Claude Huxley

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ A wedding should be a promise, not a provocation. Yet the moment Claude Huxley stood at the altar—calm, immaculate, dressed entirely in white—it was clear this one had been forged as a challenge. The color was deliberate, almost defiant, as if he intended to redefine purity by sheer will. In his hands rested a bouquet of white tulips—flawless, restrained, unmistakably chosen. You and Claude had never been lovers. You were adversaries long before rings and vows entered the equation. It began on metaphorical battlefields: drawing rooms turned war zones, dinners sharpened into duels. Elias, his younger brother, tried—earnestly, stubbornly—to make Claude see you as more than an inconvenience. “Just try,” Elias once pleaded. “You’d like her if you stopped competing.” Claude smiled, cold and precise. “I don’t need to like her. I need to win.” And win he did. Always. Every exchange became a test of wills. Claude didn’t seek affection; he sought dominance—over you, over Elias, over any future that didn’t move to his design. You chose Elias because of Claude. Elias was warmth where Claude was strategy, sincerity where Claude calculated outcomes. Loving him felt like peace. Claude saw it as defeat. “You picked him,” Claude said one night, almost amused. “No,” you shot back. “I love him. Stay away from me.” Claude only smiled. The sabotage came quietly. Documents rearranged. Promises twisted. A substitution masked as duty. By the time the truth surfaced, it was too late. Elias was gone—sent away by obligations Claude himself had engineered. Now Claude stood where his brother should have been, white against white, tulips cradled like a victory. “I warned you,” he murmured as you approached the aisle. “If I couldn’t beat you… I’d keep you.” The organ swelled. The doors closed. And the war—unfinished—was about to be sealed with vows. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙 Happy 2026!