I Married the 'Mad' Heir

Ch 4: The Spare Son’s Silks

Abel was led away by a stiff-backed valet who murmured something about ”preparations.” He went without complaint, shooting one last curious glance at Orion over his shoulder before the door closed.

Silence reclaimed the room.

Orion sat on the edge of the bed for another minute, the lukewarm tea forgotten in his hands. The maid’s cold dismissal still prickled on his skin. He set the cup down with a soft click and stood.

His trunk had been brought up during the night. It sat near the ornate dressing screen, a simple, dark wood box amidst the Valerian opulence. He walked to it, his bare feet silent on the thick rug. He needed to dress. To present himself. To face his new family.

He opened the trunk.

Inside, folded with impersonal neatness, were his wedding clothes from yesterday and a few other sets of formal robes. All in shades of grey, charcoal, and dove—the muted palette of an Omega son who was not meant to stand out.

But he couldn’t wear yesterday’s heavy ceremonial robes to a family breakfast. He needed something simpler.

A smaller, more elegant lacquered box rested beside the trunk. His new wardrobe, sent ahead by the Valerian household as part of the marriage agreement. Gifts from his in-laws. A gesture of welcome.

Orion lifted the lid.

Silks and fine wools greeted him, rich jewel tones and expensive fabrics. Deep emerald, royal blue, crimson. Far finer than anything he owned.

A faint, hollow feeling settled in his stomach.

He lifted out a deep blue tunic, embroidered with silver thread. He held it up against himself.

The hem stopped several inches above his ankles.

Frowning, he reached for another—a forest green robe with fur trim. He held it up. The sleeves ended well above his wrists.

One by one, he pulled them out. A wine-red vest. A cream-colored overcoat. All exquisite. All tailored for a man shorter than him. A man with slimmer shoulders, a narrower frame.

His brother’s frame.

The realization didn’t come as a shock. It arrived quietly, like a stone dropping into still water. He stood there, holding the beautiful, ill-fitting clothes, and felt the truth sink in.

These weren’t gifts for him. They were the trousseau prepared for Elian. For the favored son. For the intended bride.

They had just swapped out the groom and kept the wardrobe.

Orion let the green robe slip from his fingers. It pooled on the floor like a discarded skin.

Elian.

His younger brother by two years. Beautiful, charming, spoiled. The light of their father’s second marriage.

Orion remembered the obsession.

When Abel Valerian was still the untarnished golden heir, his name was magic in high society. Elian had been enchanted. He collected gossip like treasure. He secured a miniature portrait of Abel and kept it on his bedside table. He would sigh dramatically about Abel’s military victories, his commanding presence, his ”devastatingly noble profile.”

When the engagement was announced, Elian had preened for weeks. He held court among his friends, basking in their envy. He practiced his signature with ”Valerian” appended to his own name. He commissioned fabrics for his future wedding clothes—rich blues and greens, because they complemented Abel’s gold-and-black house colors.

He lived inside the dream of that powerful alliance.

Then the carriage accident.

The news had been grim. Abel was alive, but changed. The whispers started. Unstable. Simple. Childish.

Elian’s visits to the Valerian estate grew fewer, then stopped altogether. The excited planning gave way to silence. Then, to disgust.

Orion had overheard the argument in his father’s study. Elian’s voice, sharp and petulant, slicing through the closed door.

”I can’t! I absolutely cannot marry a lunatic! He’s broken, Father! He drools, they say! He plays with blocks like a toddler! Everyone at court laughs at him behind their hands. They’ll laugh at me! I’ll be a laughingstock chained to a madman!”

Their father’s voice had been lower, calmer. Orion hadn’t heard the words, only the placating tone.

Then, days later, the summons. The cold pronouncement in the study. You will marry Abel Valerian.

They hadn’t even changed the clothes.

Orion looked down at the silks on the floor. The rich colors seemed to mock him. These were the fabrics of Elian’s triumphant fantasy, now handed to the spare son like a hand-me-down costume. A symbol of how seamlessly he could be slotted into the empty space his brother had vacated.

He was the logical solution. The quiet, uncomplaining son who asked for little. The one whose life could be bent to fit the shape of the family’s need. The alliance remained intact. The embarrassing, broken heir was still neatly tied to their bloodline. And Elian remained free, unburdened, ready to chase a better, shinier match.

Orion had been the sacrifice. Laid neatly on the altar to preserve everyone else’s comfort.

He bent down slowly and picked up the green robe. He smoothed the fur trim with his thumb. It was soft. Expensive.

He walked to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. He held the robe up against himself again, staring at his reflection. The face that looked back was pale, composed, his grey-green eyes flat. The robe was too short, too small. It was made for a different life, a different person.

A slow, cold anger began to kindle in his chest. Not a raging fire, but a deep, smoldering coal.

He would not wear his brother’s rejected clothes.

He dropped the robe back into the lacquered box and closed the lid with a definitive snap.

He turned to his own trunk. From the bottom, he pulled out a simple, well-tailored tunic of charcoal grey wool and matching trousers. His own clothes. Modest, but they fit. They were his.

He dressed methodically, his movements precise. He brushed his hair back, tying it simply at the nape of his neck. He looked at himself in the mirror once more.

The man staring back was not Elian. He was not a smiling, eager bride in borrowed silks. He was Orion Valen. The spare son. The replacement.

And he was now Orion Valerian.

He took a final, steadying breath. The cold anger settled into a hard, clear resolve in his gut.

They had used him. They had thought he would simply wear the clothes and play the part.

Fine.

But he would play it by his own rules.

He turned from the mirror and walked toward the chamber door. It was time to go downstairs. It was time to meet the family that had traded for him, and the husband who didn’t understand what forever meant.

He placed his hand on the door handle. The metal was cool.

Then he opened the door, and stepped out to meet his new life.