2. The wrong bride .

Camille’s POV

“Stand still, Miss Camille.”

By the time the third person pinned my veil into place, I had stopped feeling like a bride.

The women hired to dress me moved around the room silently, adjusting lace and smoothing silk against my skin.

“Done,” one of the servants murmured quietly.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

The veil covered most of my face, softening my features beneath layers of ivory lace. For a brief second, I didn’t even recognize myself. Maybe that was the point.

The bedroom door opened behind me. My mother entered first, perfect in an elegant navy dress, while my father followed closely behind her. Neither of them looked emotional enough to be giving away a daughter today.

Beatrice’s eyes swept over me before nodding once.

“Good. The Harrison's are already waiting.”

I swallowed hard. “Where’s Mabel?”

A strange silence filled the room for half a second.

My mother recovered first. “She’s resting.”

Something about her answer felt rehearsed.

Before I could think too deeply about it, Arthur stepped toward me impatiently.

“We’re already late. Move.”

The drive to the courthouse passed in silence.

My wedding bouquet rested on my lap, the white roses trembling slightly because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The courthouse stood tall and gray against the Manhattan skyline when we finally arrived. Reporters crowded outside the entrance barriers, cameras flashing immediately.

“Smile,” my mother hissed quietly beside me before stepping out.

I couldn’t. My legs felt numb beneath the heavy dress as I climbed out after her, flashes exploding around me.

“Miss Summers!”

“Where’s Mr. Harrison?”

“Camille!”

I froze slightly at the sound of my own name. For one terrifying second, I thought everything was about to collapse. Then my father’s hand wrapped tightly around my arm.

“Keep walking,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

Inside, the courthouse felt cold. Marble floors. White walls.

I saw him before he saw me. Tall, broad shoulders, his black suit slightly wrinkled like he hadn’t slept properly.

Even from across the room, power radiated off him effortlessly. But his face caught me off guard.

Asher looked exhausted. His jaw tense and even from several feet away, I caught the unmistakable scent of whiskey.

He’d been drinking.

We were ushered quickly into a private courtroom where a judge waited beside stacks of paperwork and everything happened too fast after that.

Questions, signatures, instructions. My heartbeat pounded so loudly I barely heard half of it.

“Please join hands.”

I froze.

Asher finally turned toward me fully. His eyes were darker than I expected—sharp, intelligent, and tired. My hand trembled as I reached toward him. Then, without a word, his fingers closed around my wrist steadily, like he thought I was nervous., like he was trying to calm me.

Does he know it's me?

“You may proceed with the vows,” the judge said.

I repeated the words, my voice barely above a whisper beneath the veil. Asher’s came lower, rougher. But when it was over, he still didn’t look closely enough to realize the woman beside him wasn’t Mabel.

By the time we left the courthouse, reporters were screaming questions outside again while security hurried us toward black SUVs waiting near the curb.

Everything blurred together after that, the penthouse, the champagne, the congratulations from strangers.

All I remembered was exhaustion and Asher drinking, glass after glass. By the time we reached the penthouse suite prepared for the wedding night, he was already visibly intoxicated.

Asher loosened his tie slowly before dragging a tired hand down his face. “You’ve been quiet all day,” he muttered.

I couldn’t answer. The man standing in front of me thought he married someone else, and one wrong word could destroy everything.

Asher walked closer. And up close, he smelled like expensive whiskey and cedarwood. “You nervous?” he asked quietly.

I swallowed hard beneath the veil. “Yes.”

A tired huff of amusement escaped him. “Mabel Summers nervous,” he muttered. “That’s new.”

He reached up slowly and pushed the veil back from my face. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

My entire body locked instantly, but his eyes were unfocused from alcohol. He wasn’t seeing me properly. His fingers brushed lightly against my cheek before dropping away.

“You’ve been crying.” I looked down quickly. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve always been a terrible liar.”

When he pulled me closer, the heat of his body burned through the silk of the dress. He kissed me slowly, his lips tasting of whiskey.

I knew this tenderness was stolen, yet I couldn't pull away. I wanted to be held so badly, even if it was under a false name.

Asher lowered me onto the bed gently. The room was dim, lit only by the city lights reflecting off the glass walls. He pressed his forehead against mine, his breathing rough. “Mabel…”

My eyes burned immediately. I bit my lip to keep myself from sobbing.

What was I supposed to say?

No, you married the wrong sister?

Tears slid silently down my cheeks as Asher kissed me again, unaware I was quietly falling apart.

I closed my eyes tightly as he pulled me into his arms, sealing our marriage.

After taking up in more than three rounds, Asher stirred slightly beside me, and his hand found my waist, pulling me closer against him.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured tiredly. "I tried to be gentle." He added, before plastering a kiss on the back of my neck.

Don't cry?

How was I supposed to tell him, he was the reason behind my tears?