4. The last living Sinclair

Christopher walks toward the altar as silence in the church thickens.

I clench my trembling fingers, a subconscious mirror of the anxiety I feel inside.

Seeing him after so long leaves me holding my breath, my throat so tight that I can’t breathe.

My heart pounds hard in my chest, so hard it seems about to burst... but, unlike the first time I walked up this altar, it’s not from happiness or love...

It’s from wounds still so raw.

Just like when Christopher first stood at this altar with me, his dark brown hair is slicked back, with not a strand out of place, and his brown eyes are as cold as ever... but the black suit he wears seems more appropriate for mourning than celebration, reflecting his disappointment with a destiny he sees as unavoidable — a broken, loveless marriage with a woman he despises.

Back then, I didn’t see it.

No, didn’t want to see it.

And if I’m being honest... I didn’t care.

The truth is all over my face... it always has been.

The guests, the people who truly love me, all look at me with worry and struggle to smile, feeling that only a life of misery awaits me...

How could I have blinded myself so much for a stupid hope?

Our eyes meet for a moment, sending a chill through my chest.

My lips tighten as I press them together, feeling all the bitterness I’ve held onto for ten long years ignite within me like flames I thought had been put out.

When Christopher finally stands beside me, there’s no more exchanging of glances. His presence feels as distant as his expression, and the gap between us only seems to widen.

The priest, a man with a calm expression, opens the large prayer book on the altar, his voice echoing through the church’s vaults.

“We begin this sacred gathering by invoking the presence of God to witness the union of Charlotte and Christopher in holy marriage,” he declares, starting the ceremony with words that speak of eternal commitment and fidelity—words that once sealed my downfall.

The priest continues with readings from biblical texts that emphasize the patience, kindness, and perseverance of love, but everyone in this place knows they are nothing but empty promises, at least for Christopher and me.

As the priest extends the ceremony, my mind drifts to old and recent memories of the life I just left behind. The details of this wedding feel so vividly familiar, and the sensations are so strong, that I no longer have any doubts...

I really returned ten years into the past.

“Christopher, do you take Charlotte as your lawful wife, to love her, honor her, and protect her, in sickness and in health, in wealth and in poverty, and forsaking all others, to be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?” The priest’s voice is firm, awaiting confirmation.

With a slight nod and a voice that barely reaches the first pews, Christopher murmurs, “I do.”

Liar.

All those words you agree to, you’ve failed to fulfill each one of them.

“Charlotte, do you take Christopher as your lawful husband, to love and honor him, in sickness and in health, in wealth and in poverty, and forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”

The priest looks at me, waiting for me to say those words again, those damned words that sentenced me to that miserable life I spent with Christopher Houghton.

I take a deep breath, and no one makes a single sound.

Everyone’s attention is on me, and even Christopher glances at me from the side, giving me a stern look.

I open my lips to answer him, but my mind reeled, shifting back and forth, over and over, alone in that prison of mine. I remember when my illness struck me hard, and my foolish attempts to get my husband’s attention.

I remember the blood running down my legs on the bathroom floor when I lost our child, who was so close to being in my arms.

I remember the moment Christopher brought Evelyn, his ex-girlfriend and mistress, into our house because I refused to sign the divorce papers.

Our first and only night together.

The wedding night that I spent alone.

Ten years of marriage, the rare moments I swear I saw him smile…

The moment I walked through the iron gates and saw him for the first time...

I gently place my hand on my belly, tears welling up in my eyes, and that damn knot tightening in my throat.

Henry, my son…

This time… Mommy will save you.

With a sigh that shows my answer is more out of obligation than choice, I finally nod, “I do.”

My words surprise Christopher… or perhaps, it was the sorrow I put in such a simple statement.

I can tell by the serious look that flickers for a moment, and the eyebrows furrow in an instant, quickly returning to normal as if it had been an illusion.

The priest, also suffocated by this ceremony that is undoubtedly blasphemy, ends it with a routine blessing that sounds ironic to my ears, “What God hath joined together, let no man put apart.”

Around us, the guests start to applaud, their forced smiles attempting to hide the discomfort they feel in front of a marriage clearly lacking happiness.

I exchange one last look with Christopher, but it’s brief and cold. There’s no kiss to seal the ceremony, no loving touches… We just turn to the guests, ready to face a lonely gathering full of people and empty gestures.

—— ꭗ ——

Although I promised to live without regrets if given a chance to make things right, I can’t help but feel bitter as I stand in the middle of this ridiculous hall, forcing smiles for everyone who comes to greet me.

My eyes drift over the hall’s details, stirring a painful nostalgia... after all, everything looks just as it did ten years ago when I first became Christopher Houghton’s wife.

The orchestra’s music drifts through the air, a comforting contrast to my discomfort. The laughter and conversations seem to belong to another world, one I no longer fit into.

The chandeliers’ lights sparkle on jewels and glasses, casting tiny rainbows on the walls, but I can no longer feel the beauty of this place.

I look around, noticing the walls decorated with large frames that depict the long history of the Houghton family, whose influence dates back to the 16th century, and that was something I once took pride in.

Being adopted by a noble family seemed like the plot of a modern fairy tale that any teenage girl would dream of, especially with Prince Charming, who made me fall in love at first sight.

Despite the stiff etiquette and calculated smiles, I liked it and always felt a deep gratitude for Marshall Grandpa, who adopted me. While some saw it as a sign of loyalty, more critical eyes might view it as selfishness.

My eyes meet Grandpa’s, and he smiles when he notices my attention. He detaches from the conversation with Benedict and Rupert, his sons, and quickly walks over, pulling me into a warm, comforting hug.

The moment his arms wrap around me, all eyes are on us. This public display of affection isn’t typical for an earl like him, but it shows that, even though I don’t share his blood, I have his favor the most.

The smell of his classic old-school aftershave mixed with cigars, and the slight roughness of his suit against me, brings unexpected comfort. My body immediately relaxes in his arms, a point of peace in the chaos.

Suddenly, I feel like a little girl again… the child everyone thought was cursed.

A sob catches in my throat, and my trembling, hesitant hands find his back before I melt into the hug I missed so much.

God, I missed him...

It’s been years since I dealt with the pain of losing the man who raised me from the age of twelve and shaped the woman I am today, for better or worse.

I close my eyes, painfully aware that in six months, Marshall Houghton will leave this world once more, and his family will go to war over a will many consider unfair.

When I open them again and see his brown eyes full of emotion as he steps back from the hug, a tighter knot forms in my throat.

I’m on the verge of tears and probably making a pitiful face because he touches my face and then cracks a subtle smile.

“Charlotte, my dear,” he begins, voice choked with emotion yet full of elegance, “Today is a day I’ve dreamed of for a long time, even before you came into our lives.”

I look at his slightly wrinkled hands, which hold mine... hands that, despite always being soft, can’t escape the effects of time.

“You know this story... I’ve told it a million times,” he smiles even wider, making me smile as well, with fond memories warming my chest. “But your grandfather was truly a great man. I will never forget how he gave his own life to save mine during that fire sixty years ago. He was a true hero.”

It’s the story of how my grandfather, Harold Sinclair, saved the young earl of the Houghton house from a fire that destroyed the mansion, reduced it to ruins, and cost him his life in the process.

Harold Sinclair left behind three children, all of whom have also passed away. Both my father and his two brothers died tragically, and even my grandmother’s heart couldn’t bear the sadness of burying her husband and all her children.

Marshall always supported the family from the start, perhaps driven by a sense of honor and gratitude. When he found out that I was the last living Sinclair, the final descendant of his savior, he took me in and cared for me as if I were kin.

I’m not going to lie... There was a time when I felt strong resentment, blaming everyone who left me because, inevitably, each small step led to my unhappy life with Christopher.

“Is there something on your mind? Are you okay?” Grandpa asks with genuine concern.

“Yes,” I force a smile that, despite my best efforts, looks sad. “I’m fine.”

“You wanted this marriage so much, dear... is there something that isn’t to your liking?”

Around me, nothing is worth criticizing. Everything was carefully planned and perfect. Nothing can be wrong because, outside, everything appears flawless. Even my dress looks like it came from a fairy tale.

But how can I express genuine joy and happiness when I understand what this luxury truly costs and the price I paid for it?

“It’s all beautiful. I appreciate the effort you put into this party... it really made me happy.” I stroke his hands, the skin thin and veined. He seems to have lost weight, a sad reminder of the disease he will soon learn.

“Really?” He studies my face carefully, then his eyes turn serious and sharp. “Is it because of Christopher?”

I give a subtle, gentle smile that surprises him, “It’s okay, Grandpa. Really.”

He looks worried and about to speak, but a harsh, dry cough silences him. I freeze, my heart pounding as he desperately covers his mouth with his hand, searching for a handkerchief from his perfect suit.

Grandpa coughs for a long time until his face turns red. People around us look and whisper, some curious but mostly worried.

I see the discomfort in his eyes and a bit of shame... after all, for a proud man who has held the title of earl for decades, showing vulnerability in public is a sin.

“Grandpa,” I begin, gently touching his face and noticing the flush on his cheeks. “How long have you been coughing like this?”

Surprise lights up his face before a shaky smile takes its place.

“It’s nothing, dear. Just a cold that won’t go away,” Grandpa says, trying to reassure me.

It’s not just a cold... Grandpa Marshall is sick — and this disease will kill him.

I’ve been in this same place before, and I understand how painful denial can be. Experiencing death within life and mourning oneself isn’t easy… especially when I have neglected myself for years.

The truth is, even if I tell him about his body, there’s nothing he can do to reverse it. At this point, the cancer must have spread from his lungs throughout his body.

Honestly, what a miserable life this is, where everyone around me succumbs and suffers so much.

Seeing my darkened expression, Grandpa offers me a comforting smile and squeezes my hand.

“Don’t worry, dear. It’s nothing serious. But if it helps you feel better, I’ll go to the doctor first thing in the morning.”

Seeing the genuine love reflected in his eyes, a feeling I haven’t experienced in so long, makes the weight of reality hit me hard.

Everything I’ve gone through, all the losses and pains... I’m about to face all of it again.

Am I capable of enduring it?

Will I be able to go through mourning alone again?

Will I be able to save my son’s life?

These thoughts stir up old fears of loss and goodbyes that I believed I had moved past long ago. Suddenly, the air in the hall feels heavy, and every breath becomes a struggle.

“I need a moment,” I say more to myself than to him, my voice nearly drowned out by the sound of music that now roars like a distant storm.

I release his hand and turn, quickly weaving through decorated tables and groups of guests. My steps are rapid, almost running, as I search for the exit to the hall’s gardens.

Outside, I hope to find space and fresh air, away from sharp eyes and festive responsibilities, a place to face my fears and gather strength to return—

But what I find instead, near the large fountain where I used to spend most of my childhood, isn’t peace... but Christopher Houghton — my soon-to-be ex-husband.