Chapter 1: The Wrong Bride

The rats always sounded larger in the dark.

Sabine Virell lay stiff on the wood-slat platform above the brothel’s rafters, the frayed hem of her stolen blanket tangled around one ankle. She stared at the black ceiling just inches above her nose, counting heartbeats. The floor below creaked with familiar weight—Madam Helda’s lumbering shuffle as she herded drunks toward the door. The third bell of night had long passed. Most patrons were gone. That was usually when Sabine slept hardest.

Tonight, she couldn’t.

Something was wrong.

Then she heard it.

Not Helda. Not the regulars. Not the girls.

Boots.

Too many boots.

She rose in a crouch, heart thudding, and slipped silently to the far corner of the attic where the light couldn’t touch her. Her breathing slowed. She had learned this as a child—how to vanish in plain sight. But they were already coming up the stairs.

Three. No, four of them. Heavy-footed, not local. She smelled saltwater, wet coats, and something sharper—leather oil.

The brothel went quiet below. No laughter, no heels.

Someone whispered: “Top floor.”

Sabine pressed her back against the dusty wall and reached for the dull knife she kept tied to her thigh with a strip of garter elastic. Not much of a blade, but it had drawn blood before. It could again.

A floorboard creaked just beside her. A figure passed the thin edge of moonlight spilling through a crack in the roof—tall, cloaked, and gloved.

He turned toward her hiding place.

She didn’t breathe.

His voice was soft and satisfied: “Found her.”

A hand lunged into the dark, but Sabine struck first. Her blade scraped cloth. She shoved off the wall and darted low, aiming to roll past him down the stairwell—but a second figure was waiting. A sack dropped over her head before she could scream.

She kicked. Bit. Felt the pop of a jaw as someone cursed and staggered. But another man slammed into her ribs, and the world exploded into pain.

"Celeste," one of them hissed, "don’t make this worse."

Celeste.

Sabine’s body froze for a beat too long, and that was all it took. Her wrists were bound behind her with coarse rope. Her knife clattered to the floor, useless.

She was hoisted, roughly, and carried down into the night.

The carriage smelled of mildew and old wood.

Sabine lay on the floor of it, wrists burning, head swimming, mouth gagged. They hadn’t removed the sack, but she could feel the roll of the wheels through the boards beneath her cheek. No windows. No sound but hooves, rain, and her own panicked breath.

They thought she was her sister.

Celeste.

She hadn’t seen her in nearly six years—not since they’d split the night the fires broke out at Miss Olynn’s boarding house. Celeste had run east, with a nobleman's letter in her pocket. Sabine had stayed, had begged scraps in alleys and learned to pick clean locks in the rain.

What had her twin done this time?

And why did it smell like they were taking her to a funeral?

The carriage lurched to a halt sometime later, the reins snapping sharp in the wet silence.

The doors swung open.

Hands grabbed her again—softer now, but still in control. She was lifted out, boots scraping cobblestone, and dragged forward through an archway.

Her shoes sank into mud. The scent of wet ivy, old stone, and iron gates filled her lungs. A place with history. Wealth. Teeth.

Then voices.

Low. Whispered. A woman’s gasp. “Is she… like this already?”

“No questions,” snapped a man. “Get her ready.”

The sack came off. Sabine blinked under the sting of lanterns. A tall footman with pale eyes watched her like she might shatter the walls. Behind him, stone pillars loomed. Vines. Rain. A door taller than any she’d seen.

The estate.

They had brought her to a goddamn estate.

Sabine’s gag was removed. Her mouth opened—but no sound came. What could she say? I’m not who you think I am? Would they believe that, or would they kill her faster?

A maid, young and trembling, took her elbow. “We must change you, Your Grace.”

Sabine blinked. “Your what?”

But no one answered.

The dress was too tight across her ribs. Deep green velvet, laced in the back like a corset from some rich woman’s portrait. They’d scrubbed her skin raw in a copper tub and brushed her hair until her scalp burned. Now she stood in a drawing room that smelled of candle wax, oranges, and rain-soaked curtains.

Every instinct screamed to run.

She studied the door. Guarded. She counted steps to the window. Too high. A trickle of water tapped against the glass.

Then the latch turned.

She went still.

He entered like silence itself.

The Duke of Ravener.

Taller than she expected. Broad-shouldered in dark navy, one glove missing, his hand marked faintly with a burn scar. His eyes—grey as dusk—moved over her face like a scholar with a riddle he hadn’t solved yet.

He didn’t greet her.

He walked a slow half-circle around the room, gaze on the floor, the paintings, the piano.

Then: “Say something.”

Sabine’s voice almost failed her. “I... wasn’t told what to say.”

A pause. Heavy as stone.

“You were gone for six days,” he said at last, still not looking at her. “No letters. No message. No explanation. You returned in the middle of the night. Injured. Silent.”

He turned to face her fully now. “And you expect me to believe that nothing has changed?”

Sabine met his gaze. Her voice didn’t shake. “You’re my husband. Wouldn’t you know if something had?”

Something flickered at the corner of his mouth—contempt, maybe. Or curiosity.

He stepped closer.

“Tell me, then,” he said quietly. “What was the name of the dog you cried over when it died?”

Sabine’s mind raced. What?

She blinked. “I… I didn’t have a dog.”

The silence stretched. He didn’t move.

Finally, the Duke exhaled through his nose. “No,” he murmured. “You didn’t.”

She flinched.

He leaned in slightly, his voice colder now. “You are not the woman I married. You don’t speak like her. You don’t look at me like her. You don’t even hold your hands like her.”

Sabine swallowed, heart pounding.

“So?” she whispered. “What happens now?”

The Duke stepped back. Walked to the door. Placed one hand on the knob.

“I’m keeping you,” he said without turning. “For now.”

Then he opened the door, stepped through, and locked it behind him.

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