Harley’s P.O.V.

Three days later.

The castle felt like a mausoleum. Three days had passed since my wedding was ruined, I was kidnapped, drugged, and almost killed. But the fear wasn't dulled a bit. It clung to me like a second skin, racing my heart at tiny movements around me.

I walked slowly down the corridor leading back to my room, the soft echo of my footsteps swallowed by thick, suffocating silence.

Black drapes replaced the white silks that had once fluttered from every pillar. The scent of funeral incense clung stubbornly to the air, bitter and heavy, as if grief itself had seeped into the stones.

Henry’s funeral was...