My Arranged Husband Kissed Another Woman At Our Betrothal Ball — But The Reason Why Broke My Heart

Part 1

The ballroom glittered like a kingdom made of ice and starlight.

Three hundred candles cast their glow across mirrors painted with frost patterns.

I stood alone by a marble column, watching the massive ornate clock tick toward midnight.

Couples positioned themselves across the polished floor for the midnight waltz.

My rose pink gown had seemed so beautiful when I dressed that evening.

But now I felt conspicuous, while every other lady stood beside a gentleman.

The champagne glass in my hand trembled slightly.

I forced myself to grip it firmly to appear composed even as my heart hammered.

Tom stood across the ballroom near the windows draped with evergreen garlands.

He was looking directly at me with those ice blue eyes that had haunted my dreams.

Our futures were bound by contract and honor.

Standing beside him was Heather, a widow whose beauty painters tried to capture.

The whispers had started the moment Heather had arrived on Tom’s arm.

Everyone knew that I was betrothed to him and the wedding was set for February.

I lifted my chin and met Tom’s gaze, refusing to look away.

I saw him turn toward Heather, saw him bend his head as the clock chimed.

One, two, three.

The sound echoed through the ballroom, and the orchestra swelled.

Tom cupped Heather’s face in his hands.

Four, five, six.

I counted each chime because if I focused on the numbers, I would not scream.

Seven, eight, nine.

Tom’s mouth met Heather’s and still his eyes held mine across the distance.

Ten, eleven, twelve.

Tom released Heather and began walking across the floor with deliberate steps.

My hands shook so badly that champagne sloshed over the rim of my glass.

The crowd parted for him as swiftly as water retreating from the shore.

They whispered about poor me, imagining my humiliation.

He stopped before me and looked down with those winter eyes.

The contract stands.

We marry as planned, because this changes nothing.

The words hit me like stones, and I fought to keep my voice steady.

I asked him why he would do this publicly.

Tom’s expression did not change as he explained the terms of our arrangement.

He declared he would be a husband in name and duty only, because his heart belonged elsewhere.

My world tilted and reformed into something unrecognizable.

I had known our marriage was one of obligation rather than affection.

I had hoped that in time we might find some measure of regard for one another.

Now he stood before me and announced his heart belonged to the beautiful widow.

I understood with perfect clarity that my future would be a desert of loneliness.

Pride kept the questions locked behind my teeth.

I informed him I was unwell and asked to be excused.

I turned and walked toward the doors that led to the terrace.

The cold air outside struck my face like a benediction, and I gulped it in.

Only then did I allow a single tear to trace down my cheek.

Behind me, the ballroom blazed with light and music.

Tom was no doubt standing with Heather again.

The contract stood, because my father’s signature bound me as surely as chains.

Honor and duty demanded I go through with this wedding.

Six weeks remained until I became his wife.

His grand house loomed against the gray January sky like something from a gothic novel.

I stood in the entrance hall with my trunks piled around me.

Brenda, Tom’s grandmother, had appeared at my family’s townhouse three weeks later.

She demanded that the betrothed couple live under the same roof until the wedding.

Within hours I found myself installed in chambers on the second floor.

The rooms were decorated in pale blues and silvers that felt like an elegant prison cell.

What drew my attention was the door set into the wall opposite my bed.

It was a door of dark carved oak that would not turn when I tried it.

I knew beyond that locked door lay Tom’s chambers.

The first week passed in a haze of terror and careful avoidance.

I discovered the ballroom shrouded in covers, the conservatory where plants grew in wild profusion.

Tucked into a tower on the third floor was the library.

It was a circular room lined floor to ceiling with books.

I began spending my afternoons there, partly because it felt warm.

I never encountered Tom there, as he apparently had no use for books.

On my fifth day in the library, I noticed the massive walnut desk.

Curiosity drew me to examine it more closely.

The center drawer stuck slightly when I pulled it.

But when I opened the hidden drawer in his library desk, the secret I discovered changed everything.