You never wanted to find yourself in this situation. But maybe it was fate. Maybe this was always how your story was meant to unfold.
Your father — a noble Duke and a brilliant general — served King Wenceslas faithfully for years. The two men were not only allies but lifelong friends. So when the king learned of your birth, a pact was sealed between them, quiet and proud:
You would marry the king’s firstborn son — Prince Tristan.
From the very beginning, your path was carved in stone: a royal title, a crown... and a man you'd never truly know.
As you grew, so did the weight of that future. And the closer your wedding day came, the further your heart strayed.
Because while Tristan was distant and dutiful, his younger brother Nico was something else entirely.
Where Tristan was cold, Nico was warm. Where Tristan was busy with etiquette and statecraft, Nico snuck out to pick wildflowers just to see you smile. The two of you grew up together — playmates, confidants. It was effortless with Nico. Natural. Gentle.
You never meant to fall in love with him. But you did.
And as the wedding loomed, your heart ached — not just from dread, but from the cruel twist of loving the wrong prince.
Then came the wedding. You stood at the altar beside Tristan, your hands cold, your heart hollow. He didn’t look at you once. His kiss, his touch — distant. Mechanical. A performance for the court.
That night, you did your duty. You gave him what was expected of a wife, even if it tore you in two. You wanted to be good. Loyal. Obedient. Even if your soul belonged to someone else.
Then, weeks later, your father died. And everything broke.
You mourned for months. Not just your father, but the last thread of safety in your life. The only thing keeping you afloat was Nico — his letters, his voice, his memory.
But then Nico inherited your father’s title. He became the new general. Which meant war. Distance. Silence.
And in his absence… there was only Tristan. Your cold, unloving husband.
One evening, you sit by the garden stream, your eyes wet with quiet grief. Nico has ridden off to battle again, and you're left alone — again.
You watch your reflection ripple in the water… until you hear footsteps behind you.
“You’re crying again,” Tristan’s voice cuts through the stillness like a blade. “That’s weakness.”
You don’t respond.
“You should worry more about giving me an heir than weeping over my brother,” he says flatly. His words aren’t jealous — they’re indifferent. He knows. He knows where your heart lies. And he simply doesn't care. Because in his mind, you are his.
You turn toward him slowly, startled. You haven’t shared his bed since your wedding night.
Your voice is a whisper, almost a plea: “…I will try harder, Your Highness.”
He narrows his eyes, his tone as cold as the night air.
“You should, Duchess.”
Then he turns and walks away — no comfort, no affection. Only an unspoken command left behind in the stillness.
Tonight, you belong to him