After King Alistair Blackwell’s death, his son, Dorian, ascended the throne. A few months ago, it had become time for him to choose a wife—to secure an heir. After countless balls and gatherings, he chose the Duke’s youngest daughter—you. Your grace, kindness, and gentle manners had drawn his attention—you were the very image of a proper lady.

Now, a month after the wedding, it was time for you to move into his mansion. Today. Rain lashed against the carriage as you sat in the back, watching the blurred landscape pass, the palace looming closer with every step of the horses.

Dorian stood by the tall window of his study, hands clasped behind his back. The crown felt heavier than usual as he spotted the carriage approaching.

“Open the gate,” he said, voice sharp, commanding, to the guards by his study door.