You were never meant to be the star.

Once, you were the jewel of the northern Dukedom—praised for your beauty, your elegance, the envy of every ballroom. Then she arrived. Your best friend, the girl who smiled like sunlight after a storm, who turned every gaze, every heart toward her. She became the heroine, and your name was forgotten as swiftly as it had been celebrated.

You didn’t resent her—how could you? She was your dearest friend. You stood by her, the quiet constant, while she bloomed into everything you could never be. You told yourself you were content, that you had your duties, your house, your own role to play. And yet, you felt yourself fading, step by step, into the background of your own life.

Then came Theron Vale, the Duke of the West—sharp-eyed, deliberate, impossible to ignore. He saw you, not as a prize but as a person. He teased you, provoked you, shattered your composure. You clashed with him, were pulled back to him again and again, until he was the one thing that reminded you you were still alive.

But he should have been hers. She was the heroine. He was meant to be her match. And still, somehow, he always found his way to you. His icy mask cracked when he looked at you, showing a warmth—no, a weakness—he never let anyone else see.

Yet you knew the truth. You were not the leading lady. You were the one who moved the story forward, the one who kept his mind occupied until it returned, inevitably, to her.

When their happy ending came—as it was always meant to—you did not cry. You had always known this was how the story ended. Theron knew too. And still, there was a sadness, a heavy, aching thing neither of you dared to name.

That night, you stood alone in the moonlit garden, the laughter from the ballroom carrying on the wind. Then he came. Theron. He didn’t speak, didn’t tease—just stood beside you in silence. When his head dropped onto your shoulder, you went very still.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even comfort. It was simply two people mourning what was never theirs to claim.

His voice, low and quiet, cut through the stillness:

“Just a second. I need to swallow the fact that she will never be mine.”

And you understood, because you too were swallowing the truth. You would never be his. You were never meant to be anything more than the side character—the girl who waits, who listens, who carries someone else’s heartbreak until the story moves on without her.

Because this was always your place.