Chapter 5: Fractured Vow

"Celine’s POV"

The wedding unfolded like a vivid dream stitched together with forced smiles and whispered cruelty.

I stood at the altar in a gown that felt like chains disguised as lace, my chestnut hair pinned tightly, pearls digging into my scalp. The Thornhart ballroom had been transformed into a lavish floral cathedral, but all I registered was the weight of every judging eye. Clara sat front row beside Xavier, her lips curved in vicious delight. As I walked down the aisle, she leaned toward a guest, voice carrying just far enough: “Look at her. Still playing the tragic victim. At least she’ll finally be useful as someone’s full-time caretaker.”

Her words sliced deep, reopening every wound from the gala. I kept my chin lifted, but humiliation burned hot in my chest. Xavier smirked beside her, his earlier betrayal still fresh and bleeding inside me. My parents watched with cold approval, having sold me off for shipping alliances and debt relief.

The vows passed in a haze. Lucien stood beside me, tall and lean in his tailored suit, performing his childish persona flawlessly. He giggled at inappropriate moments, rocked on his heels, and muttered nonsense to himself. Guests cooed sympathetically. “Poor boy… so fragile after that terrible accident.”

Then came the cake cutting.

Lucien approached the towering five-tiered creation with wide-eyed excitement until he saw it. Classic white with gold accents. His face twisted. Without warning, he shoved the entire table with shocking force. The cake toppled sideways in a spectacular crash, frosting and sponge exploding across the marble floor like wreckage.

“I wanted blue!” he wailed in that high, childish voice, stamping his foot dramatically. “Blue like the sea! This one is wrong! All wrong!”

Gasps erupted. Some guests laughed nervously. Clara’s sharp cackle rose above the chaos. “See? She’s getting exactly what she deserves. A tantrum-throwing man-child for a husband.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. Icing splattered the hem of my gown as I stood frozen beside the mess, mortified. Lucien clapped his hands and skipped in a circle, laughing that hollow, empty laugh. The mask never cracked. Not once. He remained the perfect broken heir the world expected.

The reception dragged on in a blur of pitying glances and forced congratulations. By the time we were escorted to the master suite, my nerves were frayed raw.

Mrs. Eleanor Hargrove waited inside, her silver-streaked bun neat, hazel eyes warm yet knowing. She dismissed the staff quietly and turned to me as the door clicked shut.

“Mrs. Thornhart,” she said gently. “I know tonight feels overwhelming. Master Lucien… he carries two different personalities inside him. One the world sees the playful, fragile boy who needs constant care. The other is quieter. Deeper.” She paused, choosing her words with care. “I’ve looked after him since he was young. He’s not dangerous, my dear. Just… complicated. Give it time. Everything is going to be fine. You are not alone here.”

Her reassurance should have steadied me. Instead, it only tightened the knot in my stomach. Two personalities? After the hallway incident, I wasn’t sure I believed anything anymore.

She squeezed my arm softly and slipped out, leaving me alone in the vast bedroom.

I needed to wash the day away with the cake, the stares, Clara’s laughter, the heavy ring now binding me. I stripped quickly, letting the wedding gown pool at my feet, and stepped into the marble shower. Hot water cascaded over my bare skin, steam filling the glass enclosure. For a fleeting moment I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through the storm inside me grief, rage, exhaustion, and a growing, terrifying awareness of the man I had just married.

The bathroom door opened without warning.

I froze, completely naked under the spray, water streaming down my breasts, stomach, and thighs.

Lucien stood in the doorway.

He was still in his wedding shirt, sleeves rolled up, exposing corded forearms. His steel-gray eyes locked onto me, no vacancy, no childish haze. They traced every inch of my exposed body with slow, deliberate hunger, darkening as they moved over the curve of my breasts, the water sliding down my stomach, the slick skin of my thighs. The mask was still technically in place; he rocked once on his heels but the performance felt paper-thin now. His breathing had changed, deeper, heavier.

My hands flew up instinctively, trying to cover myself, but it was useless. He had already seen everything. Heat flooded my face, a wild mix of shame, shock, and something darker, something electric that made my pulse thunder between my legs despite the fear.

“Lucien, get out!” I gasped, voice shaking.

He tilted his head, but the high childish lilt was strained. “Pretty mummy is all wet…” The words came out low, almost a growl beneath the pretense, vibrating through the steam-filled air. His gaze lingered shamelessly, possessive and unhurried, drinking in every naked curve as water continued to cascade over me. He took one slow step forward, the tension crackling like lightning between us.

I pressed back against the cool marble wall, heart racing wildly. The air felt too thick, too charged. Fear and unwanted heat warred inside me as his eyes continued their slow, possessive sweep over my bare body. He wasn’t touching me, yet every inch of my skin burned as though branded by that intense gray stare.

For one suspended, dangerous moment, the wolf beneath the mask stared back at me raw, powerful, and barely leashed.

Then his jaw tightened. The mask slammed back into place with visible effort.

“Oopsie!” he chirped, voice jumping into that hollow falsetto as he stumbled backward. “Mummy is naked! Lucien saw! Bad Lucien!”

He turned and fled the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

I slid down the wall, naked and trembling, water still pouring over me. My body buzzed with lingering heat and confusion. My mind spun with questions I couldn’t silence.

Who was Lucien Thornhart?

And how long could I survive being married to a man-child?