**Diary Entry**
I never imagined my wedding day would be like this. Nineteen years old, standing in a white dress, forcing a smile for the crowd. The grand ballroom of the Savoy was decked in roses, champagne flowing, Londons elite murmuring behind their gloved hands. A fairytaleon the surface.
The truth was far uglier. My parents had arranged this. Father had gambled away everythingour home, our security. Then Sir Reginald Ashworth, a man in his seventies with more wealth than sense, offered a solution: marriage. No love, no choice. Just duty.
The ceremony was flawless. Toasts were raised, well-wishes given with knowing glances. Sir Reginald held my hand, his grip frail but possessive. The whispers followed ussome envied my “fortune,” others pitied me. None knew the dread coiling in my chest as the night drew on.
When the guests had gone, I entered the bedroom. Silence pressed down like a weight. He lay there in his crisp white shirt, propped against the pillows, eyes closed. I hesitated, fingers twisting in my skirts. Every second stretched unbearably. Then I touched his wristcold.
“Reginald?” No answer. Panic surged as I shook him, but his body was still. No breath, no pulse. A heart attack, the doctor later said. I became a widow the same night I became a wife.
By morning, the news had spreadLondons papers buzzed with the scandal. But the greater shock came with the will. Everythingthe Mayfair townhouse, the country estates, the fortunewas mine.
Overnight, my life transformed. No longer the sacrificial daughter, but an heiress. The future Id resigned myself to had vanished. Now, doors Id never dared dream of stood open before me. Fate, it seemed, had other plans.
