Eriyana Mireille
My knuckles were white on the hem of my gown.
My soul screamed louder than the music.
I gripped the fabric so tightly I could feel the seam groan beneath the strain. My legs locked—rigid, unyielding—despite the frantic commands firing through my brain. The world around me blurred: laughter, music, clinking crystal flutes. But all I could hear was the war drum in my chest, pounding a single demand:
Run.
A gentle nudge from behind broke my paralysis.
I inhaled—sharp, shallow, uneven—and forced a step forward.
Above me, the chandelier blazed like a thousand cruel suns. Even through the thick lenses of my glasses, the light shattered against my eyes like glass needles. My lashes fluttered. I looked down. My spine curled inward, shrinking from every invisible stare that felt like a bullet.
This wasn't bridal jitters.
This was survival.
Crowds. People. Eyes.
Too many.
Too much perfume clinging to too much air.
Too much of me on display.
Their glances carved across my skin like razors. I feared the smiles that undressed, the golden-rimmed glasses that hid contempt. The smirks that whispered:
You don't belong here.
I feared being seen.
But I walked anyway.
The scent of vintage wine and blooming roses coiled in the air—sweet poison in velvet gloves. Each breath I drew tasted expensive and wrong. I wasn't meant for this world. I didn't fit into these dresses, these chandeliers, these nameplates etched in gold.
Each step felt like trudging through syrup—slow, suffocating, unreal.
My heart didn't beat; it clattered.
My gown didn't flow; it clung—tight and warm like dread dressed in silk.
Heads turned. Polished smiles faltered. Conversations snapped like brittle twigs underfoot.
This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.
My wedding reception.
And all I wanted was to disappear.
> "That's her?"
> "She's… not what I imagined."
> "Is she even fit to be his wife? Who wears glasses at their own wedding?"
> " Mrs. Eriyana Thronwell. The new Mrs. Thronwell. Lucky girl. Anyway."
The name sliced through the din like a whip.
Mrs. Eriyana Thronwell.
A title inked on parchment like a scar. A future I signed without a voice.
A stranger's wife.
D. Alaric Thronwell.
My husband. The man behind an empire of frost and fire. Untouchable. Unreadable. Unfathomable.
I'd never met him. Never heard his voice.
The contract had arrived with his name already inked—waiting like fate written by someone else's hand. All I had to do was obey.
And I did.
Because Grandfather always said:
> "A woman should never ask for more than what she's given."
So I didn't.
I kept my voice soft. My eyes lower. My expectations lowest.
But tonight—even silence scraped against my throat like thorns.
I bit my lip until I tasted blood. My hands trembled. My breath caught in threads I couldn't see.
I lifted my head and scanned the ballroom.
Looking for the man I'd married.
A man I'd never seen.
Surely he'd come.
Surely he'd recognize me.
And then—
My gaze landed on someone.
My pulse flatlined. My temples pounded.
The entire room dissolved into nothing but him.
Across the ballroom.
Seated. Still. Timeless.
A wine glass rested in his hand like it belonged there, like he belonged here.
And my body—froze.
No.
It couldn't be.
That face—cut from stone and shadow. That stillness—too precise, like it was practiced by gods.
The chandelier sculpted light across his features.
And time—
Unraveled.
Panic hit like a wave—ice first, then fire. My breath stuttered. My skin flushed and chilled in the same instant.
Why was he here?
Why now?
My thoughts scattered. The room tilted. My mind clawed for memory, reason—escape.
Had he come to ruin me, again?
Breath choked me like a collar too tight to scream through.
And then my lips—betrayed me.
> "Darian…" I breathed, barely audible. A sound woven from frost and disbelief.
And then,
His eyes snapped to mine.
We didn't blink.
Not him. Not me.
The world dissolved into silence.
Just two gazes locked in a ballroom made of glass and shadows.
His stare hit like lightning—cold, precise, unforgiving. And beneath it—recognition. Or something hauntingly close.
He didn't look through me.
He looked into me.
My fingers curled. My knees whispered collapse. The edges of the world bled into blue.
That face. That stare. That gravity.
And only him.
The same—and yet not.
Sharper. Sculpted by time and absence.
He wasn't a boy anymore.
He was a kingdom.
He looked at me like I was air—essential, unseen.
Like he'd never known me.
Like I was nothing.
But I felt it between us.
That pulse.
That tether.
Something not quite dead.
I didn't breathe.
I took one step back.
Too late.
I should've run.
I should've vanished into some shadowed corner of the night.
And then—
He stood.
And walked toward me.
The crowd parted for him like sea before storm. Shadows scattering from fire.
Every step echoed like scripture—measured, silent, absolute.
He didn't smile.
He didn't speak.
He just came.
> "Congratulations, Alric!" someone called. A group of men broke his path, laughing, clapping him on the back.
Maybe colleagues. Maybe friends.
Laughter. Champagne. Camera flashes like lightning.
I blinked hard, as if clarity would fix this.
People swarmed him like satellites to a star. Admiring. Revering.
Alric.
They called him Alric.
But every bone in my body whispered:
Darian.
He was Darian.
Wasn't he?
> "Excuse me, gentlemen," he said with effortless charm. "My wife is still waiting."
The smile he gave them was smooth—elegant, deadly.
His voice, deeper than I remembered. Velvet layered over steel.
He turned back toward me.
The smile was gone.
He walked again.
Straight to me.
And the air shifted.
My chest tightened. My vision wavered. I couldn't move.
Couldn't look away.
He stopped in front of me—close enough to breathe the same tainted air, far enough to steal the breath from my lungs.
His gaze didn't flicker.
His presence devoured the room.
He smelled like leather and cold nights. Like secrets too heavy to speak.
He offered his arm.
Polished. Controlled. Formal.
Like everything else about him.
And I knew—
The man I had just married—the man the world hailed as Alaric Thronwell—looked exactly like the boy who once made me believe I was more than enough…
And then made me feel like I was nothing.
Now, he looked at me like I was no one.
No flicker.
No memory.
No warmth.
Did he forget me?
Or was forgetting always part of the plan?
But I didn't forget him.
Believe me, I tried.
God, I tried.
But some ghosts live too deep in the blood.
And maybe—
Maybe that was the cruelest part of all.