CHAPTER 462: WEDDING GOWN

His daringness was not a surprise— no, she had long grown used to his arrogance— but the boldness, that expression that gleamed across his face as though he had won, as though everything he did was utterly correct, that was what made Arabella’s fingers twitch with the unbearable urge to grab a fistful of his silver hair.

It wouldn’t be fair, she thought bitterly, that he could stand there so smug, making her feel a frustration that climbed like fire up her throat, while he smiled as though her fury was a performance crafted solely for his amusement.

The air was thick with the scent of roses and wax; the candles flickered, their light trembling against the pale blue walls. Each second stretched, the silence sharpened— and then Morpheus moved.

He saw her expression, and with the unhurried confidence of a man who believed the world itself bent for him, he walked forward. The echo of his polished black shoes on the marble floor struck through the room like a measured drumbeat. When he reached the pastel colored round chair by the window, he stopped.

Reaching toward the chair, he picked up the white gown that lay draped over it— the one she had not yet even dared to touch. With slow deliberation, he stretched the gown out in front of him, lifting it toward the light so that the fabric shimmered faintly like morning frost.

"A gorgeous color and a fitting shape. Isn’t this all you could ever ask for, dear?"

Arabella finally exhaled, her sigh slicing through the suffocating air. Her eyes snapped to the left —and there she saw her. The same maid who had tussled in the middle of the day with Morpheus, her cheeks still faintly red with embarrassment, her head bowed low as if her very presence could dissolve under the weight of guilt.

So this was it.

With such evidence of betrayal standing right before her, here he was— bold and unflinching, daring enough to hold up a wedding gown and speak of their marriage as though nothing were amiss.

Anger surged through her veins, rising like a fever until it reached her temples. The maid was at fault, certainly— but Morpheus? He was the root of it. The one who chose to test her heart. The one who turned love into a game of control and cruelty. The very man she wished, in that burning moment, she could stab without hesitation.

The problem wasn’t her courage— she had plenty of that. Nor was it the lack of a weapon; she knew there were daggers hidden among the room’s ornaments, silver pins sharp enough to draw blood.

No, the problem was her body itself.

It refused to hurt him.

Even when her mind screamed, even when her chest heaved with the need to fight back, her body betrayed her— frozen, unwilling, bound by the remnants of the spell that tangled her heart.

She was angry, heartbroken, and perhaps even vengeful— yet her limbs remained still, her pulse trembling with a sorrow that felt heavier than fear.

Closing her eyes, Arabella forced her breath to slow. The storm inside her needed to quiet— not for him, but for herself. When she opened her eyes again, her gaze gleamed emerald bright under the candlelight, and a faint smile curved her lips, calm yet cutting.

"I can’t."

The words dropped into the silence like a blade.

Morpheus’s smile froze on his lips, hanging there a second too long before fading— slow, like a curtain drawing shut at the end of a tragedy. His gaze, always cruel, turned cold enough to send a ripple through the room. It wasn’t often that his smile disappeared, and the rarity of it was enough to make every maid collapse into immediate submission.

The rustle of skirts filled the air as they fell to their knees, one after another, foreheads pressing to the floor as though the very stones demanded their obedience. The sudden stillness that followed was suffocating.

Even Isaac felt the shudder crawl through his bones. Bound by the maids’ grasp earlier and instructed by Arabella to remain still, he had obeyed with clenched fists and silent rage. But now, seeing the women who held him drop to the ground as though struck by invisible lightning, fear coiled around his spine like a serpent.

When he saw Morpheus’s back from behind him, he could feel the radiating, suffocating aura of wrath which almost stopped his breath. Even his blood, bound by magic to Arabella’s will, seemed to recoil in instinctive dread. But Isaac refused to bend.

He would not kneel. He would not give that satisfaction.

He stood firm, though his heart thundered in his chest, his eyes blazing with the same disdain that had always marked his hatred for the man who dared to call himself Arabella’s lover.

Morpheus stepped forward, and in a flash of panic— the kind that felt like a blade pressed against one’s throat — Isaac shouted, his voice cracking through the silence, "Don’t— Don’t hurt the lady!"

The words echoed, desperate and raw, bouncing off the marble walls and the heavy velvet curtains. And for the briefest moment, the entire world seemed to hold its breath— as though waiting to see which heart would shatter first.

Morpheus reached out his fingertips toward her, the faint shimmer of magic flickering at the edge of his skin— an invisible tension that filled the air like static before a storm. Yet Arabella didn’t flinch. She stood perfectly still, unyielding, her emerald eyes locked on his like twin blades catching the light.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of them moved. His gaze was the kind that could command men to kneel and silence to fall— yet she, she met it with a calm so defiant it bordered on dangerous. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest, but not once did she look away.

Morpheus’s fingers hung in the air between them, inches from her cheek, trembling ever so slightly— as though he couldn’t decide whether to touch her or strangle her. His pupils dilated, swallowing the faint light, demanding something from her that even he didn’t seem to understand.

Then, Arabella sighed. Her lips curved, not with fear, but with that sharp, disarming smile that always seemed to cut through his fury like glass.

"Do you know my dream about a wedding?" she asked softly, her voice as calm as the surface of still water.

Morpheus’s eyes narrowed, the shadows deepening around them. The smile that had once hovered on his lips was gone, replaced with an expression so severe it could have cracked stone. His fury simmered beneath his skin, restrained only by the thinnest thread of self-control.

"What is it?" he asked curtly, his tone biting enough to make the air tremble— but Arabella did not waver.

Instead, she chuckled— light, almost mocking— and turned her back to him. Her steps carried her across the marble floor, each one slow and deliberate until she reached the window. The moonlight streamed over her like a veil, glinting off the edges of her crimson hair and the faint shimmer of her gown.

"I wish for a grand wedding," she murmured, lifting her hand as if tracing a dream in the air.

Morpheus tilted his head, his voice cold. "That’s all?"

"Let me finish." Her tone was smooth, commanding. She raised her hand higher, her fingers catching the faint dust of moonlight as she spoke, her voice rich with imagined splendor. "I wish to marry a man who is strong, powerful, and could bring me what I want. Granted, I don’t have a father or mother who would attend my wedding— nor would I like to invite my father— so I think it’s only right for me to put my future husband to a test. To see whether he truly cares for me."

Her words echoed in the hall, carried by a strange serenity that contrasted the storm brewing in Morpheus’s silence.

He stared at her, his jaw tightening. "So, simply put, you need me to fulfill your test."

"Why?" Arabella turned back to him, her lips curling into a soft, mischievous smile. "You put me to a test, didn’t you?" A laugh escaped her, faint and melodic. "I know you’re a man of such great position, but if you can put me to test, why can’t I do the same? In marriage, a wife and husband must be equal. You test me— I test you. It’s only fair."

Her eyes gleamed, playful yet cutting. "After all, I’ll only marry one man in my entire life. I can’t simply agree to you setting the day by your own whim, choosing a wedding dress that —" she glanced at the gown still hanging from his hand and chuckled — "barely fits my taste, and then call yourself my husband without the test."

Morpheus’s expression hardened. The corners of his lips twitched downward, and for a moment, his voice dropped into a chilling murmur.

"I don’t think this marriage is your choice."

Arabella’s smile froze— only for a moment —before she straightened, the light in her eyes turning fierce.

"Do you know what I might do if you dare to force me into a marriage?"

Her voice cut through the silence like a blade. The shift in her tone was so sudden, so sharp, that even the maids nearby stiffened. Her words were calm, but the warning that bled beneath them was unmistakable— as though the air itself could ignite if she wished it to.

Morpheus’s eyes flickered, dangerous and cold. "Are you threatening me?"

"If it works," Arabella replied, her tone airy, unbothered, "why not?"

Then, without waiting for his answer, she crossed the last few steps to the window and lowered herself gracefully into the chair beside it. The moonlight framed her like a painting — beautiful, untouchable, and quietly defiant. She folded her hands on her lap and hummed softly, as though the conversation had bored her.

"I will only marry when the sky is pretty blue," she said dreamily, "and when I find the right wedding gown. Also, of course, after you fulfill the tests I will give you."

Her voice softened, carrying a hint of finality as she turned her head slightly, eyes glinting. "Then," she added, "I want you to agree with one last condition."