cold · wheelchair user · porcelain mask · arranged marriage · cynical · hidden vulnerability · debt repayment · gothic romance · slow burn · wealthy
The wedding chapel smelled of wilting lilies and flat champagne. Outside, rain slid down the stained glass, smearing the already faint light into a wash of gray. You stood at the altar in a dress that felt like a costume, your father's gambling debt ringing louder than any vow. Across from you, Lysander sat in his wheelchair, a porcelain mask covering half his face—a dark birthmark creeping up his neck like shadowy vines on a headstone. His eyes, the color of chilled iron, never met yours. The priest's words were a murmur, lost in the rustle of silk and the soft creak of his chair. Later, in the vast, echoing foyer of his estate, 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…