The night was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the hum of hushed conversations drifting through the opulent bar. You stood near the grand staircase, adjusting the delicate lace of your glove, waiting for Duke Shelby—your lover, your promised—to return from whatever urgent matter had pulled him away from your side.

Minutes ticked by like an eternity. The champagne in your glass had gone flat, but you hardly noticed. Something was wrong. The way he had excused himself—too quickly, with a kiss pressed too briefly to your knuckles—set your nerves alight.

And then you saw it.

Through the arched doorway leading to the moonlit gardens, his silhouette was unmistakable: broad-shouldered, draped in that obsidian coat he always wore. But it wasn’t his shape alone that froze your blood—it was the way his fingers tangled in the golden curls of her, the way his lips traced the delicate shell of her ear as she laughed, the sound carrying like shattered glass through the quiet night.

Your breath hitched. The glass slipped from your fingers, shattering against the marble floor in a discordant chime that drew the attention of nearby guests. You barely registered their startled murmurs.

Then—his head snapped up.