enjoyebooks CHAPTER 119
CHAPTER 119
POV: Evangeline
The morning I leave, the palace smells like polish and restraint.
Servants move around me with practiced quiet, folding dresses, packing jewelry I didn’t choose, sealing trunks that feel heavier than their contents. Outside my window, the courtyard is already lined with guards in ceremonial colors. Father believes in presentation. Even grief must look orderly.
Mother stands near the door, hands clasped. “The carriage will depart at the second bell,” she says.
“I know,” I reply.
She nods, satisfied, as if knowledge equals readiness.
I walk the length of my childhood chamber one last time. The walls are bare now, tapestries removed, shelves emptied. Only the marks remain—the faint discoloration where portraits once hung, the notch in the doorframe where Alexandro measured my height every year until we stopped growing together.
“You don’t have to look like that,” Mother says softly.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like you’re leaving something unfinished.”
I turn to her. “I am.”
She hesitates. “The past doesn’t wait for closure.”
“No,” I say. “But it asks for it.”
She exhales, glancing toward the corridor. “Your father won’t tolerate delay.”
“He never did,” I reply.
We walk together through the halls. Each step echoes, a reminder that this place remembers me even if it no longer belongs to me. Servants bow. Courtiers avert their eyes. Whispers trail behind us like dust.
At the foot of the grand staircase, Father waits.
“Everything prepared?” he asks.
“Yes,” Mother answers.
He looks at me. “You will represent this house with dignity.”
“I always have,” I say.
He nods once. Approval delivered.
The carriage ride is slow, ceremonial. I sit inside alone, hands folded, posture perfect. The city passes by in fragments—market stalls, fountains, rooftops. Somewhere beyond the walls, Alexandro exists or doesn’t. I don’t know which hurts more.
At the gates, I look back.
The palace stands immovable, indifferent.
“I’m leaving,” I whisper to it. “You already took my brother. Don’t take me too.”
The carriage lurches forward.
Sebastian’s lands greet me with banners and trumpets, as if noise can substitute for welcome. He meets me at the steps of the keep, composed as always.
“Evangeline,” he says.
“Your Highness,” I reply.
He offers his arm. I take it.
“Your journey was smooth?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“That is good.”
Inside, the halls are colder than mine ever were. Stone and iron. Efficiency carved into architecture.
“You will find your quarters prepared,” he says. “We will dine tonight.”
“Of course,” I reply.
He studies me briefly. “You look… pale.”
“I am adjusting,” I say.
He accepts that. “Marriage is adjustment.”
The ceremony is small by royal standards. Necessary witnesses. Required words. No room for interpretation.
When the priest asks if I accept Sebastian as my husband, I answer clearly. When Sebastian answers in turn, his voice does not waver.
After, he leans toward me. “You did well.”
“Thank you,” I say.
We walk together into the hall where a restrained celebration waits. Music plays softly. Courtiers smile politely. Nothing spills over into joy.
“Would you like to sit?” Sebastian asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
We sit side by side, our proximity already defined by rules we did not write.
A noblewoman approaches, curtsying. “Your Grace, you must be very happy.”
I smile. “I am honored.”
She nods, satisfied with the answer, and moves on.
Sebastian watches her go. “You understand the language here.”
“I’ve been fluent for years,” I reply.
“Good,” he says. “It will make things simpler.”
“Simple is not the same as easy,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “But it is manageable.”
Later, when the hall empties and the candles burn lower, Sebastian walks me to the chamber prepared for us.
“You may rest,” he says. “Tomorrow we will begin appearances.”
“Of course,” I reply.
He pauses at the door. “If you need anything, ask.”
I meet his gaze. “Will you?”
He considers the question. “I will respond.”
“That will suffice,” I say.
He nods and leaves.
The chamber is vast, impersonal. My trunk stands unopened by the bed.
I sit and remove my gloves slowly.
This is marriage.
Not warmth. Not cruelty.
Just space.
A knock comes.
I tense. “Yes?”
A maid enters. “Your Grace, do you require assistance?”
“No,” I say. “Thank you.”
She hesitates. “The prince requested—”
“I know,” I say gently. “You may go.”
She bows and leaves.
I lie down fully dressed, staring at the ceiling.
“Alex,” I whisper, the name slipping out before I can stop it.
I imagine him somewhere else—laughing, broken, alive. I imagine telling him I left. That I married. That I didn’t fight harder.
I imagine his silence.
The next morning, Sebastian waits for me in the antechamber.
“Did you sleep?” he asks.
“Yes,” I lie.
“Good,” he says. “We begin today.”
“Begin what?” I ask.
“Our life,” he replies.
I follow him into the corridor, my steps measured, my expression calm.
This is not the ending I wanted.
But it is the one I have.
And as the doors close behind us, sealing me into a future built on duty and restraint, I understand something with painful clarity:
Goodbyes don’t always happen at doors.
Sometimes they happen years earlier, in corridors where you beg someone not to walk away—and they do.
And you spend the rest of your life learning how to keep moving without them.