Jolie stood calmly in the center of the Duke's study. The air smelled of old leather and woodsmoke. On the polished mahogany desk lay her meticulously prepared dowry inventory.
Duke Theron Beaumont sat behind the desk, a man whose entire world was built on honor and public perception. Duchess Eleanor stood beside him, arms crossed, expression severe.
Tristan and Seraphina were there too, lounging near the fireplace, their faces alight with smug, theatrical pity. They were here to witness her final surrender.
Jolie began by expressing her gratitude for their "generosity" and her acceptance of the family's decision. The tension eased. They all relaxed, believing the unpleasantness was over.
"I am willing to marry into the Beaumont family,but..." Jolie continued, voice steady and clear, " for the sake of the Beaumont family's honor, and for what remains of the Vinson family's dignity, I have a better proposal."
Every eye fixed on her. Tristan and Seraphina exchanged a look of mild amusement. What could she possibly propose?
Jolie's gaze shifted past them to a large oil portrait above the mantelpiece. It showed a young man in full military dress, expression serious, eyes burning with fierce intensity. Lord Gabriel Watkins, the Duke's eldest son. The war hero. The man who had died on a foreign battlefield three months ago.
She drew a deep breath, gathering all her strength.
"I am willing to marry into the Beaumont family, as promised. But not as Lord Tristan's mistress."
She paused, letting the silence build.
"I request permission to marry the late Lord Gabriel Watkins by proxy."
The silence that followed was absolute. She had sucked the air from the room.
Tristan's smirk vanished, replaced by stunned disbelief. Seraphina's jaw went slack.
Duchess Eleanor found her voice first. "Absurd!" she shrieked. "That is a grotesque scandal! Unheard of!"
Tristan, personally insulted, shot to his feet. "You would rather marry a dead man than be with me?" His voice cracked with outrage.
Jolie ignored them both. Her eyes were on the only person who mattered: Duke Theron.
She laid out her reasoning with surgical precision.
"First, it preserves the dignity of everyone involved. I enter this house as a bride, not a mistress. There will be no whispers, no scandal. The matter is settled with honor."
"Second, it fulfills the marriage contract between our two houses. The Vinsons are joined with the Beaumonts. The bridegroom is simply the more honorable elder son, not the younger."
"And third," she finished, her voice softening, "it is a tribute to a fallen hero. It shows the entire kingdom the depth of the Beaumont family's gratitude and loyalty to the man who gave his life for his country."
Each point was a perfectly aimed arrow at what Duke Theron valued most: his family's public image and its honor.
The Duke leaned back, fingers steepled, expression unreadable. He was weighing the quiet scandal of a mistress against the grand tragic theater of a war hero's proxy wedding. One was a stain, the other a statement.
Jolie added the final decisive piece. "I will live as his widow. I will reside quietly in Pinecrest Wing, his former home. I will not interfere in anyone's life."
A powerless, respectable widow tucked away in a remote wing. A symbol, not a threat. This erased the last of the Duke and Duchess's concerns.
Duke Theron gave a slow, deliberate nod. "I agree. The wedding will take place on the same day as Tristan's."
The decision was made. Duchess Eleanor's face was a mask of fury, but she could not argue against her husband. Tristan and Seraphina looked as though they had been slapped.
Jolie had won. She had secured her place.
The news sent shockwaves through the aristocracy.
Two weddings, one bride for the living, one for the dead.
On the day, the grand cathedral was filled to capacity.
Seraphina was a vision in a gown dripping with pearls and lace, clinging to Tristan's arm, basking in congratulations.
But all eyes were on Jolie.
She walked down the aisle alone, dressed in a simple, unadorned white gown, her face obscured by a black mourning veil. She moved with solemn grace toward the altar, where Gabriel's portrait stood in place of a groom.
The spectacle of it, the sheer tragic romance, stole all the attention.
Seraphina's nails dug into Tristan's arm, her smile a brittle, painted thing. She was being upstaged by a ghost.
Hidden in the deep shadows of a side alcove, a tall figure stood cloaked and hooded, watching.
His gaze cut through the crowd, ignoring the lavish display of the second wedding, and settled on the lonely, defiant figure in black and white. He watched as Jolie stood before his own image, back straight, head held high.
When she spoke her vows, her voice clear and steady in the cavernous space, a faint, unreadable smile touched the lips of the man in the shadows.
He was Gabriel Watkins.
And he was very much alive.
