The following morning broke with pale gray skies and a chill wind that swept over Thornridge like a reminder—this estate remembered everything. Ghosts didn't need to wear chains when memories were enough to haunt the living.
Jasmine sat by the window in the east wing, staring out at the mist creeping through the hedges like a living thing. Her reflection on the glass was faint, a fragile silhouette inside a house built of secrets.
She hadn't seen Lucien since the confrontation with Elira. He hadn't returned to their shared room last night.
The ache in her chest wasn't love. It was something far more dangerous—hope. And hope, she had learned, was the most painful kind of illusion.
She stood when a light knock tapped on her door.
It was Claire, one of the Thornridge maids, holding a box.
"Mr. Thorn had this delivered to your room, ma'am. He said you'd need it for tonight."
Jasmine opened the box.
Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay an evening gown the color of crushed moonlight—silver-gray with a shimmer that caught the light like falling stars. Beside it, a note in Lucien's handwriting:
"Tonight is war. Wear armor that fits."
No signature. But he never needed one.
---
By the time twilight descended on Thornridge, the estate had transformed into something out of a royal opera. Chandeliers glittered in every hallway. Classical music drifted from the ballroom. Guests arrived in tailored suits and designer gowns, stepping over history as if it hadn't bled into the floorboards.
Jasmine descended the staircase slowly, her heels tapping against the marble, the gown hugging her frame like it had been sewn onto her skin.
Lucien stood at the bottom of the stairs.
He was breathtaking in black. His suit sharp, his tie the same silver as her dress. And for the first time, he didn't look like a man wearing a mask. He looked like a king standing in his ruins, proud and dangerous and alone.
When their eyes met, something in his expression shifted—barely. A flicker. But Jasmine caught it.
He offered her his arm. "You're late."
"You're always early."
They entered the ballroom together.
Heads turned. Whispers spread like fire through silk.
That's her—Jasmine Thorn. The artist. The one he married.
She doesn't belong here.
He never brings anyone to Thornridge. Not since...
Jasmine ignored them all. She smiled like the crown was hers and let Lucien guide her through the room like she was born to stand beside him.
But inside, she was unraveling.
---
Hours passed. Small talk blurred into cold champagne. Lucien disappeared to speak with investors. Jasmine found herself drifting toward the gallery corridor, where Thorn family portraits lined the walls.
One painting caught her eye—a boy of no more than ten, standing straight-backed beside a woman whose smile didn't reach her eyes.
Lucien. And his mother.
"She looks like she could cut glass with her cheekbones," Jasmine murmured.
"She could," came a voice beside her.
Lucien.
"I didn't mean to wander," Jasmine said.
"You're allowed to wander. You're my wife."
"Am I?"
He turned to face her. "Yes."
There was a pause. Then—
"She hated me, didn't she?" Jasmine asked softly.
Lucien didn't flinch. "She would've despised you."
Jasmine met his gaze. "Why?"
"Because you're not afraid of me."
"And that scared her?"
"It would've."
He stepped closer. His voice was lower now, carved from stone.
"She believed love was weakness. That softness bred failure. She told me, at eleven, that I would ruin this family if I ever fell in love."
Jasmine's breath caught.
"Have you?" she asked.
His eyes didn't leave hers.
"I don't know what love feels like," he whispered. "But when I see you with your paintbrush, or biting your lip when you read, or defending me in rooms full of knives—I feel something I was never taught to feel. And that terrifies me more than anything else."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Jasmine said, "You think love is a wound."
Lucien nodded. "Maybe it is."
She stepped forward. Rested a hand on his chest.
"But it's also the thing that stops the bleeding."
His heartbeat thundered beneath her palm.
He didn't kiss her.
He simply closed his eyes—and leaned his forehead against hers.
And for the first time, Jasmine felt it.
Not victory.
But cracks.
And through those cracks, something fragile beginning to bloom.
---