"GET DRESSED."
That's what he'd said—voice firm, eyes dropped to the floor. He couldn't look at her. Couldn't explain.
And somehow, that didn't surprise her.
It made sense now. He didn't want her. Not really.
She had tried to believe—when he undressed her, when he lit something deep inside her—that maybe, just maybe, he had wanted her too.
But he bent without a word, picked up the discarded lace dress, and shoved it toward her.
She caught it, fingers curling into the fabric, but her gaze stayed on him, steady and wounded.
"It's my wedding dress," she said quietly, "maybe you should treat it with a little respect".
He ignored her, and she didn't even notice that his hands were trembling.
"Put it on," he said, quieter this time. "Now."
His voice wasn't cruel, not even cold—it was shaken, like a man who had touched something sacred, or something cursed.
Mary stared at him for a long moment, then nodded, fumbled with the dress and slipped it over her head as fast as her fingers would allow. The lace scratched her skin, and her cheeks flamed with confusion and shame.
He had touched her. Then stopped, just like that?
Was it her freckles? Or the sweat?
"I can't… the buttons," she said quietly, turning her back to him, but she didn't hear him move, didn't hear the floor creak beneath his feet.
"I'll call the maids to help you," he said flatly.
Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the buttons. She hadn't even cried when he undressed her, but now—now that he had looked at her and turned away.
The sting crept in, slow and sharp, and she dropped her hands, leaving her back bare. She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud until her voice cracked in the silence between them.
"Do I… do I disgust you?"
What if she had done something wrong, and now he no longer wanted to marry her? That would only bring more scandal, more shame, more ruin to her name.
"McKenna, I'll obey your words without hesitation," she said suddenly, eyes wide with panic.
"Please don't send me back. They'll make me marry the old peer".
McKenna didn't answer.
He simply turned toward the door, his hand already reaching for the handle
"Come," he said, "I'll show you to your room".
The hallway outside was colder than before. She heard faintly the sound of crickets from the field, completely covered in mist. The firelight was dimmed, flickering weakly from lanterns perched on the walls.
Mary followed him in silence, her boots barely making a sound against the marble floors, but every sound echoed in her chest.
Every wind that caressed her bare back sent a shiver down her spine, thanks to her hair covering most part of her upper back and shoulders, not letting the cold intensify.
McKenna walked fast, not glancing back once, like he wanted to get away from her—
or worse, like he was afraid to be near her.
They stopped in front of a tall, ornately carved metallic door.
McKenna stepped aside, eyes dark as he looked at her.
"This is your room," he said. "Don't wander around."
Mary blinked, caught off guard by the cold finality in his voice.
He opened the door and stepped aside. But before she could ask anything, he shut it in her face, leaving her alone.
Mary turned slowly, her gaze drifting across the space. A small fireplace crackled softly in the corner. The bed stood wide, draped in plum-colored sheets, and thick velvet curtains hung over the window, already pulled shut.
Candlelight flickered from a single candelabra on the vanity.
An antique, oval-shaped mirror with a gold frame curved like thorned vines stood tall beside her. It was polished so finely she could already see her reflection in the dark glass.
She avoided it.
Sat on the edge of the bed and let out a shaky breath.
"Why did he stop?"
She had never been naked before anyone. Never been touched. She hadn't expected love—she knew how rushed everything had been—but she hadn't expected that look on his face.
Like she repulsed him. Just like how her parents used to look at her. Like they were scared. Disgusted. Like they never wanted anything to do with her.
"It doesn't matter," she said, shaking her head.
She had to remind herself—she'd done the best she could. She had escaped the old man who would've turned her into just another one of his mistresses. With McKenna, it was different. No matter how cold he was.
This wasn't a marriage of love.
Even though she had craved it, she knew… that only existed in fiction. In real life, women didn't have a say. They were handed husbands against their will.
And this—this was still more than most ever got. She should be grateful.
She exhaled loudly and stood up.
Crossed the room to a corner where her trunks had been placed, along with the rest of her belongings.
Mary squatted beside one of them and flipped it open with tired hands.
Mrs. Jenny had packed most of her things—especially the ones she loved. The thought of her made Mary's eyes sting, but she blinked the tears back and ran her hand through the contents.
The old blouse she adored was there. A worn-out book. A letter from Eloise she had never finished reading.
And then… something metal glinted under the dim candlelight.
She stood and moved toward it. It lay next to her other luggage.
Mary froze.
She pushed the truck aside with hurried hands, trying to get a better look.
"Oh," she gasped, her fingers hovering above the dark silver blade. "Oh, Mrs. Jenny."
With everything that had happened today, she'd almost forgotten about it. Mrs. Jenny must have tucked it into her belongings.
The little possession now resting in her hand made her smile. She brought the blade closer to her chest and exhaled.
It was a reminder of Aunt Em, even though she didn't know what it was, or where it had come from, it still felt like a piece of what was left of her.
Without warning, the curtains flapped, the wind howling into the room.
Mary stood, heart hammering, but she kept the blade clutched to her chest. The candlelight flickered under the force of the breeze.
She frowned. Maybe the servants had forgotten to close the windows.
As she moved toward them, she slowed beside the mirror, eyes narrowing at the restless curtains.
Her skin prickled with goosebumps, even though the fireplace crackled steadily, warming the room.
Then the wind stopped. The curtains stilled. So did the flame.
Get a grip. You're being silly.
She turned to face the mirror—then froze.
Her hand slipped from the blade.
Because the girl staring back at her… wasn't her.
She had long, black, shining hair, glossy lips, and dark eyes—wide, unblinking, watching Mary with an intensity that felt both sad and dangerous.
The girl tilted her head. Just slightly.
Mary blinked, her chest pounding with fear.
She stepped closer to the mirror, and in an instant, her reflection returned— amber eyes blinking back at her.
What… what was that?
She reached out and touched the glass with trembling fingers. It was cold—colder than the wind outside. So sharp, so biting, she snatched her hand back.
Mary let out a shaky sigh.
Maybe it had all been her imagination.
She turned toward the bed, where the blade lay on the floor, and bent to pick it up, gently brushing off the dust.
But what she didn't know…
Is that the girl had returned in the mirror, watching her, eyes narrowed briefly then vanished. Leaving just Mary's reflection.