CHAPTER 03

The wedding day, nearly two weeks later, had arrived.

In the sumptuous dressing room, Bianca looked at herself in the mirror. The white dress, immaculate and expensive, seemed like a cruel mockery of the purity it represented. Her eyes, framed by contained tears, were pools of desperation. The knot in her throat wasn't from bridal excitement, but from terror. She was about to marry the man she secretly loved and who now despised her more than anyone else.

She was about to become her sister's replacement.

Suddenly, a figure was reflected in the mirror behind her. Bianca held her breath, her heart beating fiercely. It was him. Eric Harrington. Dressed impeccably in a dark morning coat, his presence was imposing, almost overwhelming. His eyes, shards of blue ice, locked onto her through the reflection, and a wave of cold swept down the back of her neck, raising goosebumps from head to toe.

"Eric," Bianca uttered, her voice barely a sigh of trapped air.

He moved with deliberate slowness, positioning himself directly behind her. Bianca almost died of fright. She felt his scent—his expensive, woody perfume—enveloping her, his towering height casting a shadow over her. The imperious pounding of her heart stopped completely when she felt Eric's cold breath brush against her earlobe.

"You will never be like her, Bianca," he whispered, his voice low and loaded with calculated cruelty. "I won't touch you, I won't consider you anybody. I will remind you every day why it should have been you and not her."

Bianca trembled uncontrollably as Eric finished speaking those words. Her mind refused to process the magnitude of her torment. With a feigned gentleness that sent shivers down her spine, Eric reached out a hand and placed a pendant around her neck. It was a gold rose, intricately designed, but with thorns that seemed to jut out menacingly. The symbolism was brutally clear.

She turned to face him, their bodies coming dangerously close, their gazes locked. The air between them vibrated with electrical tension.

"I never wanted to be your wife," Bianca growled between teeth, her voice barely audible but loaded with desperate fury.

Eric leaned in even closer, his face inches from hers, his gaze traveling from her pleading eyes down to her trembling lips, as if wanting to relish her vulnerability.

"Then why are you avoiding my gaze?" he whispered, a cruel mockery dancing in his eyes. "Why is it so hard for you to speak in front of me? You've always been like this, Bianca. A fool."

The urge to cry washed over her, a torrent threatening to ruin her elaborate makeup. Bianca clenched her fists and held it together, her face hardening into a mask of empty defiance. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her broken. She wouldn't give him the pleasure of ruining her "big day."

Eric let out a dry, humorless laugh and left the room without another word, leaving Bianca alone with the echo of his cruel words. Bianca stared at the pendant on her chest—the rose with thorns. Why would he give her something so heavy with symbolism, something that screamed his contempt?

The ceremony took place in a grand hall, packed with people who seemed oblivious to the farce unfolding before them. Bianca walked down the long aisle, hanging onto the arm of her father Bruno, who for the first time in weeks seemed to be fulfilling his role, though his grip was formal, not affectionate. At the end of the aisle, Eric waited for her, his face an impenetrable mask of cold elegance.

When her father handed her hand over to Eric, he took it with false gentleness—a calculated caress promising torment. They spoke their vows—hollow words, empty promises—before the watchful eyes of everyone. The officiant declared them husband and wife, and a roar of applause filled the place, a chorus of congratulations that felt like a mockery. Bianca felt slightly dizzy, a vertigo she attributed to having eaten nothing all day, anxiety eating away her appetite.

Suddenly, Eric leaned toward her, his warm breath against her ear, but his words were pure ice.

"You'll regret saying 'I do,' impostor," he whispered, his voice so low only she could hear it, yet loaded with a lethal dose of contempt.

Contempt was evident in every fiber of his being, in every tense muscle of his jaw. And yet, in front of everyone, Bianca had to pretend that everything was fine, that she was a happy, joyful bride. A smile formed on her lips—an empty grimace that only her soul ached from, a promise of a personal hell that had just begun.

The wedding banquet was an endless farce. Bianca kept a fixed smile on her face—a painful grimace only she could feel. Eric, beside her, was a marble statue, expressionless, barely throwing her a glance. The toasts, the dances, the congratulations: everything felt distant, unreal, as if she were watching a play where she was the forced protagonist. Fatigue consumed her—a tiredness that went beyond the physical.

Finally, night descended upon everyone, and with it, the most dreaded moment.

When Bianca found herself in the bridal suite, an opulent and dazzling space decorated with fresh flowers and dim lighting. The king-size bed, adorned with silk sheets and rose petals, looked like a trap. Bianca felt tiny and insignificant amid so much luxury.

She waited. Every minute that passed was an eternity. The silence of the room was deafening, broken only by the racing beat of her own heart. Would he come? Would he fulfill his threat not to touch her, or would his cruelty go even further? Uncertainty was a slow poison. The wedding dress felt heavy—a white shroud suffocating her. She stripped it off with trembling hands, unbuttoning the hundreds of buttons, and slipped into a silk bathrobe she found hanging in the closet.

Hours later, the clock hands struck midnight, then one, then two... There were no knocks on the door, no sound of approaching footsteps. Only silence—cold and absolute. To her relief—or perhaps her misfortune—Eric did not show up. Loneliness settled into the room, a bitter companion.

She slipped beneath the freezing sheets of the bridal bed.

Time passed slowly in the desolate bridal suite. Bianca, exhausted and mentally tortured by the memories of the funeral and Eric's hurtful words, lay awake in bed.

That was when she heard it. A sound barely perceptible at first, but one that made her heart race: slow, dragging footsteps in the hallway. They stopped right outside the door of the suite. Bianca held her breath, her muscles tensing to the point of pain. The doorknob turned with a slight creak, and the door swung open in the dark. A tall, swaying silhouette became visible against the faint light filtering in from outside. It was Eric.

"Why did you come?" she whispered.

His presence, even in that vulnerable state, remained imposing. The aroma of alcohol and his expensive perfume floated in the air, dense and intoxicating, mixing with the smell of desperation Bianca felt.

"Damn it," he hissed, nearly stumbling.

Eric didn't turn on the lights. His steps were heavy, unsteady as he approached the bed in the gloom, tripping slightly on something invisible. Bianca froze, terror paralyzing her completely.

She felt the mattress sink beside her, and a chill ran down her spine. Eric had climbed into bed. The icy breath that had promised he wouldn't touch her now felt like a blazing fire against her skin.

Then, his hands, warm and clumsy from drunkenness, landed on her waist, brushing against the silk of her robe. A mute gasp escaped Bianca's throat. Her heart, already beating wildly, began to hammer out of control against her ribs, threatening to burst from her chest.

Eric moved, his body heavy and awkward from the alcohol, and she felt his warm breath on the back of her neck.

"Aitana..." Eric murmured, his voice slurred and nearly unintelligible—a muffled wail. "Why...? No... don't leave me..."

His words were confused, fragments of a pain he couldn't articulate, but which Bianca understood perfectly. He was calling for her—for Aitana.

Then Bianca knew that, no matter how hard she tried, that man would never look at her the way Eric once looked at Aitana.

Suddenly he spun her around, and she found herself facing his face.

"I'm not desperate enough to make you mine," he spat amid his drunkenness, before turning his back and leaving his broad, muscular bare back exposed.

Bianca froze; not even winter was as cold as Harrington.