The Marriage Meant for Another

The next morning, I dressed simply and stepped out of my chambers—

only to be slammed back against the stone wall.

“Why are you so determined,” he demanded hoarsely,

“to force the king into sending the Elara north?”

Pain shot through my shoulder as his grip tightened.

Lina rushed forward, panicked, but he shot her a single look.

“Get out.”

She froze—and fled.

The smell of alcohol clung heavily to him.

He had clearly not slept.

“Do you want her dead that badly?” he snarled.

“Is that what this is?”

“Adrian—let go of me,” I said through clenched teeth.

Instead, his fingers dug in harder.

“Is this who you are?” he spat.

“Jealous, cruel, willing to sacrifice your own blood just to get what you want?”

He leaned closer, his voice low and venomous.

“Do you really think that by begging for a royal marriage,

I would ever submit to you?”

My body went rigid.

The fury on his face—

the raw, unfiltered hatred—

was no different from the man I had faced in my previous life,

when we stood on opposite sides of every blade.

The sound echoed sharply.

I slapped him.

“General Vale,” I said coldly,

“remember who you are speaking to.”

My neck burned where his fingers had left angry red marks.

I pressed a hand to my shoulder, breathing hard.

The blow seemed to sober him.

His gaze dropped—to my bruised skin, to the marks he had left.

His throat moved.

For a fleeting moment, regret crossed his eyes.

“…I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“I was drunk.”

I turned my back to him.

“The border marriage is a matter of state,” I said.

“The king has already decided.

The outcome will be exactly what you wish for.”

The last words cut my own tongue as I spoke them.

Behind me, he gave a bitter laugh.

“With you still here,” he said,

“what future could Elara possibly have?”

I spun around—but he was already walking away.

My hands curled tightly within my sleeves.

Don’t worry, Adrian, I thought.

This time, I won’t cling to you.

Less than an hour later, a servant arrived with a small wooden box.

Inside was a salve—

a battlefield ointment, specially prepared for soldiers to stop bleeding.

I did not touch it.

I knew this care did not come from love.

He had been raised in my mother’s household after the Vale family was nearly wiped out in service to the crown.

To him, I was no more than an elder sister by circumstance.

Only I had mistaken that obligation for something more—

for an entire lifetime.

I closed the box.

I could have told him the truth.

I could have stopped his anger, ended his resentment, spared us both this bitterness.

But I didn’t.

Part of me was stubborn.

Petty, even.

If he was going to accuse me anyway,

he might as well stay angry a little longer.

Three days.

In three days, the northern envoy would arrive.

In three days, the bride would be revealed.

And then—he would know.

I told myself I had already let him go.

That I had chosen this path cleanly, without hesitation or regret.

Yet that night, lying awake and staring into the dark,

I understood—Even after deciding to leave him behind,

some part of me was still waiting.

Not for his love.

Not for an apology.

But for the moment he would finally learn the truth—

and for whatever expression would cross his face when he did.

Would he feel relief,

believing this was the best ending—

that Elara would be spared,

that he could finally protect the one he thought he loved?

Or would it be regret—for the days he had turned his anger on me,

for the accusations spoken without mercy,

for the coldness he had never once questioned?

I did not know which would hurt more.

Only that, in imagining either,

there was a quiet ache I could not extinguish.

I told myself it no longer mattered.

That his happiness, or his remorse,

were no longer mine to bear.