The Ashbourne Bride

Jason pov

Jason should have walked away from the heartache far sooner—long before the engraved invitations were dispatched, long before the elegant orchestra was finalized, and before the delicate white lilies were ordered for the ceremony. Deep down, he had always understood that Adele would one day marry someone, but he never imagined the groom would be Henry, his brother, who had always taken without a second thought, especially when it came to things that were not rightfully his.

The very day the engagement was announced, Jason found refuge in the overgrown orchard behind the sprawling Ashbourne manor. It was a place heavy with memories. Years prior, in that same sun-dappled spot, Adele had once asked him with wide, curious eyes, "What makes a painting beautiful?" At seventeen, she had been a vision of youth and radiance, golden sunlight spilling through her hair, her smile igniting something deep within him. In that moment, he had found himself lost in her presence, mesmerized.

He should have summoned the courage to speak up then. He should have admitted, "You." But he remained silent then, just as he had for all these years. And now, time had slipped away—too late, too late.

Three Weeks Before the Wedding

In the old stables, dust particles danced in the soft, golden light filtering through the cracked windows. The musty air hung heavy, filled with echoes of horses that had long since left, replaced only by the phantoms of memories and an uneasy quiet. It was there, immersed in his sketches, that Jason felt a jolt of tension ripple through him when Henry's familiar, mocking voice pierced the silence.

"I know what you're doing," Henry declared, arms crossed defiantly, regarding his brother with a predatory glint in his eyes, as if he were the quarry. "You're sulking like a lovesick fool with your pencil."

Without looking up, Jason replied tersely, "I'm working."

Henry dismissed the statement with a wave of his hand. "You're in love with her."

It wasn't a question; it was an accusation wrapped in certainty. 

Setting his sketchpad aside, Jason's heart raced. "Call off the wedding."

Henry let out a braying laugh—a harsh, cruel burst that echoed against the stable walls. "And why on earth would I do that?"

"Because she doesn't love you. And you don't love her. What's the point of all this?"

As Henry stepped into the pool of light, his demeanor shifted from amusement to something far darker, his expression hardening like stone. "This is about legacy, Jason. It's about preserving our family name in marble rather than in charcoal smudges. I need to show Father that I am the worthy heir this family deserves."

A knot formed in Jason's stomach. "You don't truly care for her."

A spark ignited in Henry's eyes. "I see her for what she is: a Wesley girl with a grand title. A perfect political pawn. She'll play her role, smile through it all, just like all the others before her."

"And you would willingly spend your life beside someone you do not love?" Jason challenged, his voice trembling with both anger and despair.

Henry's gaze turned icy, almost predatory. "Better to sleep soundly next to a gilded cage than to wither away beneath the stairs, scribbling in shadows like a stray dog. Have you forgotten? You're not one of us."

The words struck Jason like a physical blow; he was painfully aware that he would never be seen as a true Ashbourne. Not really, not in terms of blood.

"Go ahead," Henry continued, his voice low and conspiratorial as he stepped closer. "Confess your feelings to her. But remember, when I expose you for what you are, she'll turn against you. She'll see you as a liar. A bastard claiming the heart of a lady—she won't forgive that."

Silenced by the weight of his brother's threat, Jason stared at Henry in shock, his heart pounding.

"This is me, attempting to do you a favor," Henry whispered menacingly. "You can leave quietly and keep your head down, or I will destroy your life. The choice is yours."

In that moment, a crushing realization dawned upon Jason: despite the depth of his love for Adele, he would never be permitted to claim that love.

The Night He Left

He packed his meager belongings by the flickering light of a solitary candle, each movement deliberate and somber. There was no grand farewell, no drawn-out farewell filled with dramatic sighs—only the soft sound of drawers scraping open and the weight of bittersweet memories settling around him. He gathered a few shirts, a handful of coins, and carefully tucked the unfinished portrait of Adele between his sketchbooks—the image of her radiant smile haunting him even as he boxed it up.

The manor lay in hushed stillness. Jason paused before Adele's door, a thin line of light glowing invitingly beneath it. For a fleeting moment, he considered raising his hand to knock, a desperate urge bubbling within him. He reached for the doorknob, but then Henry's voice coiled around his mind, sharp and poisonous: "If you ever tell her, I'll ruin you."

So, with a heart heavy as lead, Jason turned away. He left. No goodbyes whispered into the quiet, no confessions to set them free—just an echoing silence that filled his hollowed soul.

The Years That Followed

Jason vanished from all that he knew—first to the artist-laden streets of Paris, then to places that felt more like a dream than reality. He maneuvered through life as a ghost, painting under a pseudonym, his work hanging in galleries where strangers fell in love with his creations, oblivious to the heartache hidden behind them. He mastered the art of invisibility, blending into the shadows where he felt safest.

Yet, the ache of his choice lingered like an unwelcome specter. Once, he stumbled upon her portrait at a London exhibition: Lady Adele Ashbourne—a vision of elegance, regal and poised, yet imbued with an unspoken sorrow that suggested years of quiet survival. She radiated

beauty, but there was something in her expression that told Jason she was enduring a life hidden behind glass.

A deep self-loathing washed over him for leaving her, for allowing his fears to dictate his decisions. Yet, amid that regret, he made a solemn vow to himself: if the tides of fate ever shifted, if she ever reached out across the distance, if there was a chance—any chance—to love her without tearing apart her world, he would return.