Chapter 78 The Wedding Of No Love
The marble walls of the Lysander estate’s private chapel reflected the cold glow of silver candelabras. It was beautiful, lavishly so, but no warmth lived here. Only shadows. Only silence broken by duty.
Genevieve stood at the altar like an apparition, draped in pale ivory silk, her veil catching the candlelight like spiderwebs in the moon. Her hands were steady. Her eyes? Hollow.
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