it, the same restraint and sense of duty that had driven her own actions today.

By the time the meal ended, Eloise understood one thing clearly: she would need to learn the ways of the duchess—not for love, not yet—but for survival, for power, and for the future that had been thrust upon her. And if the count thought he could ignore the weight of their union, he was very wrong.

“ Lady Eloise, the Count seeks a minute please”, Eloise heard from the table as she excused herself from the table to retire to her chambers. She turned back to see him walking towards the balcony with his servant waiting for her a few steps away. She walks forward, trembling slightly in trepidation of their first conversation.