Chapter 4: Romance Is Dead.
Dahlia
I wake up with my mascara crusted to my lashes and my spine aching from sleeping in a corset. Glamorous, right? Nothing screams ‘blissful bride’ like back pain and raccoon eyes. Even my thoughts feel hungover. The rose petals on the bed haven’t moved. Of course they haven’t. For one stupid second, I’d hoped maybe someone had. It’s not like anyone joined me in bed and lifted the sheets on the other side to shake them off.
My husband isn’t romantic enough for that, but since he cheated, I am grateful he didn’t come here to cuddle with me. He would have carried her scent.
The one belonging to Isolde.
I look in the mirror on the other side of the room. There’s lipstick all over my face. I should’ve wiped it off before collapsing last night, but I had more pressing things to do, like trying not to shatter into pieces. Can’t believe I got married off to a cheater.
A knock comes at the door. It’s polite. Practiced. One of the maids. “Lady Thorne? Lady Liora requests your presence for breakfast.”
Oh, joy. Breakfast with the woman who despises me and the man who’s probably still sweaty from cheating. The real honeymoon experience. I want to laugh. When did my life start feeling like a joke everyone else is in on?
“I’ll be down soon,” I shout back.
There are six women seated by the table when I arrive, including Liora at the head. She is sitting there like she’s holding court and not a casual brunch. Adrian is nowhere in sight. But Isolde? She’s right there beside Liora. Smug in expensive clothes that I’m sure my husband bought for her.
He must be her sugar daddy.
I sit down in front of them, wearing a simple blue dress one of the maids found in a guest closet. My hair is tied back because I didn’t have the energy to do more than brush it. I look like I crawled out of a coffin.
“Dahlia,” Liora says, sipping her tea. “You look pale. Are you well?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
Isolde tilts her head. “First nights are always the hardest.”
“I wouldn’t know.” I smile, saccharine sweet. “Last night was quite... uneventful.” I’m not going to reveal that I know where my husband was.
Liora’s brow lifts like she can tell I’m throwing shade, but she says nothing. She just cuts into her fruit with the precision of a woman who’s probably considered stabbing someone with a butter knife before.
Liora dabs the corner of her lips with a linen napkin. “I suppose it takes time to... acclimate. We don’t expect every girl to take over Luna duties naturally.”
“We would never,” Isolde adds, feigning sympathy. “Some girls are more... delicate than others and don’t fit the role of Luna.”
I arch a brow. “Good thing I’m not delicate, then.”
“No,” Liora says, voice smooth. “You’re quite the... political choice.”
My fingers dig into my thigh under the table. I’m not even sure I’m angry anymore. Just tired.
“Still,” Isolde continues with a fake smile, “I do admire the courage it takes to step into such a public role with no prior experience. It must be... intimidating. Your father never let you help him rule your pack, right?”
“No, he didn’t, but the Luna position doesn’t frighten me,” I match her smile. “Once you realize no one here actually wants you as their Luna, it’s quite freeing. I don’t have to think too hard about politics, decisions, or what I say. People will dislike me regardless.”
Neither of them says anything. It’s like the words sucked the air right out of the room. Liora blinks once, slowly. Isolde’s jaw tightens.
Good, I won this round.
Adrian arrives ten minutes late, hair still damp from an early morning shower, tie undone. He walks behind me and kisses the top of my head like we’re in love and not a badly written soap opera.
“You look tired, darling,” he says. “First night nerves?”
My fingers curl around my fork. “Oh, just dreams of being stabbed in the back. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
His smile falters. Isolde hides her laugh behind a sip of orange juice.
I escape the brunch before I snap. I find myself wandering the west wing. It’s quiet and cold, with tall windows that let in just enough light to remind you this house has no warmth.
And then I see him.
Alaric.
Standing at the far end of the corridor, talking to no one, doing nothing. Just existing like a shadow you can’t scrub off.
Our eyes meet. For a second, neither of us moves.
Then he walks toward me slowly. I brace myself. My heart doesn’t get the memo of pretending he isn’t a thorn in our side and starts hammering again. Reacting to him in ways I don’t want.
All I can think of is, if I had married him instead... would he have cheated on me too? Would he have kissed another woman in the hallway on our wedding day and smiled like it meant nothing?
Probably. Men are all the same, aren’t they?
Pigs.
But still, even with my hatred in mind, the way Alaric looks at me stings, and what’s worse is that my wolf is whining.
She wants him. Maybe I do too.
“You look like you haven’t slept,” he says.
“Neither have you,” I shoot back. “Must be a Thorne family tradition.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t scowl. Just studies me like I’m a problem he doesn’t want to solve, but can’t stop examining.
“Are you alright?” he eventually asks.
“No,” I say. “But I’m excellent at pretending that I am.”
His lips curl upwards, but the smile doesn’t stay. “You’re good at that.”
And for a second, the silence between us feels... easy. Natural. Like we have been doing this for years.
I don’t like that.
Because I don’t want to like him.
And then he leaves.
Because that’s what Alaric Thorne does. He appears, says one thing that cuts deeper than it should, and disappears to let you bleed. And the worst part is, I wish he had stayed.
I go back to my room and sit on the bed. The rose petals are on the floor like a sick joke now.
Why didn’t the maids clean them away?
I grab the notepad from the bedside table and start writing a letter to my father. I pour everything out. The cheating. The way I feel like a ghost in silk. The way Alaric looks at me like I matter and how it ruffles my fur.
I write to him that I have a fated mate, but that I’m married to someone else.
I stare at it for a full minute, fingers trembling over the envelope. Then I rip it into pieces and flush them down the toilet.
Then I walk over to the door, lock it, and crawl into bed fully clothed.
Adrian knocks a few hours later, probably to ask what I’m doing in bed when it’s not even late. I don’t care. I don’t even speak. Instead, I press my face to the pillow and pretend I’m asleep.
If Adrian joins me, I won’t move. If he touches me, I will cry silent tears and wish for it to be over. Hopefully, he decides not to have sex with his sleeping wife because the last thing I want is to be intimate with my cheating husband.
I tuck my knees to my chest and pretend the blankets are armor. I don’t want comfort. I want distance. From him. From this bed. From everything I thought marriage would be. But mostly, from the part of me that still hoped for something real.
That hurts the most.
Dahlia, the innocent child that I was before my mother died, she wanted romance. She watched Disney movies and dreamt of a husband and kids of her own. She wanted a family. But now I’m beginning to realize that fairy tales are just that, fairy tales.
Romance is dead.