Giselle's POV
The next morning came faster than I hoped.
Mom woke me up, rushing me into the bathroom without a word. The maids had already drawn deliciously warm rose scented water into it, with other oils in it to relax and soften my skin. After soaking for a while, I rinsed off my body and slid into the cashmere bathrobe that hung on a line beside the shower.
"Hurry up, Giselle," My mom said, watching as the maids dried my skin and hair up with a towel, "we only have four hours to get you ready."
"Isn't that more than enough time?" I asked, closing my eyes as one of the maids applied a coconut-scented serum on my face.
"Be serious for once, Giselle, four hours isn't nearly enough time for your skin treatment, waxing and hair treatment, not to mention you'll have to done your makeup, pedicure, manicure, assemble your wedding dress-"
"Alright, mom I get it."
It was such a hassle being royalty; but that's what I get for being born into it, my sister runs away a day before her wedding and here I am taking her place. I turn to look at my mom, the lines on her face were more prominent now. She looked tired and stressed, her eyes red and lips pinched tightly as though she was holding back tears. With all the wedding preparations and stuff, I forgot about how hard this situation must be on my parents, especially my mom. One of her daughters had run away from home to escape her marriage and the second is acting as a stand-in bride.
"Mom, everything is going to be okay." I said, taking her clammy hand in mine.
"I just…I don't understand what went wrong, Gigi, she was happy with the King, they've known each other since they were children. I just don't…"
"Maybe we were wrong, but I'm sure Genevieve is safe. Dad is already looking for her."
"Yes you're right. For now we focus on getting you ready for the wedding." Mom said, patting my cheek with a fond smile.
***
The wedding dress was three times heavier than I'd imagined.
It clung to my waist like armor, layered in ivory silk and silver embroidery that shimmered with every breath I took. The corset made it nearly impossible to stand upright, and diamond studs and pearl beading scratched at my ribs, but I refused to complain. Complaining meant nothing right now. Complaining wouldn't stop the wedding either, it was either sacrifice my freedom or destroy my family's integrity in Court.
"You look beautiful," one of the younger maids whispered behind me as I stared into the gilded mirror, trying to recognize myself through the veil and diamonds.
I didn't feel beautiful. I felt…like an intruder. Like I had slipped into someone else's life, wearing her future like a second skin.
Genevieve should be the one sitting on this velvet stool. She should be the one marrying King Fabio. And yet, here I was, draped in the weight of her choices. I didn't even know anything about the King, just snippets of his personality from drunk, late-night ramblings when Genny and I snuck out to have some fun. 'Brooding, brawny and hot' were the words my sister used to describe him, not very promising words so far. Most of my life was spent at a traditional finishing school in Russia while Genny stayed here in Montegnera, 'to be closer to her betrothed', as Dad said. When our eighteenth birthday came and went with no signs of us finding our soulmates, I was shipped off again, this time to study and the rift between Genny and I grew. It's no wonder she never told me about her fling with the stableboy; I'd slowly become less her sister, more like a stranger sharing the same face and DNA.
The church bells tolled in the distance, breaking me out of my reverie. One… two… three…
My stomach twisted.
"It's time," my mother whispered softly. She adjusted the lace of my veil one last time and leaned in to kiss my cheek. "Remember, keep your head bowed until the High Priest announces your union. Don't speak. Let him lead."
"Got it," I murmured, swallowing the rising panic.
We stepped out into the hallway where a royal guard awaited, dressed in ceremonial armor that was polished to a mirror's shine. My father stood there too, looking ten years older, eyes dull with disappointment and pride all at once.
"You're doing the right thing," he said gruffly, offering me his arm. "For your sister. For us all."
I nodded, because I didn't know what else to say. The seriousness of the whole situation had finally dawned on me; I was getting married and not just to anyone, but the King of Montegnera, the King of Wolves.
We arrived at the venue in nothing less than luxury, our chauffeur driving Dad, Mom and I in a limousine.
The grand cathedral was overflowing with people. Nobles, dignitaries, wolves in human form dressed in royal silks. All of them waiting. Watching. My heart thudded louder than the pipe organ. Dad took my gloved hand in his and together we walked to the altar at the start of the wedding March.
I couldn't see him through the veil, not clearly, but I could feel him.
King Fabio. My groom. My sister's betrothed. My… soulmate?
A strange ache began to build in my chest, as if something ancient and invisible was being pulled taut between us. I felt it even from across the cathedral floor. My body reacted to his presence in ways my mind didn't understand. Shit, this can't be happening.
The ceremony began. I barely heard the words—something about loyalty, unity, the blessed bond of the Moon Goddess. The High Priest asked if we were ready. I nodded when I was meant to. Fabio said yes, cold and clipped.
He didn't recognize me. Not yet.
The moment came.
The veil.
His hands, strong and tanned, rose slowly, brushing the fabric as he lifted it.
And then, stillness.
His expression didn't change at first. His gaze swept over my face, brows furrowed in confusion. His eyes, a piercing steel blue, flickered briefly. Recognition? Doubt?
Then he leaned in.
A kiss.
Brief. Meant to seal the bond before the court.
But when his lips touched mine, the world went very, very still. Time seemed to stop. The ache in my chest exploded into something hot, burning, terrifying. A pulse. A bond. I wasn't imagining it after all.
His body stiffened.
He pulled back.
And for a split second, our eyes met—and I saw it.
Rage.
Pure, furious rage.
The kind of rage that came from betrayal. Not confusion. Not shock. Recognition.
"You're not her," he whispered so low only I could hear. His voice was ice.
My heart dropped.
Everyone clapped. The court cheered. The High Priest smiled and declared us bonded by fate and law.
But Fabio's hand dropped from mine, and his eyes never left my face. That rage didn't disappear. If anything, it seemed to deepen.
He leaned in again, this time to whisper in my ear. "Where is she?"