The Virell estate glittered beneath the midday sun.
Banners of gold and ivory draped the tall gates, and hundreds of guests gathered, their tailored silks and crisp uniforms gliding across the marble walkways like rivulets of elegance. A symphony quartet played softly under the shade of a manicured elm, and everywhere, the scent of rose and honeysuckle lingered in the air—imported blooms woven into arches, bouquets, and centerpieces. The day was perfect.
And yet, as Callum Virell stood still beneath the sprawling archway where his cousin would soon say his vows, there was a hollowness behind his eyes.
Frederick stood tall, polished, his boutonnière immaculate against his custom-tailored suit. Dahlia—serene and luminous—approached the altar in lace and ivory, a soft smile on her lips. Her veil danced with the wind as if blessing the moment itself.
But to Callum, the scene was blurred. Not because of any rain. But because of the heaviness pressing behind his ribs. His jaw clenched as Dahlia passed him, her gaze flickering toward his only once—and only for a breath. And still, that one second carved into him like a blade.
Beside him, Seraphine Elion stood tall, her dark gown simple but striking, her posture a study in restraint. She said nothing, but she noticed everything. The way Callum didn't blink as the priest opened the mass. The way his fingers twitched at his side. The way he exhaled so slowly, as if fighting the urge to scream.
And when he took one shallow step back, when his fingers began to curl—
Seraphine reached for his hand.
She didn't speak.
She didn't look at him.
She simply tightened her grip around his fingers, grounding him with quiet strength.
Callum swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the altar. His hand tensed as if to pull away—but then relaxed, surrendering to hers.
Twice more during the ceremony, he wavered. When Dahlia said her vows, Callum turned his face just slightly, lips parted in an almost-breathless protest. Seraphine's fingers tightened again—barely perceptible, but enough. Enough to remind him he wasn't alone. That if he broke, she would be there to catch the pieces.
He didn't speak. He didn't walk away. But his grief bled into the corners of his expression. Not a dramatic show—but a slow unraveling. A man quietly dissolving behind the civility expected of his name.
When the rings were exchanged and the kiss was given, the crowd clapped. Callum did not.
Seraphine's hand stayed in his.
---
After the final blessing, the crowd was ushered toward the reception hall. Waiters began pouring champagne. A string quartet resumed their soft melodies.
But Callum was gone.
Seraphine excused herself quietly, moving through the garden's hidden paths until she reached the estate's lower driveway, where staff and family cars had been parked in careful rows behind the servant's wing.
And there he was.
In their black sedan, sitting in the passenger seat with the window rolled halfway down. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, and a small flask sat beside him—half-empty.
His tie had been loosened. His jacket was on the dashboard. His gaze was hollow.
Seraphine didn't knock.
She opened the door gently and slid into the driver's seat beside him.
The scent of smoke was immediate.
He didn't flinch when she sat down. Didn't turn to look.
He just stared out the window, eyes distant.
"Callum."
At her voice, his eyelids flickered—but he didn't respond.
She reached out, gently pulling the cigarette from his lips and crushing it into the ashtray.
Then, without a word, she reached over and took the flask from his lap, slipping it into the glove compartment and shutting it with a quiet click.
Callum finally looked at her.
His expression was stripped bare. Not angry. Not sorrowful. Just exhausted. As if he had carried a weight too long.
And then, as if something inside him snapped—he leaned over and placed his head against her shoulder.
He didn't speak.
He didn't cry—not at first.
But she felt it. The tension in his shoulders, the tight breaths that came too fast. And then, the silence broke.
Softly. Painfully.
A sob.
Then another.
He cried—not like before in the rain, loud and desperate—but quietly. Silently. The kind of weeping that came when a man knew he couldn't change what was lost.
Seraphine didn't speak. Her hand came to rest at the back of his neck, thumb moving in slow, rhythmic circles.
She didn't tell him it would be okay.
She didn't ask if he still loved Dahlia.
She didn't promise that time would heal.
Because none of those things would help—not today.
Instead, she stayed.
The pain of being his wife and yet not the woman he mourned twisted inside her. But she did not cry. Not then.
Instead, she anchored him. Let him break—quietly, fully—in her arms.
When his breathing finally slowed, and the tears dried against her skin, he didn't pull away.
He whispered, hoarse, "Sorry."
She shook her head. "You don't need to be."
"I loved her," he said, eyes glassy, but not ashamed.
"I know."
A pause.
"She's happy now."
"Yes."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Why does it hurt more now that I know she's safe?"
Seraphine didn't answer. She couldn't.
So she kissed the side of his head, like a secret she'd never speak aloud, and whispered only one thing:
"It's time."
---
When they returned to the garden, the guests were gathering for the grand family portrait.
Callum had buttoned his jacket again. His hair was combed. His expression unreadable, but his eyes still red-rimmed.
Seraphine stood by his side as the photographer raised the camera.
She looped her arm around his, her hand resting at his wrist. He did not pull away.
He looked at her then—and then the camera sounded.
And she gave him the smallest nod.
Not of triumph.
Not of victory.
But of understanding.
And perhaps, of something even quieter.
A promise.
Even in the ruins of a love story not hers—Seraphine would remain.