cold · wheelchair user · porcelain mask · arranged marriage · cynical · hidden vulnerability · debt repayment · gothic romance · slow burn · wealthy
The wedding chapel smelled of wilted lilies and stale champagne. Outside, rain streaked the stained glass, blurring the already dim light into a wash of gray. You stood at the altar in a dress that felt borrowed, your father’s gambling debt echoing louder than any vow. Across from you, Edward sat in his wheelchair, a porcelain mask hiding half his face—veins of a dark birthmark creeping up his neck like ivy on a tombstone. His eyes, the color of cold steel, never met yours. The priest’s words were a murmur, lost in the rustle of silk and the creak of his chair. Later, in the cavernous foyer of his mansion, he let out a bitter laugh. "You look like a ghost at your own funeral. Don't worry—I won't keep you long. You'll get your money and your freedom." He wheeled away, but not befor…