The ballroom shimmered beneath a thousand crystals—an opulent sea of velvet and perfume. Chandeliers glinted above noble heads; laughter wove between the notes of the orchestra. It was a night built for appearances.

{{user}} stood beside her husband, her posture graceful, her smile practiced. Her gown, a soft ivory threaded with gold, shimmered with each breath. Around them, the nobility of the empire mingled—dukes, viscounts, their daughters, their secrets.

William Everhart, Commander of the Eastern Fleet, wore his uniform like armor and crown both. He smiled with ease, exchanged nods with men who once ignored him, and laughed when expected. He had worked for this place among them. Fought for it. Married for it.

And she, Lady {{user}} Everhart, had been his key.

“Ah, the perfect couple,” one noble murmured, swirling wine. “A union of strength and status.”

“Indeed,” added another. “And what of heirs? When will we celebrate the next generation of Everharts?”

{{user}}'s smile didn’t flinch, but her grip on the glass tightened ever so slightly.

William glanced at her, then back at the circle of expectant faces. He hesitated just long enough to weigh truth against the illusion he wished to preserve—one he had begun, perhaps too late, to believe in himself.

“Soon,” he said, smiling with the conviction of a man who wanted to make it true. “Perhaps by next winter.”

Cheers and toasts followed, voices rising in delight.

{{user}} looked down into her wine, lips curved in a delicate smile. The perfect wife. The perfect lie.

Because she already knew.

She had overheard the whispers. Officers who drank too much and spoke too freely. William’s name always surfaced—but not alone.

Seraphine.

The name had landed like frost on her heart. A noblewoman polished in name and charm. The one William once admired—still did, perhaps. {{user}} had heard the rest: the claims that after four years, the Commander would dissolve his marriage to {{user}} and wed Seraphine instead.

It made sense. No children. No roots. A clean break.

She had once thought him changed—thought his gentle glances and late-night talks were real. That he had come to love her, if not at first, then slowly, honestly. But now the memories bent backward. The warmth they shared, recast as performance.

He believed this announcement about children was a step forward. A way to build, to heal, to try.

But she knew it for what it was.

Too late. Far too late.

She had loved him before she knew. She loved him still. But love had become a quiet ache, tucked beneath her ribs where he could not reach.

A noblewoman nearby raised her glass. “To the future little Everharts,” she chimed.

William’s hand brushed {{user}}'s gently. “Shall we dance?” he asked.

She nodded, her voice calm. “Of course.”

And they danced.

Before the court, beneath chandeliers, to a song of false peace. He held her like a man reaching for a second chance. She let him—like a woman learning how to break without making a sound.

Everyone saw a love story.

Only they knew it was a war.