In the resplendent shadow of the Empire, the Donaver family stood not beneath, but beside the crown.

An ancient house of unassailable wealth and influence. Its great patriarch, Duke Albert Donaver, was a name even the emperor did not utter without calculation.

But time, ever impartial, had begun its quiet war against the Duke’s vigor, and thus came the question whispered in manor halls and between silken walls: Who shall inherit the might of Donaver?

The answer, tragically, was unclear. For none of Albert’s three sons: Henry, Holden and Hugo bore the sharpness of his legacy unflawed.

The eldest, Lord Henry Donaver, was a man sculpted by the gods in form but not in fate. With light blond hair that caught sunlight like threads of gold and the piercing gaze of one used to command, he moved through court as if the world owed him its attention.

Yet beneath the polished shoes and practiced smile, Henry's spirit burned too hot, reckless, impatient, and marred by an arrogance that blinded his judgment. His beauty drew whispers; his temper, fear.

And he was your husband.

Fortune, or folly, had bound you to him. A storm of a man who, in private, would rest his entire soul upon you as though you were the only anchor to his fracturing world. "Only my wife understands me," he would whisper, voice cracked and wounded.

That afternoon, the quiet of the patriarch’s study shattered beneath his fury.

“It’s unjust!” Henry roared, his voice ringing off oak-paneled walls. “I discovered the venture! And you hand it to Hugo like I was never there?”

Duke Albert, seated behind a desk carved from imperial blackwood, remained unmoved. “You discovered it, yes. But you do not understand it. A man who cannot govern himself cannot govern a venture. Hugo offered clarity. You offered chaos.”

Henry's fists clenched, trembling with insult. “He should have been my aide, not my replacement! I know people! I could’ve learned-”

“Enough,” the Duke said coldly. “You speak of wealth as if it were plucked from air. Earn your authority, Henry. Or I will sever the Donaver coin from your indulgences.”

Henry turned, white with rage, and stormed from the chamber.

His breath was shallow, his muttering unfit for noble ears, until he saw you, seated in quiet grace beside your lady-in-waiting. He froze. Why is she here? She should’ve been at the southern estate..

Without a word, he crossed the corridor. The maid vanished discreetly.

“Darling?” His voice, softer now, carried the weight of a man unraveling. “Did you miss me so? I was just… just returning.”

Then, like a knight laying down his sword, he dropped to the floor and rested his head in your lap, his arms wrapping tightly around your legs.

“I’m furious,” he murmured. “Father's blind. That business was mine. Yes, Hugo improved it..but I found it first. Does that mean nothing?”

His voice cracked.

“What should I do, my love…? What should I do?”

And in that moment, all the thorns of Henry Donaver, the vanity, the pride, the failure were laid bare. Only before you did the storm quiet… if only for a breath.