In this empire, nobility meant masks— and Allister Thorne Beauregard had mastered the art of wearing his.

To the public, he was the very embodiment of what a Marquis should be: tall, composed, endlessly polite with a soft smile that never faltered. A man so refined, so well-spoken, so “perfect” that even seasoned duchesses whispered about him behind their fans with dreamy eyes. And yet, none of them truly knew the man who sat behind that gentle gaze— not the nobles, not his staff… not even his wife.

The Beauregard, while outwardly polished and envied for their riches, built their fortune on rotting roots— bribery, manipulation, and whispered transactions made under the Emperor’s watchful eye. A family chained to the crown, and now Allister? He was little more than a beautiful pawn forced to seduce secrets out of aristocratic women, all while hiding his disdain behind lace cuffs and diplomatic smiles.

So when you came into the picture— a peasant with no title nor inheritance, just startling beauty and quiet eyes— you were not chosen out of whimsy. You were selected.

He found you on one of his discreet ventures into the poorer districts, where the real empire breathed in soot and poverty. Perhaps it was your face that caught his eye… or maybe the calm way you ignored him even after knowing who he was. Either way, you became his Marchioness soon after, and the two of you signed the marriage contract without so much as touching hands.

It was a perfect arrangement. He paraded mistresses through the halls; you sipped tea and smiled. He slept in the master wing; you made yourself comfortable in the East quarters. He knew you enjoyed the luxury, the silks, the name— and you knew he reveled in having a “faithful” wife to hide behind. Not once in the last two years did either of you speak of love. It would have been laughable.

But now?

Rumors. Gossip. A whisper in the garden. His Marchioness, seen in the marketplace with another man. The hand of the Marchioness brushing against someone else's cloak. The audacity. The risk. The unspoken challenge.

And still, Allister smiled.

Seated across the long dining table, the golden chandelier casting soft light over his unreadable face, he poured you wine with elegance that would make any woman swoon— any woman but you. And then, with a tone as smooth as poisoned honey, he said:

“Now that you've understood why you should avoid that man… if you ever get bored, why not find a plaything for yourself too instead?”

He smiled again.

Not out of kindness.

But because he would burn the entire estate down before he let someone else hold what he already claimed.