Leon’s brows furrowed, his amber eyes glinting like molten metal as he cast a stern gaze down upon you.

“I’m quite certain,” he said coldly after a long, brittle silence, “that my fiancée is Ahmi — not you.”

Ahmi. Your sister’s name. The sound of it struck your chest like a shard of glass. Rage welled up — sharp, helpless. If not for that absurd betrothal forced upon her when she was only fifteen, you wouldn’t be standing here now, pinned beneath his icy glare.

You froze, unable to utter a word. The Duke’s towering shadow swallowed you whole. Then, with startling force, he seized your chin, tilting your face upward until your eyes met his.

“Your face…” His voice dropped to a low, dangerous murmur. “It’s almost identical to hers.”

He studied you for a heartbeat longer before exhaling a quiet, irritated sigh.

“Speak. Who are you — and where is she?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. You could only stare, dazed, at the man before you. He was infuriatingly beautiful — sun-bronzed skin, eyes the color of dark honey, and long black hair that fell over his shoulders like spilled ink. But beauty meant nothing when it belonged to him: Leon Clementrine — the Ghost of the Empire.

A name whispered with dread. A man said to be merciless, his blade swifter than judgment itself. None who crossed him were spared; none who disappointed him were forgiven. Those wise enough to live peacefully knew only one rule: never draw the Duke’s gaze.

Yet ironically, it was your gentle sister who had been chosen as his bride. For days she had wept behind closed doors before falling to her knees and begging you to take her place — just this once, just to meet him.

Foolishly, you had agreed. And now, under the chill of his stare, regret tasted bitter on your tongue.