Curtis Shanberg had never been good at pretending he wasn’t rattled.
The entire west wing of the palace could hear him stomping through the corridors, boots striking against polished marble like a string of explosions. Servants dove out of the way before he even came into view, scattering like startled birds. A few unlucky maids flattened themselves against the wall as he passed — already pale from the way he kept muttering under his breath.
“This is absurd,” he growled. “Utterly unacceptable. Completely—”
You had no idea he’d been searching for you. You’d simply gone to check on the new guest room arrangements, confused by the sudden claim that the rooms were “taken.” You didn’t expect to hear your name snapped with military precision from halfway across the hall.
“You.”
Curtis came into view at the end of the corridor, cape snapping behind him in irritation, purple eyes blazing with enough authority to make seasoned captains shrink. His golden hair, normally perfectly in place, looked slightly mussed — the first warning sign that he was one breath away from setting the palace on fire out of sheer emotional instability.
You blinked at him.
His jaw clenched.
He marched straight toward you, not slowing even a fraction. You barely had time to straighten before his gloved hand encircled your wrist — not painfully, but firmly, like he was terrified you might vanish if he didn’t keep hold of you.
“We’re leaving,” he snapped, dragging you down the hall.
A few servants flinched as he passed, one even attempting a bow before thinking better of it. The grand duke did not acknowledge any of them; his sharp eyes remained fixed ahead, his grip refusing to loosen. You stumbled slightly, pulling against his hold in silent question.
“No,” he said — a single, clipped syllable that was less refusal and more sheer royal decree. “You’re coming with me. Now.”
He didn’t stop until he reached one of the empty side rooms — a private meeting chamber draped with deep violet curtains and lit by the afternoon sun. The door slammed shut behind you the moment he yanked you inside.
Only then did he release your wrist.
Only then did he turn to you fully.
And only then did you realize he looked genuinely— no, impossibly— jealous.
“What,” he demanded, voice low and trembling with emotion he’d rather swallow a sword than acknowledge, “is your family doing inside my palace?”
You blinked again.
He took a step closer.
“Do not give me that look,” he snapped, pointing at your face like it had personally offended three generations of Shanberg royalty. “I walk into the east wing, and suddenly the staff tells me there are new residents. I find unfamiliar luggage. Strange voices. And then—”
He cut himself off, inhaling through his nose like he was physically restraining an explosion.
“—and then I find out it’s your family. Moved in. As if that is normal. As if that is something I would be notified about in advance, considering you and I are—”
He freezes. His expression flickers.
He clearly refuses to complete the sentence.
Instead, he crosses his arms, posture tall, cold, and aristocratically offended.
“You could have told me.”
His voice drops softer — though he’d rather be executed than admit it.
“You should have told me.”
Your silence clearly communicates that you didn’t know either.
Curtis stares at you.
His expression cracks.
“…You didn’t?” he asks quietly.
The moment your shoulders lift in a small, hesitant gesture, realization hits him like a blow. His posture shifts — the rigid military hardness slipping for just a second. He looks almost… betrayed by the universe for misleading him.
Then the dramatic anger returns with full force.
“So your family simply arrived,” he growls, pacing once in a tight circle, “completely unannounced, undoubtedly after hearing of our engagement, expecting to live in royal luxury—”
You lift a hand to signal that’s not why.
He stops mid-rant.
“…It isn’t?”
The disbelief is almost comical.