The Ashbourne Bride

Adele could not feel her legs as she walked down the aisle. The chapel gleamed with early sunlight flowing through the stained glass, casting jewel tones on the marble floor. Everyone was watching her. Every step she took felt orchestrated, practiced, and expected. 

Her gown rustled like falling snow, delicate and too lovely for her. The bodice was tightly embroidered, and the veil was a thin whisper against her lips. She wore her grandmother's necklace, and her skin was covered in layers of family memories. 

And yet, she felt nothing. No joy. No thrill. Not even fear—just a quiet kind of surrender. 

Henry stood before the altar like a statue carved from tradition and wealth. His expression was unreadable and composed. She had seen that look before, when he signed estate paperwork, nodded politely at the opera, and inspected the horses. He now wore it for her. 

She wasn't sure what she had hoped for. Perhaps a flash of warmth in his eyes? A lingering touch? Something that could pass for affection? Instead, when he took her hand, his fingers were cold and stiff. 

Their vows faded like a winter breeze. Despite the tightness in her throat, she repeated the lines in a firm voice: honor, obey, belong. A kiss was placed absentmindedly and distantly on her cheek. The audience then applauded. And with that, she began her married life.

The Reception 

The ballroom was bright with chandeliers and scented with roses. Adele greeted each guest with grace, as she had been instructed to do. Her father beamed with pride, his hand firm on her shoulder, repeatedly introducing her as "my daughter, now Adele Ashbourne." 

Her mother wiped away tears while telling the other ladies, "She's made the match we've always prayed for." Adele had fulfilled every dream a well-bred girl was expected to have. 

Lady Josephine Ashbourne, Henry's mother, had barely said more than a cold "welcome" and a reminder that Adele would now be in charge of the estate's charitable activities. She didn't smile, but Adele sensed approval in her quiet demeanor. 

Leopold, the Ashbourne middle child, lurked on the fringes of conversations, constantly observing everything. His comments were stiff but accurate. "You look exquisite," he remarked, his gaze tracing her as if she were a portrait worth cataloging. "A dress like that requires poise. You deliver."

Jason was not there—neither in the chapel, among the guests, nor waiting in the shadows of the reception hall. His absence resonated more loudly than any music or laughter. Adele felt a quiet ache deep within her, as if a curtain had been drawn, revealing something she alone could see. 

She looked for him once, but he was not there. He had not come, and that stung more than anything.

The First Night

The bedroom was too silent. Adele sat near the vanity, slowly removing her veil. Her fingers trembled as she unhooked the necklace. She looked into the mirror at the version of herself they had all created: elegant, poised, and wedded—but not loved. 

Henry never looked at her the way a man should look at his bride. He didn't ask if she was cold. He didn't ask if she was terrified. Instead, he said, "You may rest. There are no expectations tonight." 

It should have been a kind gesture, but it felt like being dismissed. She lay beneath the embroidered covers, still silent, the gap between them as wide as a river. 

She closed her eyes, attempting to conjure some feelings for him—a spark, anything. A lady should feel something, right? However, all she felt was numbness. Beneath the surface, there was a quiet ache that she didn't dare name. 

As she drifted into sleep, Adele thought, "I was born to live this life. That is what Mother always said. But nobody asked if I wanted it. They told me I was lucky, fortunate, chosen. They offered me jewelry, gowns, and a name to wear like a crown, yet I've never felt so invisible. Henry isn't cruel or unkind; he does not know me. And, even more devastating, I'm beginning to fear that I no longer see myself."