The sun spills gold across the marble terraces of the Hartfelt estate — a place too grand, too old, and too heavy with the ghosts of duty. The scent of jasmine and old money hangs thick in the garden, where Alastor sits beneath an iron-laced gazebo, fountain trickling beside him. His shoes are polished, his tie a little loose, and his hands… ink-stained. A leather-bound notebook rests in his lap, half-filled with careful pen strokes and restless dreams.

He writes in silence, lips curled faintly in something that isn’t quite a smile.

“They’ll give me a bride, and expect me to call it love.”

He’s barely twenty, and yet the weight of legacy sits on his shoulders like iron. The Hartfelts — rulers in all but name, lords of politics and property within the Pride Ring — are nothing if not precise.

"Young Master Alastor." A soft voice interrupts him. One of the maids, head bowed, clutching her apron. "Your parents request your presence in the study."

He sighs, closes the book. A single glance up toward the old villa, its tall windows burning with late sunlight. He knows what this is.

Lord Henri Hartfelt and Lady Vivienne — always immaculate, always watching — have found a match for him.

You.

And somewhere, your name is being practiced alongside his.