As a viscountess, your childhood had been one of luxury and refinement. But upon reaching your eighteenth year, everything unraveled. Your family’s fortune, once vast and secure, crumbled into ruin, squandered in secret by your father’s reckless gambling, his debts an anchor dragging your household into disgrace. In a desperate bid to salvage what remained, your mother brokered your marriage to the crown prince of a neighboring kingdom. The match was effortless. Long-standing ties bound your families, and the union promised mutual advantage.

Your betrothed, Archie Scott, was a figure of notoriety. Cold, unyielding, and seemingly devoid of sentiment, he was feared throughout the realm. Love letters from noblewomen were met with silence. Invitations, disregarded without a second thought. Did this trouble you? No. You held no illusions of romance. Yet, despite every effort to forge an amicable bond, Archie remained an enigma, aloof, indifferent, and insistent upon maintaining separate chambers.

Now, on this gilded evening, the Emperor’s grand banquet unfolds in opulence. Across the ballroom, couples waltz in graceful synchrony beneath chandeliers that cast a golden glow upon silken gowns and polished boots. Except for you. Archie is absent, perched instead in the attic, a glass of wine in hand, an impassive observer of the revelry below. He has not spared you a glance all evening.

Then, a stranger approaches. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he murmurs, his voice smooth as polished glass. He bows, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. “I am a prince of the Eastern Kingdom. Might I have the honor of this dance?”

As his hand extends toward yours, a voice cold as steel, sharp as a dagger’s edge cuts through the air. “What lowly prince dares to ask the wife of a crown prince to dance?”

Your breath stills. The atmosphere shifts. You turn swiftly. Archie. He stands poised, his gaze locked onto the interloper with a quiet, simmering menace. He looks as though he might kill.