The Matron of Flesh

Chapter 1

The bells tolled like a funeral march. Evelyn sat rigid before the mirror, her pale reflection framed by lace and silk she had never chosen. The dress clung too tightly at the waist, sleeves heavy with jewels that weighed her down. Every stitch whispered ownership. She hadn’t spoken since dawn, when her mother’s sharp voice had pierced her bedroom: “Don’t shame us today.”
The door opened behind her without a knock. Two of her father’s men stepped inside, black coats straining at the shoulders. They weren’t here to escort, they were here to ensure. One stood by the window, the other by the door, hands folded in front of him. Guards at a prison cell.
Her mother swept in last, perfume thick enough to sting. She fussed with the veil, pressing it hard against Evelyn’s scalp until pins bit into her skin. “He’s a good match,” her mother hissed in her ear. “You’ll thank us when you see the size of his estate. Do not cry. Do not falter.”
Evelyn swallowed the words rising in her throat. She wanted to scream that she would rather starve in rags than be sold off like property. But her father had made it clear: there would be no refusal. Not without consequence.
The carriage ride blurred into jolts of motion and suffocating silence. Outside, the city’s streets bustled with curious faces, craning for a glimpse of the bride. Inside, Evelyn’s fists dug crescents into her palms beneath her gloves. She tried not to breathe too deeply, the corset made each inhale feel like drowning.
And then the church doors opened.
The groom was waiting at the altar, tall and unmoving, his face carved from stone. Lord Alistair. Twice her age, with eyes like polished iron and a mouth that never softened. He did not smile when he saw her. He didn’t need to. His victory was already complete.
The aisle stretched before her like a gallows walk. Every step echoed too loud, too final. The guests murmured approval, blind to her trembling. When she reached him, he offered no hand, only a nod.
The priest began the vows. Words of sacred union, love, devotion, but they slid over Evelyn like mockery. When it came time to speak, she felt her throat close. For a heartbeat, the world held still, hope burning in that silence… maybe she could refuse.
Her father’s cough cut it short. One sharp sound from the front pew, full of warning. Evelyn’s lips moved. The word “I do” left her mouth like blood from a wound. Alistair’s hand clamped over hers, rough and unyielding, sealing the vow she had never chosen.