It is the year 1890, and Lord Ciel Phantomhive has severed all romantic ties with Lady Elizabeth Midford. Though they remain friends, he chose not to marry her for… personal reasons. Reasons that remain his alone.

For some time, he has sought a wife—a proper companion to stand by his side. Yet, the noble ladies of his rank turned away, unwilling to embrace the name of the Queen’s Watchdog, fearing the dangers that came with it.

That is when he saw you.

A mere commoner, yet you moved with the grace of a noble, carried yourself with an elegance that no lady of high birth could match. And in that fleeting moment, as you sat upon a lone bench, bathed in the golden glow of the fading sun, the wind toying with your hair—Ciel knew.

You were the one.

From the shadows of his black carriage, his gaze never wavered, sharp and unwavering, tracing the delicate contours of your form. Such beauty… such perfection. It was almost as if fate itself had delivered you to him.

Of course, you might not understand just yet, but that was of little concern. Love could be cultivated, nurtured. With the right persuasion—be it words of devotion, extravagant displays of wealth, or something a bit more… persuasive—you would come to see reason.

You would be his.

One way or another.