WYRS 8

Chapter 8

Even with the relentless shutter clicks going off, Blake didn’t so much as blink as he stretched out his long legs.

“Invitation, please.”

An attendant, standing like a doorman at the cathedral entrance, held out his hand for the invitation.

“Ah.”

Blake smiled leisurely, pulled something from his coat, and slipped it into the man’s breast pocket. The attendant peeked inside—and his eyes went wide.

In his hand was a check with so many zeroes it was impossible to count at a glance. Blake patted his shoulder.

“That should cover the price of admission, don’t you think?”

Before the attendant could stop him, Blake strode inside with unhurried ease.

Well… one exception shouldn’t hurt.

The money Blake handed him was worth dozens of his daily wages. Even if he were fired on the spot, it was an amount worth the risk. So, in front of the surging reporters, the attendant simply slammed the cathedral doors shut and considered his duty done.

Inside, a solemn silence lingered. If not for the occasional clear piano melody and the suffocatingly lavish decorations, one might have mistaken it for a funeral hall.

Before long, whispers broke out as people recognized him. Blake ignored the prickling stares and sat down comfortably.

“Thank you for the warm welcome,” he said, raising a hand toward the glaring nobles. They flinched at his brazen smile and turned back to the front.

Blake smirked at the backs of their heads, then let his eyes roam over the interior, leaving a short judgment behind:

“Gaudy.”

The overwhelming abundance of flowers made him scowl. Each decoration was showy in its own right, but lumped together they felt tacky—less like an engagement party, more like a child’s birthday.

The suffocating rose scent was so strong it gave him a headache, and he pressed a handkerchief to his nose.

There was no doubt: not a single trace of Freya’s taste had gone into this ceremony. Everyone in the kingdom knew of her refined sensibilities.

If it were Freya…

Leaning lazily against the chair, Blake imagined how the place would look if arranged according to her taste. Likely starkly simple, perhaps even boring—but elegant. And certainly better than this mess.

Soon the emcee announced the start of the engagement. The guests laughed at his weak jokes. Blake followed suit, though his faint chuckle was closer to a sneer.

Even the jokes are pitiful.

Just as he began to roll his stiff neck in boredom, the emcee’s grand announcement opened the cathedral doors.

Bathed in a halo of camera flashes like fireworks, Freya appeared. With Jacob escorting her, she entered the hall, and suddenly the tacky room felt transformed into a queen’s audience chamber.

Eyes steady, never wavering, Freya glided down the central aisle.

Blake’s gaze followed her as she passed. It had been so long since he’d seen her this close.

She wore a white dress with lace high up to her neck—a style ten years out of fashion. Yet, on Freya, it was perfection.

Even in rags, a diamond remains a diamond. Her platinum-blond hair shimmered, her long, elegant neck gleaming, even the faint down on her skin catching the light like jewels.

The stained-glass sunlight cascaded over her, making her literally shine beneath a crown of colors.

The more dazzling Freya appeared, the more regret grew in the guests’ eyes as they glanced at her fiancé.

Jacob, fumbling through his vows, was barely taller than his bride—even though she’d chosen to wear flats for his sake.

That alone wasn’t damning, but his thick southern drawl as he spoke was grating. The poor Freya, showered with his spit as he spoke so passionately, was pitiable.

“Is that really the man Count Swan chose?” whispered someone from the back.

“My God… The Swan Diamond, marrying him?”

“Life is unpredictable indeed. Freya Swan—once nearly crown princess…”

Most of the comments lamented that Freya was too good for him. Understandable—Freya was famous well beyond noble circles.

The Swan Diamond.

Her flawless white skin paired with platinum hair had earned her that name, likened to a sparkling diamond.

But beauty alone wasn’t why she was admired. Beautiful women were common enough. Freya was different—she was a born aristocrat.

From childhood, she excelled in everything. Every step radiated dignity, every gesture exuded grace. Her education, musical talent, character—flawless.

And above all, she was the only daughter of the Swans.

So, when rumors spread that she was to wed the crown prince, people rejoiced. Truly, who else was more fitting to be queen?

But as their engagement neared certainty after the war, the May Revolution broke out.

The kingdom’s king, against all counsel, had entered the war. They lost, forced to pay crushing reparations.

The republicans seized their chance. Funded by nouveau riche merchants, they stirred the people, and the monarchy became little more than a puppet of parliament.

There was no way republicans would allow a marriage alliance between the weakened royals and the powerful Swan family. Due to their interference, Freya’s engagement to the crown prince quietly dissolved.

After that, other marriage negotiations arose but, strangely, every single one fell through. In the end, the role of Freya’s fiancé fell to a distant relative who had inherited the Swan estate—Jacob.

A diamond in the mud, Blake thought with amusement.

He studied Freya’s rigid expression, then the guests. Notables from every corner of the monarchist faction filled the pews—not Jacob’s acquaintances, surely, but those paying respects to the late Count Swan.

Her father, Lancelot Swan, had been a pillar of the royalist cause.

“Now that this man inherits the Swan estate…”

“At least he seems obedient enough. He doesn’t have the stubborn arrogance of today’s young men.”

“We’ll miss Count Lancelot.”

At their sighs, Blake chuckled quietly. They were placing false hope in Jacob. But Jacob, just as Blake expected, would drag the Swan family straight into ruin.

“I, Freya Swan, pledge to keep my body and heart pure until I take Jacob Swan as my husband…”

Freya read her vows calmly, just as rehearsed. Jacob’s unrelenting stare was suffocating, but she betrayed no discomfort.

Six months earlier, sensing death approaching, Count Swan had grown desperate to secure a husband for his only daughter.

Strangely, all the offers of marriage that once poured in had dried up. With no other choice, he turned to a distant heir of the Swan family.

After long deliberation, his pick was Jacob.

Not especially reliable, but timid and mild. And unmarried, not much older than Freya. No scandals, no vices—among poor choices, the least bad.

Better that than some ambitious man who might destroy the family with reckless schemes.

The count pinned his hopes on Freya’s future son, trusting she would raise him into a worthy heir. Until then, his allies would support the family. With those arrangements made, he finally passed in peace.

“Now, please exchange the rings,” the emcee announced.

Freya’s eyes wavered. She tried to extend her hand, but her body froze, locked in place.

“Freya?”

Jacob looked at her in puzzlement as she stood stiff, staring at the ring in his hand as if it were a shackle.

Answer properly. Smile, Freya.

Her father’s voice rang in her head, and she instinctively lifted her chin. Of course, it was only Jacob before her, urging her silently to hurry.

Yes. This is my fate.

Jacob wasn’t the fiancé she had dreamed of, but under the circumstances, he was the best she could hope for. And this marriage was necessary.

Though she hadn’t spoken much with him, he seemed kind. And he had even promised her that if she bore him a son, he would gift her mother’s villa.

The Mirror Estate. Her one true sanctuary.

As long as she had that place, Freya feared no future.