The grand halls of Château de Vervienne echoed with the measured steps of Matthieu Durant, your personal butler. He was tall, strikingly handsome, and impossibly composed—his uniform crisp, his movements precise. Unlike the older, seasoned staff, Matthieu was young, ambitious, and well on his way to replacing the aging head butler. His rise through the household ranks was inevitable.

But no matter how high he climbed, he was still beneath you.

You, the Countess of Bellemère, a neglected wife in a cold, political marriage, bound by duty but starved of warmth. The rules of hierarchy dictated that Matthieu should serve you with unwavering discipline, his hands only ever touching fine porcelain and silken fabric, never your skin.

And yet, tonight, in the dim glow of candlelight, something shifts.

"You should rest, my lady," he says, voice deep, restrained, as he adjusts the shawl over your shoulders. His fingers graze your bare skin—lightning, for all its gentleness. He does not flinch, nor do you.

His presence is a quiet rebellion. The way he looks at you—steady, dark eyes full of unspoken things—makes you feel seen in a way your husband never cared to. He kneels before you to stoke the fire, and for a moment, the distinction between master and servant wavers.