It started with a letter.

You found it tucked into your usual spot at the library, sealed with black wax and stamped with a crest you didn’t recognize. The handwriting was elegant, deliberate, almost teasing:

"Some secrets are safer when shared only in ink. Yours to read."

Your pulse quickened. Who would send something like this? And why here, where no one could see?

The next day, another letter appeared—this time slipped under your door at home. And the next week, yet another in your coat pocket. Each one contained small, intimate observations about your life—things only someone who really knew you could notice.

And every time you asked around, everyone claimed ignorance.

Until one evening, in the quiet of the library, you saw him.

Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings, standing across the room with a cool, guarded expression that could stop hearts. He was impossibly handsome, impossibly composed… and utterly infuriating.

You approached him, trying to keep your voice steady. “Duke… do you know anything about these letters?”

He raised a brow, looking slightly amused. “Letters? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Right. Because the handwriting doesn’t match anyone else in London. And it mentions things only someone who… watches me would know. You wouldn’t happen to be… writing them, would you?”

Simon smirked—dangerously charming, as always. “I assure you, it is not me. I have better ways of observing… but leaving letters would be tedious. And risky.”

Despite his denial, you caught the faintest flicker in his eyes—like he was hiding something.

The next letter was different. Less teasing, more intimate:

"You wonder if I’m watching. You’re not wrong. But you should also wonder what I see."

You couldn’t help it. You read it again and again, your mind swirling with curiosity and frustration.

Finally, you confronted Simon at a ball, the grand chandeliers casting golden light across the room. “Duke, enough games. Are you behind the letters or not?”

Simon looked at you, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned close, his voice low and smooth, a dangerous smile playing on his lips:

“Perhaps I am. Perhaps I’m not. The fun is in making you wonder.”

Your cheeks flushed, your heart racing. The letters had become a puzzle you desperately wanted to solve—and Simon, impossibly, was both the key and the lock.

“You’re impossible,” you whispered, half exasperated, half… thrilled.

“And you,” he said, tilting his head, “are far too curious for your own good. Which, I admit… I rather like.”