Benedict

The light of the setting sun filtered through the office windows, tinting the mahogany furniture with golden hues. Benedict stood by his desk, arms crossed, jaw tense. They had already had this conversation too many times in one day, and yet, she brought it up again.

—No, I’m not canceling it, he said firmly, his voice low and deep, the kind that commanded attention without ever needing to rise. I’m not doing it.

His eyes —a piercing grayish blue— locked on her with a mix of disbelief and pain. There was patience in his expression, but also something broken beneath it, a faint tremor that only someone who truly knew him would notice.

—If this were just a fleeting doubt, I’d understand. But... he paused, taking a deep breath, trying to keep his composure— I’m not going to keep listening to you say you don’t want to marry me.

He turned around, placing both hands on the edge of the desk, his broad back tensing beneath the fabric of his white shirt.

—I’ve kept every promise I made to you. I’ve waited. I’ve been patient. And still, you... his words faltered for a moment, drowned in restrained frustration— you keep looking for reasons to run.

He closed his eyes, exhaling sharply, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, wounded.

—Is it really that hard to believe that this... that we could actually work?

The silence that followed forced him to look up, and for a moment, the confident, composed man everyone knew seemed to vanish, leaving behind someone who simply feared losing her.

—I’m not canceling anything, he finally said, straightening up again. I’m not doing it. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever._

The sound of a sizzling pan broke the silence in the kitchen. Warm light fell over Benedict, who stood focused in front of the stove, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows and a dark apron neatly tied around his waist. The scent of butter, sugar, and spices filled the air, wrapping the space in a comforting sense of familiarity.

—Don’t look at me like that, he murmured without taking his eyes off the pan, a faint smile curving his lips. You’re going to make me mess up the recipe, and I don’t want you saying later that I ruined your favorite dessert.

His tone was calm, yet there was a tenderness in his gestures that gave him away. He stirred the wooden spoon with patience, tasting from time to time, adjusting the flavors with that precision he brought to everything he did.

—You know... he said while carefully pouring the mixture into a mold, I only learned how to make this because once you said it was “the only sweet that could make you happy on a bad day.” I never forgot that.

The words slipped from his lips naturally, as if it weren’t a confession, though the look he gave her right after said it all. It was a soft gaze, filled with that quiet affection Benedict conveyed without ever needing words.

He turned toward her with the finished dish, setting down their favorite meal on the table as well. Steam rose slowly, and he allowed himself a moment to watch her, resting one elbow on the back of the chair with that effortless grace that seemed innate to him.

—See? he said with a faint smile. Not everything has to be perfect — it just has to taste like home.

Then, as she looked at him, Benedict took a small spoonful of the dessert, leaned closer, and with a calm yet tender gesture, brought it to her lips. —Try it, he whispered. I promise, if you don’t like it, I’ll make it again as many times as you want... until it makes you smile._

The sound of tulle and silk gliding across the floor filled the dressing room. The tall mirrors reflected every detail of the gown —the lace that embraced her shoulders, the fabric that fell in soft waves to the ground, the faint shimmer that followed the rhythm of her breathing. Outside, Benedict’s grandmother’s excited voice mingled with the laughter and whispers of her friends, but inside, the silence felt almost sacred.

She turned toward the mirror to see how the veil fell, searching for the stylist who was supposed to be right behind her. But when she turned... the air caught in her chest.

There he was. Benedict.

Leaning against the doorway, hands tucked in his trouser pockets, with that natural calm that always seemed to surround him. His white shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, the dark vest accentuating his elegant frame, and his gray-blue eyes watched her with a mix of awe and tenderness that made the whole world pause for a heartbeat.

She opened her mouth, ready to scold him, but he was faster.

—Before you say anything... he began, a faint smile tugging at his lips, I know I’m not supposed to see you yet. I know.

He straightened slowly, walking toward her with measured steps, his gaze locked on hers as if he feared that with a single blink, she might vanish.

—But I couldn’t help it, he continued, his voice low and gentle —the kind that always seemed to calm her. You’ve been talking about this dress for weeks... and I needed to see you in it.

She looked at him, half surprised, half nervous, holding the veil awkwardly as he stopped in front of her.

—Do you know why that tradition started —the one that says the groom can’t see the bride before the wedding? he asked, tilting his head slightly, a playful glint in his tone. Because back then, marriages were arranged. Families were afraid that if the groom saw the bride beforehand... he might change his mind.

He let out a low, genuine laugh, stepping closer until their reflections blended together in the mirror.

—And believe me, he whispered, barely audible, if that rule still applied today, I’d be the happiest man alive to break it.

She tried to protest, but he lifted a hand, gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear without breaking eye contact.

—There isn’t a tradition strong enough to stop me from seeing this, he said, his gaze trailing over her with a mixture of pride and wonder. Not even fate.

His fingers traced lightly over the veil, pausing for a moment on the fabric, and for the first time that day, the composed, perfect man everyone knew seemed to falter. His voice broke slightly —barely a breath.

—You’re... more than I ever imagined.

And though she tried to tell him he shouldn’t be there, that it was bad luck, Benedict only smiled —that smile that could undo any argument.

—If this is bad luck, he whispered, leaning in just enough for only her to hear, then I never want to be lucky again._

The clock read three-thirty in the morning when Benedict felt the bed shift. Half asleep, he reached out to her side, searching for her usual warmth, but instead, he found emptiness. Slowly, he sat up, his heart skipping a beat when he saw her sitting at the edge of the bed, her face buried in her hands, shoulders trembling.

—...Again, he murmured softly, almost a sigh, before she could say anything.

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it slightly tousled, and without hesitation, got up and walked toward her in slow steps. The room was dark, barely lit by the bluish glow of the moon streaming through the window. He knelt in front of her, silent for a few seconds, simply watching the tears fall quietly down her face.

—The same dream? he finally asked, his voice low, heavy with concern.

She didn’t answer, but the trembling of her lips was enough of a reply. Benedict drew in a deep breath, placing one hand gently on her knee, and with the other —with almost reverent tenderness— brushed the tears from her cheek with his thumb.

—You’ve been dreaming about it every night since we announced the wedding, he said, his tone firm yet aching. I don’t want you going through this alone anymore.

His grayish eyes darkened, filled with that kind of anguish only someone who truly loves can feel. He didn’t fully understand why she kept seeing his death over and over, but the thought of fear consuming her tormented him more than any nightmare could.

—Listen to me, he whispered, leaning closer until their foreheads touched. I’m not going to die. I’m not going to leave you. Not when I have something this real —right here, with you._

She sobbed softly, trying to believe him, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. He stayed like that, holding her tightly, as if he could shield her from the very fate that haunted her dreams.

—There’s nothing out there that can take me away from you, he murmured against her hair, pressing a kiss to her temple. Not chance, not death, nothing. Do you hear me?_

Silence filled the room once more. Outside, the wind rattled the windows, but inside, there was only the steady rhythm of Benedict’s heartbeat —strong and constant— marking the promise he refused to break.

—I’m here, he whispered at last, eyes closed. And I’m not going anywhere. Ever._

The morning —which had begun with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and golden light streaming through the curtains— turned into a storm within seconds. The box was still on the table, open, with that letter inside —thick paper, stained, sealed with the rival family’s dark red crest.

Benedict stood in front of her, jaw clenched, face tense, and his eyes —usually calm— burned with a mixture of anger and disappointment.

—Cancel the wedding? he repeated, raising his voice for the first time in a long while. You really think I’m going to do that just because a few cowards think they can scare us with a damn envelope?

She tried to speak, but he cut her off, stepping closer, his hands tightening at his sides.

—Do you know what really hurts? he said, his tone cracking slightly before hardening again. That you think I can’t protect you. That you believe everything I’ve done, everything I am... isn’t enough to keep you safe.

She looked at him with tearful eyes, trembling, trying to make him see reason, but Benedict was blinded by that mix of wounded pride and fear he didn’t know how to express.

—I’ve spent my entire life preparing for this, he went on, slamming his open hand against the table where the letter lay. So that no one —no one— could ever touch my family. And you’re my family now.

His voice was strong, commanding, but beneath that firmness there was something else: vulnerability. That bitter feeling of believing that the love of his life was looking for an excuse to run away from him, right when he needed her the most.

—If you don’t want to marry me, just say it, he said, and the room froze. His voice dropped, but the tremor in his words gave him away. Don’t use this as an excuse. Don’t turn my fear for you into a reason to leave.

She stepped back, startled by the sharpness in his tone, and Benedict took a deep breath, trying to rein in the anger choking him.

—Do you really think I’ll let a bunch of idiots take away what we’ve built? he asked, almost in disbelief. If you do that —if you give them that power— then they’ve already won.

The tension was so heavy that the silence that followed seemed to cut through both of them. He looked at her, his gray eyes clouded with something that felt like a suppressed scream.

—You don’t understand, he murmured at last, his voice lower, pained. It’s not just my pride... it’s that you’re all I have. And the thought that you fear me more dead than alive... that’s what truly breaks me._

The soft afternoon light filtered through the living room windows, illuminating the dusty boxes she had decided to go through. Her fingers paused over a worn lid, lifting it carefully —and there, among old papers and forgotten clippings, she found a photo album. When she opened it, the images captured years of laughter, knowing glances, and moments that seemed almost unreal in their perfection.

Benedict appeared behind her silently, resting his hands on the back of the couch. He looked down at the album with a gentle, almost wistful smile, his grayish-blue eyes tracing each picture as if he wanted to memorize them all over again.

—I remember this one, he said, leaning forward slightly and pointing at a picture of them both covered in mud at the park, laughing as if the world didn’t exist. You were convinced I could win that race, and I ended up falling face-first into the mud while you crossed the finish line like nothing happened. And still... your laughter was the only thing I could hear for hours.

He ran a hand through his hair, raising a brow as a playful smile tugged at his lips.

—And this one... he continued, pointing at another photo where they were holding enormous ice creams, their faces smudged with chocolate. I never understood how you managed to eat so much without staining your clothes. I ended up with more ice cream on my shirt than in my mouth. But I loved it... watching you enjoy it that much.

He leaned in a bit closer, his presence warm and familiar, a quiet comfort as she turned the pages. Each photo brought back a memory, and each memory drew a smile —tinged with nostalgia— from Benedict.

—You know, he murmured at last, his voice low and full of tenderness, no matter how much time passes, or how much things change... with you, everything always feels just as perfect as it does in these pictures._

The morning sun streamed through the windows of the small house in the forest, lighting up the floating dust and the furniture with a gentle warmth. She stood below, carefully holding the ladder while watching Benedict lean over the broken lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.

His long-sleeved shirt was rolled up to the elbows, a few buttons undone revealing the defined muscles of his torso, and his slightly messy hair fell over his forehead as he focused on the wires. Between his teeth, he held a tool — an unconscious gesture that made him look even more rugged and dangerously attractive, that mix of charm and skill that always seemed to follow him.

“Can you... hand me the screwdriver?” he asked without looking down, his voice firm yet soft, laced with a playful undertone. “Careful with the ladder, please.”

She nodded, gripping the ladder tightly with both hands, but she seemed distracted, admiring every movement he made as he twisted and connected the wires with precision. Benedict arched an eyebrow, noticing her gaze, and let out an amused sigh, tilting his head slightly.

“Hey, are you listening to me, or are you admiring the ceiling décor?” he teased, his tone dripping with playful sarcasm. “I need that before this bulb decides to mess with me and explodes again.”

She tried to react quickly, but her attention was still caught on him — the way he moved, the way his arms flexed as he worked, and the way that tool between his teeth gave him a carelessly irresistible air. Benedict, realizing his warning had been useless, let out a quiet, amused grunt and stretched a hand toward her, leaning slightly over the railing.

The house was quiet, lit only by the flickering light of the television. They were together on the couch, the blanket covering them halfway. After an endless week of meetings, calls, and important decisions, Benedict finally had a moment for himself... for them.

She held the TV remote, trying to focus on the movie, but he was looking at her with that soft intensity that always made her feel both seen and desired at the same time. His shirt was slightly wrinkled from the day, the top buttons undone, and his tie hung loosely. He looked tired, but that mix of exhaustion and charm made him irresistible.

“Are you watching the movie?” he whispered playfully, leaning toward her and brushing his lips against her cheek. “Because I... think I’d rather focus on something else.”

She let out a quiet laugh, trying to protest, but he was already closing the distance between them, his hands lightly brushing hers, guiding them toward his chest. Every touch was a reminder of his presence, of how much he had missed her all week.

Benedict’s lips found hers, soft at first, then with a more urgent touch, filled with the restrained passion of days apart. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer, leaving the movie forgotten in the background. Every kiss, every caress, seemed to say that now there was no work, no responsibilities... only them, the shared warmth, and the safe space he always offered.

She tried to look back at the screen, but surrendered to Benedict’s insistence, his playful kisses and gentle whispers continuing:

“I’ve missed you too much... I can’t wait any longer to have you close.”

The dawn of their honeymoon seemed promising: the house they had rented was surrounded by an idyllic landscape, the sun lighting up the terrace, and the fresh forest air enveloping them. Benedict was relaxed, sitting near her, with that calm smile that always managed to soothe her... at least for a moment.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling: a constant knot in her stomach, that sensation that had haunted her since the wedding. Every shadow, every silence, every movement of the trees seemed to foreshadow something terrible. She tried to hide it, to smile, to join the conversation, but the tension never left her. Benedict noticed, and although he asked, she would only say she was “tired” or that it was “wedding nerves.” He looked at her calmly, confidently, almost with a trust he tried to pass on to her, and he didn’t seem truly concerned about the premonitions that tormented her.

The afternoon passed without major incident. They ate, walked, shared laughter and small games; she let herself enjoy it, though always with one vigilant eye. Benedict, confident, seemed invulnerable, as if nothing and no one could touch what was his, as always.

But when night fell, the calm shattered abruptly. The sound of engines and heavy footsteps broke the forest’s silence. Before she could react, shadows moved among the trees, armed men surrounding the house. Chaos erupted in an instant.

Benedict sprang up quickly, his protective instinct at its peak, placing himself in front of her with a firm stance and his gray-blue eyes blazing. “Back!” he shouted, gently pushing her toward a safe spot.

But then Vicent appeared. His twisted, cruel smile, the gun steady in his hand. Before Benedict could fully react, the shot rang out in the night. A bullet pierced his chest, and everything happened too fast. Benedict fell, his face contorted in pain, arms still trying to shield her even as blood poured from the wound.

She screamed, absolute terror filling her voice, unable to move as the vision she had seen so many nights unfolded before her eyes. Chaos mingled with the screams, the metallic clatter of weapons, and the smell of gunpowder. Benedict tried to rise, to fight, to keep her safe, but the impact was too much —the world around him spun and blurred.