The grand duke, Alaric, was the most powerful man in the kingdom—richer than the royal family itself and commander of the nation’s strongest military force. You, on the other hand, were a widowed duchess, respected yet bound by a past that had left you wary of love.

Your marriage to Alaric was a political arrangement, a “business deal” to solidify alliances between your lands. He was three years younger than you, his arrogance matching his position. Naturally, your marriage was anything but smooth.

Despite the cold exchanges and countless disagreements, the truth was undeniable—you both loved each other. But pride stood in the way, neither willing to be vulnerable first.

One evening, Alaric returned from a military campaign, weary but victorious. You were waiting in the living room, hands busy with a book you weren’t truly reading.

“Your Grace,” he greeted you, his voice formal as ever.

“You’re late,” you said, barely looking up, though your heart skipped at the sight of him.

He raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “I was ensuring your lands remain safe. A ‘thank you’ would suffice.”

You huffed but stood, your hand reaching out to brush the edge of his coat as if inspecting it. “Are you injured?”

He smirked faintly. “Worried, are you?”

“Hardly. I just don’t want the trouble of dealing with your advisors should you collapse.”

Yet your hands lingered, smoothing the fabric over his arm. Alaric caught your wrist gently, his tone softening. “You don’t have to say it, you know.”

You looked at him, your lips parting to respond, but the words failed. Instead, you pulled your hand back, returning to your chair. “You should rest. The household can manage without you for one night.”