Chapter 4

"Cancel the trip to Milan tomorrow for the gown fitting."

Vincent's voice was quiet but left no room for argument.

It was a trip we had planned six months ago, one I still had marked in color on my calendar.

The gown was a masterpiece, custom-made for me by a hundred high-coven artisans over several months.

Truthfully, even if he hadn't brought it up, I had no intention of going.

I had already given up on this so-called ceremony.

His saying so actually saved me the trouble of finding an excuse to refuse. It spared us both the effort.

"Alright," I answered calmly. "Fine. I'll have the steward inform the atelier in Milan. I don't want the gown anymore."

The moment I finished, Vincent was visibly taken aback. He clearly hadn't expected me to agree so readily.

He paused, his brow furrowing.

In his mind, I should have fought for this honor, a privilege reserved for the Princess Consort.

After all, when it came to anything related to our union, I was always the one most obsessed with details, down to the pattern of the lace itself.

"You're not... going to ask why?" he asked, his long, narrow eyes squinting.

"As the Prince wishes." My tone was ice as I turned to continue up the stairs.

"Our trip is canceled," he paused, then continued, "but the gown is not."

"It's Camilla. With her frail condition, she said she might never get the chance to wear a real wedding dress."

"I'm letting her try on the gown that was designed for you. It will fulfill her final wish."

"After she's gone, I'll have the workshop create a new, even better one for you from the finest wintersilk."

His tone was utterly matter-of-fact; he wasn't discussing it with me. He just needed his fiancée to nod obediently and indulge his so-called "ancient code of honor."

But he didn't know that for us, there was no 'after.'

I didn't even have the energy for a cold laugh. I lowered my eyes and said, "Fine."

"Elena, it's just a dress," Vincent called out from behind me. "You've always been understanding and generous. Don't be petty with her at a time like this."

Since I wasn't going through with this union anyway, he could give the dress to whomever he pleased.

Vincent stood there, staring at my back, his brow tightening.

I was too calm.

None of the soothing words and explanations he had prepared were needed. The feeling of punching at smoke left the controlling Prince with a flicker of irritation.

The next morning, as I descended the spiral staircase, Vincent was already dressed.

He adjusted his cufflinks while speaking rapidly, "After the fitting, Camilla's body will need to rest. I plan to accompany her to the Blood Springs in the Undercity on a retreat. It should help her through this last bout of weakness."

"As for the remaining arrangements for the Union Ceremony, handle them as you see fit. You have full authority. There's no need to inform me."

Again, I gave a faint, "Alright," too weary to offer anything more.

This Union Ceremony, the talk of New York's covens, would have no wedding gown, no crown, and no vows.

And, of course, no bride.

Vincent watched me drink my blood plasma, my expression placid. He hesitated.

Perhaps his conscience finally pricked him, or maybe he wanted to assuage some trivial sense of guilt. He added:

"After the ceremony, I plan to build a laboratory for you."

"You've always said you didn't want to give up your research, haven't you? I'll build you a bigger one."

"Also, the trip to Northern Europe, I've already arranged it. I remember you've always wanted to see the aurora borealis."

In the past, hearing the Prince who never wanted to leave his territory offer such a gesture would have made me ecstatic.

He had always looked down on my research, and I had begged him countless times to travel with me, only to be coldly refused with excuses like "I detest sunlight" and "It's unnecessary."

But this time, Vincent still didn't get the reaction he was hoping for.

Seeing he was running out of time, he could only say, "We'll talk when I get back."

I picked up a pen and viciously crossed out the words "Milan Gown Fitting" on the calendar.

Eleven days left.

I didn't rest. Instead, I began clearing the room of all my personal belongings.

For two hundred years, I had slowly filled the cold castle.

From the glass vials in the study where I formulated his Daylight Serum, to the dust-covered gramophone in the corner, to the matching silk robes in the closet that he had never once worn.

It seemed I had so many things, yet every single one revolved around Vincent.

But he had never used them, let alone cared.

If that was the case, then I would burn them.

Let it all turn to ash, along with my two centuries of foolish love.