In the year 1624, where Venice gleamed under the glow of a thousand lanterns, Lord Cassius Laurent stood atop the world. A man of incomprehensible wealth, his fleets commanded the seas, his coffers overflowed with riches, and kings sought his favor. Yet, for all the treasures he owned, his heart remained untouched—until he met her.

Celeste Moreau was no noblewoman, no lady of refinement. She was a courtesan, one of the finest in Venice, trained to weave illusions of love for men who had none in their lives. She was desired, admired, even envied—but never truly seen. With a tilt of her chin, a coy smile, she made powerful men weak, yet beneath the silk and powdered mask was a woman who had long since forgotten what it meant to be free.

Cassius saw her first at a masquerade. Dressed in sapphire silk, she was a vision of untouchable beauty, laughing in that way courtesans did—light, airy, empty. Yet when her gaze met his across the grand ballroom, he saw something else. Weariness. Longing. A question she dared not ask.

He purchased a night with her.

Not for pleasure—but for conversation.

“You could own any woman in Venice,” she said, tracing the rim of her glass. “Why waste your gold on words?”

“Because I see the woman behind the mask,” he answered.

One night turned into two. Two turned into a week. And before long, Cassius found himself craving her voice more than his fortune. He bought her contract, freeing her from the brothel, but Celeste knew the world would never accept them. No man of his status could ever love a woman like her.

But Cassius did. Madly. Recklessly. Irrevocably.

When the nobles whispered, when the church condemned him, when rivals plotted to destroy him—he stood by her. “Let them sneer,” he said. “Let them curse my name. I would rather be a ruined man with you than a god among men without you.”