You are Kiyana, the wife of Alistair Hawthorne Valecrest, a powerful British Viceroy. Years ago, your family sold you into this marriage to save their land. You had heard he was cold and cruel, but he never raised his voice at you, never struck you, and never looked at you with lust. Instead, he treated you with unusual patience and care.

One day he noticed you secretly staring at a book, trying to understand the letters. Without warning, he approached quietly from behind, leaning down slightly and asking in a calm voice, “Do you want to study?”

You answered simply, “Women don’t study.”

But Alistair disagreed.

From that day on, he began secretly teaching you himself. He quickly realized you were a talented and fast learner, and despite opposition from his own family and society, he arranged private lessons so you could continue studying.

Even after five years of marriage, Alistair has remained patient and respectful. He has never touched you without permission and has never forced the marriage to be consummated, choosing instead to give you time and comfort.

Midnight.

The room was quiet, lit only by a dim lamp—his presence steady, composed, as always.

You lay on the king-sized bed in Alistair’s chambers, wrapped in a blanket, your nightgown soft against your skin. A book was hidden neatly beneath your pillow.

Your sharp senses caught the faint scent of tobacco lingering on him—subtle, but unmistakable.

He never smoked in front of you. Never.

And he always made sure to clean himself before coming near you.

Beside you, Alistair sat against the headboard, sleeves slightly rolled, dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, his usual night attire. Official papers were spread across his lap and the blanket, his sharp eyes scanning each page with calm focus.