The wedding banquet was a farce wrapped in gold foil.
Sienna sat rigid beside her new husband, her back straight as a blade, scarlet silk pooling around her like freshly spilled blood. The fabric shimmered under the chandelier's glow—opulent, suffocating, and deliberately chosen to match her so-called curse.
Around them, the Lancaster relatives whispered behind their bejeweled hands.
Eyes flicked from the angry birthmark curling over her cheekbone to Silas's corpse-pale skin, as if debating which one of them would die first.
It was a spectacle. And they were the entertainment.
A chime of heels against marble announced a new performer.
Joyce Lancaster, dressed in an embroidered cheongsam that hugged her ambition like a second skin, stepped forward—balancing a heavy brass basin between her manicured hands.
Inside, fire roared.
Actual flames. Crackling, leaping, licking the rim of the basin like they were eager to burn something—or someone.
"Tradition demands the bride prove her devotion," Joyce said sweetly, her voice sugar-laced poison. "She must cross the fire to purify any… impurities."
There was a collective murmur of approval, mixed with the distinct sound of old money enjoying blood sport.
The flames surged. Far higher than necessary.
Sienna's gaze slid toward Selena Lancaster, who was sipping her tea with the calm smugness of someone who knew exactly how this little game would end.
Silas's hand twitched beneath the table.
"Don't," he murmured, so softly it almost vanished under the clatter of silverware.
But Sienna was already rising.
"Of course," she said brightly, smiling with too many teeth. "Tradition is so important."
She took one step forward—then paused.
"But first—" she added, and with no more effort than flipping a page, she grabbed Joyce's wrist and yanked.
Joyce shrieked, stumbling toward the fire. The hem of her dress brushed the flames and sizzled, smoke curling upward in delicate black spirals.
The guests gasped. One child burst into tears.
"Shouldn't the family's most virtuous daughter demonstrate?" Sienna asked innocently.
Joyce staggered back, dress smoking, face flushed with fury and humiliation.
Crack.
Matriarch Lancaster's cane slammed against the floor, the sound sharp and echoing.
"Enough." Her voice was calm, but her eyes burned hotter than the fire basin.
Sienna released Joyce with a smile, as if she'd merely been helping her balance.
Then she turned, lifted her skirts, and stepped smoothly over the fire.
The flames licked toward her silks—but did not touch. She moved like she was floating, her posture regal, every movement deliberate.
When she reached the other side, she turned on her heel.
"There," she said lightly, as if nothing had happened. "Purified."
For a long beat, no one spoke.
Then a cough broke the silence.
Silas.
His lips were parted, his expression unreadable—but there was a flicker in his eyes, something dark and dangerous that hadn't been there before.
Amusement. Or was it respect?
Sienna returned to her seat, uncaring of the scandalized stares. Her smile lingered as she lifted her wineglass to her lips.
Let them stare. Let them talk.
Let them realize—too late—that this bride wasn't here to play the part.
She was here to rewrite the rules.