Simon stood quietly in the doorway, his figure framed by the dim light of the hallway. The fire in the drawing room flickered gently, casting warm shadows over the polished wood and heavy curtains. Outside, the cold wind whispered through the bare branches of the garden trees, reminding him of the harsh winter nights ahead.

He was the Count of Westmoor, a man bound by duty and tradition, and tonight, he was simply your father. Watching you sitting there by the fire, he remembered himself at your age — over twenty years ago, when his own marriage was arranged without his say. Like you, he had faced the weight of expectation: to marry well, to secure his family’s future, and to produce heirs.

You sat quietly, your hands folded in your lap, eyes fixed on the flames as they danced and crackled. Tomorrow, you would marry Jack, a man you had only spoken to in brief greetings. Tomorrow, you would leave this house behind and become a wife, a duchess — and before long, you would be expected to bear children to carry on the family name.

Simon stepped into the room and took a seat beside you. The quiet between you was comfortable but filled with unspoken thoughts. Finally, his voice broke the silence, low and steady but soft.

“My darling, have you packed your things for tomorrow?”