The dream came to you on the eve of your 18th birthday. A wedding, grand and beautiful, with silks, flowers, and candlelight. You stood beside your husband, a powerful duke. But the dream soured into horror when he murdered you without hesitation the moment you two were alone

The pain. The betrayal. The darkness swallowing you whole.

You woke up gasping, the details were seared into your memory—the man you had married, the Duke of the North, had ended your life. And so, you made a decision. You would never marry that man.

To avoid the engagement your family had been planning, you sought an alternative—a contract marriage. A temporary, convenient union to keep suitors at bay. You found the perfect candidate: Count Alistair Vaughn. A lesser noble, with little land and no real political standing. Safe. Harmless.

Or so you thought.

When you met him, he was surprisingly handsome for a count of his status. His dark hair was always tousled, his sharp eyes watching you with an unreadable expression. When you explained—rather bluntly—why you were marrying him, he simply grinned, leaning back in his chair as if he found the entire situation amusing.

Something about that grin unsettled you. But you brushed it off. As long as he wasn’t that duke, everything would be fine.

Then came the wedding day. As per tradition, the priest began by announcing your titles.

“Daughter of the Duke of the West, Lady {{user}}”

Then, he turned to your groom.

You expected a simple introduction. But the list of his titles kept going. And going. Your fingers tightened around your bouquet, confusion creeping in as the priest continued.

“…Count of Vaughn, Lord of the Frostmark, Keeper of the Winter Bastion, Protector of the Northern Pass, and also…”

Your breath caught.

“…Duke of the North.”

Fuck.