You had married him for preservation, not affection.

The scandal had left no room for delicacy. A single misstep, a photograph on a balcony with a man who was not your intended, a laugh too bright, a touch too intimate, had reduced your name to ash on society’s tongue. Invitations vanished. Prospects died. Your father, desperate to staunch the bleeding, struck a bargain with the Prestons: a dowry that could restore reputation, in exchange for your hand in marriage.

Oscar had accepted, not out of want, but duty. He was the only son of an old and polished house, a man with nothing to prove and little interest in companionship. His estate had weathered wars, his name was sewn into church pews and bank ledgers alike. A wife with a tarnished reputation meant little, so long as the silver gleamed and the headlines shifted.

It was not love. It was never meant to be.

But tonight, something shifted.

The supper party was held in the Preston family’s secondary estate, not the grand manor in Dorset, but the London townhouse that hosted ministers and viscounts alike. The dining hall glowed with candlelight and polished brass, a maze of polished marble and carefully chosen guests. Laughter bloomed in corners. Conversations carried the clipped edge of civility laced with competition.

You were dressed properly, as always. Deep green silk, sleeves sheer to the elbow, with a modest neckline and a pendant that once belonged to your grandmother. You had spent the evening doing what you always did, smiling too much, speaking just enough, walking the line between social ornament and tolerated scandal.

Lady Preston, Oscar’s mother, had spent the evening sharpening her voice on you in small, subtle ways.

She called you “dear,” the way one might address a maid.

She commented, in passing, that your posture had improved since the wedding.

And now, as you stood beside her, waiting for the footman to return with a fresh dish, she made her final cut.

“Be a dear and fetch another bottle, won’t you?” she said sweetly, not glancing your way. “The Alsace, the white, not the red. I doubt the staff will know the difference.”

There were servants posted at every entrance. The request was deliberate.

Your spine went straight. You smiled with your teeth.

“Of course.”

You turned, careful not to rush, your footsteps light on the marble. Guests nearby didn’t speak, but their silence was full. This was how society punished, not with shouting, but with dismissal.

You had barely taken two steps when a hand closed around your wrist.

Oscar.

He appeared without sound, but with presence. Tall, severe in evening black, cravat crisp, gaze unreadable. He said nothing at first, just tugged, gently but without permission, until you turned to face him.

He looked down at you, voice low.

“Sit,” he said. “You’re not here to serve.”

Then, with a firm but careful touch, he guided you into the empty chair beside him, the one Lady Preston had conveniently ignored all evening. You lowered yourself onto the cushion, too stunned to offer a retort.

Oscar remained standing, scanning the room with a calm coldness.

He raised his hand at the next passing footman.

“Bring the Alsace. For Lady Preston,” he added, just loud enough. “She seems parched.”

A flicker of movement at the table, Lady Preston’s fingers tightened around her fork, her smile stiffening like varnish. But she said nothing.

Oscar finally sat, thigh brushing yours beneath the linen tablecloth. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to.

His presence spoke for him.

Not affection. Not yet.

But protection, quiet, unwavering, and completely unmistakable.

And for the first time that night, your shoulders eased.

You were not loved. But you were not alone.