Chapter 2
Chapter 02: The 500-Denir Wedding (Part 1)
“Why not hold the ceremony at the temple?”
The Marquess arched a brow at my proposal.
Customarily, such events unfolded at the family estate, with the opulent hall bedecked in splendor and a lavish feast to follow. The expense was considerable. By contrast, a temple rite promised thrift, presided over by junior clergy amid modest blooms of paper or silk. Thanks to the Freis family’s substantial gifts of land and coin to the faith, reserving the Great Temple lay well within our grasp.
“You’re right—we could secure the Great Temple. Hosting a separate banquet afterward would prove a hassle, however…”
He mulled it over, clearly tallying the economies.
“In truth, I had the side chapel in mind, rather than the Great Temple,” I clarified.
“A cramped little nook like that? And what of the attendees?”
Bewilderment creased his features.
“The essence lies in the vows exchanged, does it not? A simple affair, sans spectators, strikes me as ideal.”
“You mean to wed in utter solitude?”
Perfect.
To the Marquess, a guestless union absolved him of any duty to appear. I might bear his name as daughter, yet blood ties bound us not. No doubt he welcomed skipping the rite entirely. Precisely what I desired: a rite devoid of kin.
The negotiations flowed so seamlessly that a true smile broke across my face.
“So long as a proxy stands present and the pledges are spoken, the union holds legal weight. I’d not impose on you, Father.”
“Even so, the Freis name carries prestige. Whispers might arise unbidden,” he cautioned, a faint furrow in his brow—not quite objection.
“The Duke himself dispatched a stand-in first. Streamlining the event will signal mutual preference for substance over show. No egos bruised.”
“Father! You cannot seriously countenance a wedding in that hovel!”
Ladriel’s voice cracked like a whip, her fan clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
“Not even peasants endure guestless nuptials in this age!”
She had fitted her gown for the occasion already. Forfeiting her moment in the spotlight must sting bitterly.
“She proposed it herself,” the Marquess countered.
“She’s merely… innocent! Annette’s youth blinds her to society’s ways!”
“It suits me fine,” I cut in, offering the Marquess a serene smile as Ladriel seethed.
“The chapel keeps costs low, well within the Duke’s allocation.”
“Hmm.”
“And no cause for postponement lingers.”
That clinched it; conviction dawned in his gaze, laced with uncommon regard.
“For once, you’ve voiced something truly beneficial to the house.”
Splendid!
“Then I’ll summon the High Priest to consecrate it.”
Thus, my 500-denir wedding took shape.
Click.
I slipped from the Marquess’s study, leaving Ladriel to her simmering rage.
Exhale—mission one complete!
Relief washed over me in a deep breath. I pivoted, then halted abruptly. A figure blocked my path; tilting my head, I met the impassive stare of Ferdinand, the Marquess’s firstborn and family heir. He echoed his father’s visage but with a refined, unlined youthfulness, brow smooth as polished stone.
“You’ve squandered your efforts,” he intoned, voice chill and remote.
“Ah, brother! It’s been ages,” I chirped, injecting false brightness.
“No one values such self-denial. Word of a solitary rite will only deepen the Duke’s contempt.”
Reproof laced his disdainful timbre, yet intent sharpened it. The remark blindsided me.
He customarily treated me as invisible.
Does family loyalty stir in him after all?
Sentiment stirred briefly before Ferdinand jerked his chin toward the door.
“Out of my way. I have matters with Father.”
“Certainly, brother. After you.”
Predictable.
He waved me off like an irksome fly.
Tension coiled in my throat, but resistance was futile. I mustered a deferential smile and yielded passage. Ferdinand glided inside, every motion steeped in inherited privilege.
Born to the purple, no doubt.
Small wonder my presence chafed him. My very being likely blemished his exalted lineage in his eyes.
The staff mirrored his scorn.
A passing maid swept by without a glance, chin haughtily aloft.
Classic.
Disregard shadowed me everywhere. Shaking my head, I traversed the Marquess’s endless hallway.
Two weeks already.
Two weeks since awakening in this realm, inexplicably transposed into The Saint Becomes the Duke’s Wife.
En route from the office, stress at a peak, the shift occurred—details hazy now.
No matter.
I settled into this existence with uncanny ease.
Likely my upbringing: scant nurturing. The notion of reversal held little pull.
Third of four offspring, I occupied an uneasy middle ground—unloved, uncraved.
We scraped by, not destitute, but stretching meals for six tested limits. Elders claimed favor as heirs and firstborn girl; the youngest basked in indulgence. I, the overlooked third, faded into obscurity.
Neglect defined childhood; post-graduation, self-reliance beckoned.
Yet I clawed upward.
A solid degree followed, then steady employment at a mid-tier ad firm.
Stability seemed at hand, but office politics ground on.
Cajoling clients, soothing superiors, importuning vendors—amid perpetual overtime. Web novels offered rare respite.
No surprise I landed here.
Realizing my role as Annette Freis, the novel’s fleeting fool, brought no joy. A peripheral antagonist, gone early.
Third daughter still, amid two brothers and two sisters.
Initially, this life charmed—blissfully free of predawn commutes and moonlit returns.
No deadlines, no frenzy: pure indulgence.
Until Ladriel’s smug proclamation shattered the idyll.
“The Grand Duke prefers me as bride. Your thoughts?”
Peace evaporated then.
The tale’s current coursed onward.
The Saint Will Become the Duke’s Wife chronicled saint Constein’s odyssey through temple-royal strife, culminating in union with Duke Kyle and ascendance as grand duchess.
Annette? A negligible antagonist, green-eyed tormentor of Constein, swiftly dispatched.
Story’s infancy now.
Father compelled her match with northern Grand Duke Loic. Post-vows, he never summoned her northward.
Abandoned in the capital, she harried Constein, squandering esteem. Within a year, annulment cited unconsummated bonds.
Unfettered, Annette invaded Constein’s bridal day, assault attempted—and hanged, then erased from memory.
A mere hurdle for the heroine.
Not my path. I’d embrace the union, flee southward.
The Freis demesne dazzled: palatial home, sumptuous chambers, silken wardrobes.
To modern sensibilities, serene yet stifling.
Servants shunned my gaze; kin addressed me solely to quarrel. Stepmother and academy-bound brother? Strangers.
Unwed nobility curtailed my steps—no unchaperoned outings.
I must wed the Grand Duke to shatter these bars.
Northern rigors awaited, yet duchess—even titular—afforded liberty. Sidestep Constein, avert doom.
Chiefly, though, anticipation burned.
Curiosity! A vast northern fortress—irresistible in this transmigrated dream.
Snow-capped peaks encircling domain, spire-pierced citadel, quaint burghs, enigmatic Loic of Blenheim—cold, captivating.
The vision quickened my pulse.
Fortune smiled: rite secured, northward journey imminent.
Preparations remain.
Meticulous planning ensured unhindered flight. Vigilance until departure.
Musing on contingencies, I hummed softly.
