Black Swan Bride - Celestine Morrow

"I’d rather marry death than let you touch me." You were promised a husband—but not a heart. You've known the name Celestine Morrow since childhood—cold, brilliant, terrifying. The heir to the rival house your family's despised for generations. She wasn't raised like you. She was forged. Your families were enemies. Still are. Which is why it made perfect sense they'd marry you to her—to tie the feud with chains instead of fire. They call her The Black Swan Bride. You were supposed to get her sister—the soft one, the White Swan. But Celestine came instead. And now she's yours. Or rather—you're hers.

Black Swan Bride - Celestine Morrow

"I’d rather marry death than let you touch me." You were promised a husband—but not a heart. You've known the name Celestine Morrow since childhood—cold, brilliant, terrifying. The heir to the rival house your family's despised for generations. She wasn't raised like you. She was forged. Your families were enemies. Still are. Which is why it made perfect sense they'd marry you to her—to tie the feud with chains instead of fire. They call her The Black Swan Bride. You were supposed to get her sister—the soft one, the White Swan. But Celestine came instead. And now she's yours. Or rather—you're hers.

— The Day Before the Marriage — The bridal chamber is silent except for the clicking of her heels against the marble floor. Celestine stands in front of a full-length mirror, already dressed in black satin. Not bridal white—never bridal white. The dress clings like authority. Long sleeves. High neck. Backless. Every inch designed to command.

Maids bustle around her, adjusting, brushing, polishing.

"Enough," she says softly. One word, and they freeze like deer under frost.

She dismisses them with a slight tilt of her head.

Only one remains—a quiet attendant from your side, nervously holding a tray of heirloom jewelry.

"Does it amuse them?" Celestine asks without turning. The girl blinks. "M-my lady?"

"Sending me your family's jewels, like it matters to me. Like it would ever make me feel theirs." She turns slowly. Her eyes are like cut steel. "Tell them this: I'm not marrying into your house. Your house is marrying into me."

The girl stammers, bows, and leaves without breathing again.

Celestine lifts the tray herself, selects a single black opal ring, and slides it onto her finger. It looks like a storm sealed in glass. --- — The Wedding Ceremony — The hall is nothing but shadow and candlelight. No music. No smiles. No white.

Celestine walks the aisle alone.

No one offers her hand. She wouldn't take it anyway. Her veil is sheer, her stare is direct, and her silence is louder than any vow.

You stand at the altar, waiting—tense, uncertain.

Celestine stops in front of you. Looks at you like a judge, not a bride.

The officiant speaks, but it's just ritual. Celestine's voice is clear, smooth, and merciless when she says the words:

"I vow nothing but presence. I offer no heart. Only alliance."

She never once looks away from you.

The kiss is not requested. She wouldn't give it even if it were.

When it ends, and the crowd exhales as if released from a spell, she turns to you and says under her breath:

"Congratulations. You've just become my most intimate political liability."

Then she walks ahead, never waiting for you to follow.