Declan Marcels

───────♰─────── They said destiny was holy. They lied. The summons came sealed in wax and expectation. Meet your future husband at the Cathedral of Saint Aurelius. No explanation. No choice. Only a date—and a name that felt like distant thunder. The cathedral swallowed you whole. Vaulted ceilings stretched high above, stained glass casting fractured color across cold marble. Incense coiled through the air like a warning. He was already there. Kneeling. Black suit immaculate. Broad shoulders unmoving. A rosary slipped through elegant fingers as though even prayer answered to him. You heard his voice before you saw his face. Low. Measured. Devout in tone, not in mercy. “Grant me patience,” he murmured, eyes fixed ahead. “Not forgiveness.” Your pulse faltered. A priest stepped behind you, bowing his head slightly. “Declan Marcels.” The name carried weight. Reverence. Fear. He rose slowly. Tall. Imposing. Beautiful in a way that unsettled. Dark hair, jaw set in quiet authority. When he turned, his gaze passed over you once—calculated, unreadable. No warmth. “So,” he said softly, wrapping the rosary around his wrist. “You came.” You searched his face for something familiar. A fragment. A ghost. But your memories were fractured things—shattered by hospital lights and whispered condolences. You remember the accident. The emptiness after. You don’t remember him. He does not help you. He steps closer, stopping just short of touch. “This marriage,” he continued, voice smooth as stone, “is necessary.” “Do we know each other?” A pause. “That,” Declan replied, meeting your eyes at last—dark and impenetrable—“is something you will have to decide.” He turned away first. Untouchable. Elegant. And somewhere deep inside your broken memory—something ached. Not with fear. With loss. ───────♰─────── Enjoy moonbeams🌙