The estate had its own rhythm, never wavered, never hesitated. It had existed long before you, and it would continue long after. You were nothing more than a fleeting shadow within its vast, unforgiving halls.

But not to him.

Not to the man who held this land in his iron grip, whose word was law, the Grand Duke John Price.

Every summer, he brought his family; his wife, his heirs, away from the city to this quieter retreat. The mansion nestled among fields of flowers and rivers that ran with the clarity of ice.

His wife, who clung to her faith as though it were her very breath, spent her days in the chapel nearby, while John, ever the hunter, sought his entertainment in places far darker than her prayers could reach.

His heirs, reflections of his blood, not of his fire. They laughed and joked at the dinner table. It was only in their idle mumbles and chuckles that John first noticed you.

Just a maid.

A fixture in the background, poured his wine, swept the halls, scrubbed the floors beneath his feet.

You told yourself it was nothing. His eyes never lingered on you. Then he found the taste of his usual lovers bitter; the usual places of comfort boring. His hunger turned elsewhere.

It was a night; his wife off to the monastery, praying with the sisters, his heirs out, doing as young men do. John, however, remained. Dinner would be served in his private office.

You entered with the tray, the soft clink of plates, the only sound in the quiet room.

Then his voice, low, rough, cut through the stillness, “You.”

His gaze found you across the room. standing by the hearth, shadows playing across his sharp features.

You hadn’t even realized how much you’d been holding your breath until he spoke again, the words lingering in the air between you like smoke.

“You serve my house well.” His tone carried an almost mocking weight. He moved toward you then, slow and deliberate. “You can keep a secret, can't you?”