Break off Engagement after Fiancé Recovered

“Smile, Sepharine. Everyone’s watching.”

Lady Walfson’s whisper cut like the frost threading through the manor’s stained-glass windows. Sepharine obeyed, tilting her lips into something soft—pliable.

“I’m trying,” she murmured, fingers trembling around the tea tray.

“Try harder. You’re his wife now. Or have you already forgotten?”

Across the ballroom, Draven Walfson sat like a specter in a velvet-lined wheelchair, arms rigid, jaw locked. His silver hair had been combed to perfection, but nothing could polish the fury burning in his storm-gray eyes. He didn’t look at her. Not once.

“Why isn’t he drinking?” Lady Walfson snapped. “You brewed it exactly the way he likes it?”

“I crushed the fireleaf myself,” Sepharine replied softly. “It’s still warm.”

“Well, he needs to *see* that.”

Swallowing, Sepharine moved across the ballroom. The music faltered. The air cracked with whispers.

“That’s the bride?”

“A maid, can you imagine?”

“She must’ve caught him in some compromising position.”

“I heard he’s not even—”

Draven’s voice sliced through the noise.

“Say it louder. I dare you.”

Silence dropped like a blade.

Sepharine reached him, kneeling without comment. She held up the tea. “I thought it might help,” she said gently. “You used to like it after your patrols.”

He stared at her. Not the cup. Her.

“Is this gratitude, Sepharine?” His voice was low. “Or pity?”

“Neither,” she whispered.

He took the cup but didn’t drink. Instead, he held it midair, eyes never leaving hers. “Then tell me why you said yes.”

She hesitated. The truth was simple. Unbearably so.

“Because you once carried me out of a burning stable when no one else remembered my name.”

He blinked.

“And because I love you.”

His fingers twitched. The tea cup clinked faintly against its saucer.

“I never asked for your love.”

“I know.”

He handed the cup back. “Then don’t expect mine.”

She bowed her head. “I won’t.”

A pause. His voice, laced with mockery, was soft enough only she could hear.

“Do you think this makes you noble? Enduring a broken man to feel worthy?”

“I think,” Sepharine said, meeting his gaze, “that you’re not broken. Just furious that no one stayed.”

His jaw clenched.

Lady Walfson appeared like a shadow. “Guests are waiting for the toast.”

“I have nothing to toast,” Draven said coldly.

“You have a wife,” she hissed.

“I didn’t choose her.”

Sepharine stood. “It’s fine. I’ll toast for both of us.”

Gasps echoed. Lady Walfson went pale.

Sepharine raised the untouched tea toward the chandelier. “To beginnings. Even difficult ones. May they teach us what endings never could.”

A few reluctant claps. Then quiet.

Draven watched her the entire time, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes. He said nothing.

Later, when the guests began filtering out, Lady Walfson turned to Sepharine.

“You’ll need to move into his wing tonight.”

“I understand.”

“Don’t expect affection. Only duty.”

Sepharine nodded, voice barely a breath. “I never expected anything.”

She walked the hall alone, past portraits of alphas and warriors. Her footsteps were quiet, her spine straight.

Behind her, Draven crushed the tea cup in his lap.

And for the first time in weeks, he whispered her name.

“Sepharine.”