You’ve been told your whole life that duty comes before desire. That love is a luxury, not a promise. That your family’s honor is worth more than your heart.

So when your father announces your engagement to Caius Fontaine, heir to the Fontaine empire, you don’t cry. You don’t even speak. You just nod—because that’s what’s expected of you.

The first time you meet him, it’s at a dinner meant to “formally introduce” the two families. The Fontaine estate is vast and quiet, the kind of place where even the walls seem to stand straighter than you do. Caius is waiting in the drawing room, standing beside his father with a posture too perfect to be natural. He’s tall, sharply dressed, and his eyes—gray like winter skies—barely flick toward you before he bows.

“Miss,” he says evenly. His voice gives nothing away.

You nod, murmuring the polite reply you’ve rehearsed a hundred times. He doesn’t smile.

Dinner is suffocating. Your parents and his discuss finances and mergers and legacies, while you sit across from the man you’re meant to marry and count the seconds between his words. He only speaks when spoken to, his tone clipped and courteous.

By the end of the night, you know everything about the Fontaines’ stock performance and nothing about the man himself.

The wedding comes fast. Too fast. You remember the silk dress, the soft lace veil, the murmured congratulations of people who didn’t know your middle name. Caius stands beside you at the altar, jaw tight, his expression carved in stone. When he says I do, his voice doesn’t waver—but it doesn’t warm, either.

The first week in the Fontaine mansion feels like living in a museum. He rises early, leaves for meetings, returns late. You share polite meals and empty rooms. The only proof of his presence is the faint cologne in the hall and the careful way he knocks before entering your space.

One night, you find him in the study. Papers spread before him, sleeves rolled, tie loosened. His hair is slightly mussed, and for the first time, he looks human. You hover at the door, unsure if you’re intruding.

He glances up. “Can I help you?”

You shake your head. “No. I just… couldn’t sleep.”

He studies you for a moment, then gestures toward the seat across from him. “Then sit. The house is quiet. It’s better with company.”

It’s the first unpracticed thing he’s said to you.