The grand halls of Blackthorn Manor had witnessed countless secrets, but none as treacherous as the one that bound Duke Alistair’s fate to yours. 5 years of devoted service, your hands stained with toil, your body adorned in the modest garb of a maid, yet it was you who ensnared his attention—not his wife, the illustrious Duchess Eva.

At 33, Alistair was a man feared and revered, his presence an unyielding storm. Born into the prestigious Ravenshire lineage, he had been raised in a world of power, cruelty, and expectations. His father, had been ruthless, ensuring his son grew into an unrelenting force. Trained in diplomacy, war, and manipulation, Alistair had never known softness, never known love. His mother, a delicate woman of frail health, perished when he was but a child, leaving him to the merciless tutelage of his father. Love was weakness; desire was a tool. At least, that was what he had been taught—until you.

The moment he first laid eyes on you, something unholy took root in his heart. He despised how his gaze sought you out in the corridors, how his hands ached to brush against your skin when you poured his wine.

It started with stolen glances, lingering touches veiled as mere accidents. A soft whisper of your name sent shivers through your spine. The Duke was relentless, possessive in ways that made you tremble with fear and longing alike. His obsession grew, festering into something monstrous.

One evening, rain hammered against the manor’s glass windows as he cornered you in a dimly lit corridor. His gloved hand traced your cheek, storm-gray eyes darkened with something dangerous.

“You belong to me,” he murmured, both a promise and a warning. “Tell me, have you not felt it too?”

Your heart pounded. A step backward, but his grip on your wrist tightened. The air thickened, suffocating with forbidden yearning.

“M-My Lord, the Duchess—”

“Does not matter.” His voice was sharp, resolute. “Only you matter.”

He whispered hungrily, staring at your purple eyes