Reborn: Marrying The Cold Disabled Marquis

Yet, she waited alone until night fell. Her husband, Lord Dylan Lucas, had not appeared.

Lord Dylan had not even attended his own wedding ceremony, sending his younger cousin to stand as a proxy in the groom's place.

The whispers among the few guests were merciless, gossiping about how insignificant Gabriella must be for the groom to not even bother showing up.

In her past life, Seraphina had endured the same humiliation, becoming a laughingstock the very next day.

Dylan Lucas was, indeed, a man of cold disposition and few desires.

In her previous life, after casting Seraphina out, he never remarried, remaining solitary for the rest of his days.

Until five years later, when his old wounds relapsed, leading to his untimely death.

Gabriella turned her head and instructed her maid, Eliza, to have the kitchens prepare a warm bowl of soothing herbal broth for Lord Dylan.

Finally, deep into the night, the heavy oak door creaked open. A gust of cold night air swept in, carrying the faint scent of wine and the chill of winter.

Lord Dylan Lucas stood in the doorway. He was taller than she remembered from his brief appearances at court, dressed in a stark black formal coat, his frame broad and imposing.

He stopped before her, his stormy grey eyes scanning her—cold and detached, like a general inspecting new artillery. There was no warmth, not a shred of a husband's interest.

A knot of tension tightened in Gabriella's stomach, but she maintained a serene expression. She had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in her mind.

He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing coldly against her cheek as he unceremoniously lifted her veil.

Their eyes met. His gaze was as cold as ice.

"Miss Curtis," he began, his voice a low rumble. "Or I suppose it is Lady Lucas now. There are certain things we must clarify from the very beginning."

Gabriella remained silent, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"I married you to fulfill my duty to my grandmother," he stated bluntly. "And to provide a nominal mother for my three adopted sons." He paused, letting the harsh honesty sink in. "This marriage is nothing more than that. I will not offer you my companionship, my affection, or my bed. In no true sense shall we be husband and wife."

Every word was like a shard of ice, methodically dissecting any illusions of matrimony.

Gabriella's eyelashes fluttered—a flawless imitation of a heartbroken young bride.

Slowly, she stood up, the heavy silk of her gown rustling around her. She executed a perfect curtsy, allowing him a brief glimpse of disappointment in her eyes before masking it away. "I understand, my lord," she said, her voice soft but clear, carrying just the right amount of tremor. "I never harbored any unrealistic expectations."

Gabriella raised her head, meeting his gaze—wide-eyed and sincere, shimmering with unshed tears. "My only request, my lord, is that you allow me to fulfill my duties to the children. To care for them as if they were my own." She pressed her advantage, her tone filled with tender earnestness. "They have lost so much already. They need a mother's love. I promise you, I will be a capable and devoted stepmother."

Her words struck the only chink in his armor. His sons were his sole weakness.

He scrutinized her, searching for any trace of deceit.

But he found none.

All he saw was a woman who knew her place and offered a practical solution.

Gabriella held her breath inwardly.

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension.

The muscle in Dylan's jaw tightened, then relaxed. Finally, the rigid line of his mouth softened, almost imperceptibly.

"Very well," he said stiffly. A pact was sealed.

He turned, preparing to leave for the adjacent study to sleep.

Just as his hand grasped the cold brass doorknob, Gabriella suddenly called out to him.

"My lord. Please, wait."