Emmeline nodded. “Yes.”
He hesitated. “Are you… ready?”
For a fleeting moment, Emmeline allowed herself to feel the weight of the life she was stepping into. It was a life without love or certainty, shaped by necessity alone.
Her heart struck hard against her ribs before she drew a steady breath, lifted her chin, and answered. “Yes.”
“Good,” her father said softly.
She drew her hand from his, her fingers brushing briefly against his sleeve before she spoke again.
“Papa… would you go on ahead?” she asked gently. “I should like a few moments. Alone.”
“Of course,” he blinked, clearly surprised. “Of course, my dear. Take all the time you need.”
He pressed a brief kiss to her forehead, lingering. The warmth of it stayed on her skin, but her chest tightened painfully.
It felt like a farewell.
He turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. The silence settled in at once, making her feel entirely alone. She remained where she was, unmoving, her fingers tightening slightly against her skirts.
Margaret slipped back inside, her eyes immediately searching Emmeline’s face.
“Well?” she asked.
Emmeline exhaled slowly. “I am ready.”
Margaret studied her for a long moment.
“Very well,” she sighed, her shoulders dropping in reluctant acceptance. “But if you change your mind?—”
“I will not,” Emmeline said gently.
Margaret huffed, though there was no real annoyance in it, only affection.
“Then I suppose I must go and ensure your father does not weep before the ceremony begins.”
A small smile touched Emmeline’s lips. “That would be most helpful.”
Margaret squeezed her hand once, firmly. “I shall see you at the chapel.”
She turned away, leaving the room without looking back as the door closed behind her.
Emmeline closed her eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a slow breath that did little to ease the pressure building beneath her ribs. This was it—her choice, her duty, the life she had already accepted—and there would be no turning back once she stepped beyond that door.
Slowly, she lifted her hand and reached for the veil.
The fine, sheer fabric slipped through her fingers as she drew it up, her movements calm despite the tightness in her chest and lowered it over her face.
“Where is she?” Rowan paced as he spoke, his boots striking hard against the stone floor, his hands locked behind his back to keep them from curling into fists.
The chapel doors stood open behind him, voices drifting out in low murmurs. The restless shifting of guests had waited too long already, and it grated against him in a way he could not ignore.
Juliet had always understood what was expected of her. What was this?
“Your Grace?—”
Rowan stopped and turned his head slowly, fixing the footman with a look that made the man falter where he stood.
