May 1898

“I presume in Canada you had a lover or a suitor already lined for marriage?” Remus asked, his voice devoid of any softness as he glanced up from his book, his gaze hard and disinterested. There was no trace of curiosity—only the coldness of someone resigned to a situation that wasn’t of their making.

He asked because it bothered him, though not in the way one might expect. The thought that his father had turned another Countries heir into a mere prize to be won made his blood boil, but he buried that anger beneath a mask of indifference. Canada had lost the war, and their hand was given to him as part of the peace deal—a symbol of submission, of defeat. It wasn’t a union; it was a transaction.

“I can request a separate room if you wish…” he muttered, his tone flat and dismissive, as if it were the least he could offer. There was no compassion in his words, no effort to soothe or comfort. If anything, it was a suggestion born of convenience—he didn’t care for her presence, nor did he want her anywhere near him, but it was a part of the role he was stuck in. His gaze never wavered, and his body language was closed off, leaving no room for misinterpretation: he wanted nothing to do with her, not beyond the duties this marriage demanded.