The rain hadn't stopped since the ceremony.
It drummed against the tall windows of the Vance penthouse like a warning steady, relentless, merciless. The kind of rain that washed sins off the streets but never out of the soul.
Isabella Moreau stood before the glass, her reflection fractured by raindrops. The wedding gown had lost its glory; the silk clung to her skin like a ghost that refused to leave. Behind her, the city stretched in shimmering despair, London glittering like a kingdom of broken promises.
She pressed her palm to the glass. It was cold.
So was the man standing behind her.
"Elanor," she said quietly, her voice fragile yet sharp. "Is this what you wanted? To see me trapped here, wearing your name like a punishment?"
He was loosening his cufflinks, one at a time, every movement controlled, deliberate.
"What I wanted," he said, his tone low and smooth, "was justice. What I got… was you."
She turned, her eyes catching the pale gold of the chandelier. "Then congratulations. You've won."
He met her gaze steel against fire. "You mistake this for victory, Isabella. This is restitution."
"Restitution?" she repeated, almost laughing. "You think a marriage is repayment?"
"I think," he said, walking closer, "that every debt demands interest."
The air between them tightened. He stopped only inches away. She could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the rain still clinging to his hair, the hollow shadow under his eyes. He smelled of rain and whiskey and something else loneliness disguised as arrogance.
"You're cruel," she whispered.
He leaned closer, his voice almost a growl. "And you're naïve."
Her pulse hammered in her throat. For a second, she thought he would kiss her not out of love, but as a declaration of power. Instead, he stepped back, picked up a glass of scotch from the bar, and said without looking at her,
"Your father's signature cost me five years of exile. Your 'I do' is merely a down payment."
She froze.
Every word was a blade.
He walked past her, heading for the balcony. "You'll find your room down the hall. I assume you can find your way
Mrs. Vance."
The door shut behind him with a soft click, but it echoed through her chest like thunder.
The first night of her marriage was colder than any winter London had ever known.
Isabella sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the ring on her finger. It glittered like a crown made of chains. Every stone a memory, every sparkle a debt. She remembered her father's trembling hands before he died, the whispers of betrayal, the press calling the Moreaus "a fallen dynasty."
Now she carried the name Vance but it didn't feel like redemption. It felt like surrender.
She took off the ring and placed it on the nightstand. "Not yet," she murmured to the empty room. "Not until I know everything you're hiding."
Elanor stood outside on the balcony, his shirt damp, his hair slicked back by the rain. The city below him pulsed with light and sin, each street a reminder of how easily power could destroy.
He lit a cigarette, the flame trembling in the wind. He hadn't smoked in years, but tonight demanded it.
"Justice," he whispered to the storm. "What a beautiful lie."
He thought of her eyes the same eyes he once saw in a courtroom, filled with pride and accusation. The daughter of the man who'd ruined him. The only one who could still make him doubt his revenge.
He exhaled smoke into the rain. The ember hissed and vanished.
Morning came reluctantly.
The city woke under a veil of fog. Servants moved quietly through the penthouse, their eyes lowered, their words clipped. They had learned long ago that the Vances preferred silence.
Isabella appeared at the breakfast table in a simple ivory dress, her hair tied back. No diamonds, no lace just defiance disguised as grace.
Elanor was already there, reading the Financial Times. The only sound was the slow ticking of the antique clock and the soft pour of coffee.
"Good morning," she said.
He didn't look up. "Is it?"
She bit her lip, then sat opposite him. "I'll need access to my father's files."
That made him look up. "Why?"
"To understand what you think he stole."
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Curiosity is dangerous, Mrs. Vance."
"So is ignorance," she replied smoothly.
He leaned back, studying her. "You sound like a Vance already."
"I'll take that as an insult."
"Take it however you like," he said, turning the page. "But remember you asked for this life."
"I asked to save my family," she said. "Not to live in your cage."
He looked up again, this time with something darker in his eyes. "Then you should have thought twice before walking into the lion's den."
By noon, Isabella found herself wandering the east wing the part of the penthouse Elanor rarely used. The walls were lined with paintings, each one worth a fortune, but one caught her eye.
It was a portrait of a young woman with pale skin and eyes like silver rain. The plaque read: Amelia Vance, 1991–2018.
A name she recognized.
Elanor's sister.
She'd died seven years ago the same year her father's company rose overnight. The same year the Vance fortune collapsed.
Her breath hitched. "Oh God…"
She turned at the sound of footsteps. Elanor stood in the doorway, silent, unreadable.
"You found her," he said quietly.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked.
"Would it have changed your answer at the altar?"
"Maybe," she said honestly.
He stepped closer, eyes locked on hers. "Then I'm glad I didn't."
That night, she couldn't sleep. The rain had stopped, but the silence was worse. She walked to the piano in the lounge, her fingers brushing the keys. She didn't know how to play but someone had once loved this instrument. Dust gathered like time itself.
She pressed one key. A low note filled the air, haunting and hollow.
Behind her, a voice said softly, "She used to play that every morning."
She turned. Elanor stood in the doorway again, tie undone, his expression stripped of all armor.
"Amelia?" she asked.
He nodded once. "She said the rain made London sing. I never understood what she meant until she was gone."
For the first time, she saw the cracks beneath his calm. The man wasn't made of ice he was just burning from the inside.
"Your father didn't just destroy my company," he said, voice low. "He destroyed my family."
"Then kill me," she said quietly. "Because I'm all that's left of him."
He looked at her, a long, devastating look and then walked away without another word.
Later that night, she opened her journal.
Her handwriting shook as she wrote:
He wants vengeance. I want truth. Somewhere between those two, there's something neither of us understand yet mercy.
She closed the book, her heart heavy.
Outside, the rain began again soft, rhythmic, endless.
And somewhere in the darkness of the Vance estate, two souls haunted by the same name began a war neither of them could win.
"Two hearts bound by vengeance, two names tied by guilt."