My Groom Stole My Dowry—So I Married His Ruined Rival Instead
Part 2
The heavy iron hinges of the cathedral doors groaned in protest, dragging across the stone floor with a sound like a ship running aground.
The air inside the nave hit me in a suffocating wave of burning beeswax, wet wool, and the sharp metallic tang of my own terror.
The organist struck the opening chord of the processional with panicked force, the bass notes vibrating straight into my jaw.
I kept my eyes fixed firmly on my ruined white satin shoes, a smudge of soot already staining the toes.
Craig’s hand clamped down over mine where it rested on his forearm, his grip entirely devoid of gentleness as a physical demand to keep my knees locked.
He stepped forward with a heavy, predatory stride, dragging my massive silk train hissing over the ancient stones.
The collective intake of breath from four hundred guests swept through the cavernous space as they expected a golden-haired prince.
Instead, they got the dark, drenched, ruined duke with a shadow of stubble and muddy boots.
I forced my eyes up to see my father half-standing in the front pew, his face a dangerous, apoplectic shade of plum.
His thick fingers gripped the polished mahogany so hard his knuckles were white, entirely unprepared for this catastrophic failure in his calculations.
My father lunged forward, hissing a furious demand to know where Brian was and ordering this destitute bastard to take his hands off me.
Craig didn’t flinch or let go; he simply turned his head and delivered the flat, terrifyingly calm news that Brian was on a train to Dover with a French actress.
The front rows of the congregation went perfectly, horribly silent as Craig ruthlessly exposed the stolen dowry and the impending ruin of our shipping empire.
My father flinched as if struck by a cane, the blood draining from his face as his ruthless business mind frantically did the math.
Craig brutally laid out our only salvageable play: he had the bloodline, we had the press outside, and they were proceeding with the ceremony.
My father gave a sharp, jerky nod and stepped back into his pew without ever looking at me.
The archbishop stammered through the blurred ceremony, the intricate royal script suddenly rendered useless weight in his sweating hands.
When he desperately asked for the ring, there was no velvet pillow or diamond forged from a royal vault.
Craig pulled the heavy, scuffed gold signet ring from his own battered right hand, the snarling wolf of his crest scarred by time and careless brawls.
He didn’t slide it on with reverence; he pushed it over my knuckle with a firm, definitive shove, murmuring that he claimed me as his own.
The carriage door slammed shut behind us with a concussive thud, cutting off the chaotic shouts and flashing bulbs of the press in the rain.
The space smelled violently of damp leather, cheap gin, and the dying gardenias crushed beneath his boots.
The adrenaline evaporated instantly, replaced by a crushing exhaustion as I sank into the tufted velvet and tore the painful diamond tiara from my scalp.
As we plunged into the dark, wet roads leading to his crumbling estate, only one terrifying question remained: what exactly did this violent, ruined duke intend to claim once he got me behind closed doors?
