The Villainous Marquis Is Obsessed With Me

At the wedding venue, the grand cathedral was thick with the scent of lilies and hushed, restless energy of the elite. The guests, draped in their finest silks and velvet, were beginning to murmur as the minutes ticked past the appointed hour. The altar remained empty, and the silence from the vestry was becoming deafening.

"I wonder what is happening?" A gentleman whispered to his companion, leaning in close. "Will the wedding still take place or not? I heard whispers that this is not the first time Baron Jame’s daughter has tried to flee. They say the carriage was intercepted at the gate merely last month. She seems quite determined." 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

The woman he was speaking to did not look concerned; instead, she elegantly fanned herself, her eyes sparkling at the scene with malicious delight.

"I missed a royal morning assembly just to be here," she remarked, her voice dripping with artificial grace. "And I must admit, I do not regret it in the least. A jilted Marquis or a runaway bride.. this is far more entertaining than any ballroom gossip."

"Shh," another guest hissed, pointing toward the heavy oak doors at the back of the hall. "Look. The Baron is as pale as a ghost."

Indeed, at the front of the aisle, Penelope’s father was pacing, his hands trembling as he checked his pocket watch for the tenth time. The air in the cathedral felt stifling, heavy with the judgement of a hundred staring eyes. As he was unable to bear it anymore, he stepped outside, only to run into Mirabel and his wife as they hurried up the cathedral’s stone step.

"Well?" he asked impatiently, his voice cracking with a mixture of fear and fury. "Where is Penelope? The ceremony was meant to start ten minutes ago!"

Mirabel’s expression faltered slightly, a flicker of feigned concern crossing her face as she turned to her mother. Genevieve met her husband’s frantic gaze with a look of cold, calculated disappointment.

"What did I tell you before, James?" Genevieve spoke lowly, but her tone remained sharp and biting. "That daughter of yours has run away again. The guards stationed at her door reported that she was nowhere to be found. She must have escaped for good this time."

She smoothed her skirts, her eyes flashing with a dark, hidden triumph. "Time and time again that daughter of yours drags our name through the mud. The reputation of this house is barely holding up as it is, but this scandal? This will be the news that snaps it in half. Our name is ruined, James. All because of her selfishness and ego."

Baron Jame’s fingers curled into tight fists at his side. He wasn’t thinking about his daughter’s safety or her heart; he was thinking about the mountain of gambling debts and failed investments that only this marriage could bury.

"That wretched, ungrateful creature," he hissed, his face contorting with a sudden, ugly heat. "After everything I have provided for her, she dares to spit on our name once more? She is a blight upon this family. Perhaps I should have followed my instincts, and broken those legs of hers weeks ago; at least then she would be still. The Marquis would not have minded marrying a crippled anyway."

Mirabel leaned in, her voice a poisonous honey. "Father, we must think of something. If the Marquis gets here, and he finds out she has fled with... well, with whoever it is this time, he won’t just break the contract. He’ll destroy us."

James went ashen, his hand clutching the stone balustrade for support. But just as the weight of their words began to crush him, a commotion erupted from the base of the stairs. The sound of rhythmic hooves signaled the arrival of power.

A massive carriage, bearing the black and silver crest of the Marquis, thundered into the courtyard, the horse’s breath misting in the cold air like dragon’s smoke.

The door was thrown open with a violent click, and the silence that followed was more terrifying than the previous noise. Both James, Genevieve, and Mirabel stood frozen, their breaths hitching as they waited for the storm to step out of the carriage.

The Marquis stepped down first.

He looked formidable, a dark titan in the morning light, but he did not immediately address the Baron. Instead, one of his men rounded the carriage and stood at his side, offering him a pair of delicate, silk feminine heels.

"The Marquis is here," Mirabel breathed, her fingers instinctively fluttering to her hair and adjusting her bodice to look more presentable, even as her heart hammered with the anticipation of his wrath.

However, the sight of the shoes held by the Marquis caught all three of them completely off-guard.

The Marquis, known for his icy detachment and lethal efficiency, did not bother to call for a maid; instead, he knelt upon the cobblestone as he took a slender, porcelain-pale foot that revealed itself from the dark interior of the coach, into his palm. With a terrifyingly calm grace, he slid the tapered silk heels onto the feet of the woman inside. He then rose and simply extended one gloved hand into the shadows of the coach, a silent invitation that carried the weight of order.

To their absolute shock, the hand that took his belonged to Penelope.

She stepped out of the carriage, her bridal gown gleaming with a brilliance that seemed to mock their previous words. Her face was perfectly composed, her makeup flawless, and her gaze, once so easily cowed, was now as sharp and cold as a winter diamond.

Jame’s mouth hung open, his rage short-circuiting into confusion. Genevieve’s fan froze mid-air, while Mirabel’s face turned a sickly shade of pale. Penelope didn’t look like a runaway bride they had envisioned. She looked like she was ready to completely conquer her wedding, and claim her rights.

Penelope’s heels clacked softly against the stone, the sound sharp and rhythmic against the stunned silence. Her eyes met Vincent’s, and for a heartbeat, the world around then seemed to dissolve. He took the hand he was holding and raised it to his lips, his gaze fixed on hers with an intensity that felt like a brand. He placed a lingering, gentle kiss upon her knuckles, his thumb tracing the back of her hand in a way that felt both like a promise and a warning.

The touch was electrifying, sending a jolt of heat through her that nearly made her composure falter.

His lips curled into a subtle, knowing smirk, the expression of a man who knew he was being played but found the game irresistible. Penelope, however, remained focused. She understood that her first and most vital mission was to bridge the chasm of distrust between them.

To dismantle the people standing atop those steps, she would need more than just a wedding certificate. She would need his absolute support.

Climbing up the steps with a grace that felt entirely foreign to the girl they once knew, Penelope turned her gaze toward her family.

"Father, Mother," she greeted with a small, sharp smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Why do you two look as though you’ve seen a ghost? Surely you weren’t worried that I would miss my own wedding?"

"But–" Mirabel’s voice broke, her eyes darting between the two of them in pure confusion. "How are you two together? Is it not compulsory for a groom to wait at the altar for his bride? So how is it that you arrive in the same carriage? Where... where did you find her?"

The implication hung in the air—Mirabel was desperate to know if William had been caught, or if Penelope’s "elopement" had been discovered.

"We have wasted more than enough time on trivialities," Vincent spoke up as he released Penelope’s hand, though the ghost of his touch lingered on her skin. He gestured toward the Baron with a cold, expectant tilt of his head.

"The priest is waiting, Baron," Vincent continued, his grey eyes boring into the older man. "You would do well to bring my bride to me. Now."

James flinched, his throat working as he tried to find his voice. The power dynamic has shifted so violently he could barely breathe. He looked at Penelope, searching for a trace of the daughter he could bully, but shockingly, the look on her face gave nothing away.

Numbly, he stepped forward to offer his arm, his hand shaking as he prepared to lead her into the cathedral.