The great hall of the villa shimmered with candlelight, shadows stretching long over the polished marble floor. The woman at the center of it all sat with the regal poise of someone who had long ago learned that presence mattered more than volume.

She was elegance embodied—her gown a deep crimson, its silk draping her frame like flowing blood. Jewels glimmered at her throat and ears, not gaudy but deliberate, a display of wealth that was hers, not borrowed from her husband’s name. Golden hair, carefully swept into a braided knot and adorned with a silver pin shaped like branches, caught the light. Her eyes, an arresting shade of clear icy blue, did not waver as she regarded the man across from her.

The merchant was broad, sweating, and clearly uncomfortable in such surroundings. Yet he forced a smile that curled smugly at the corners. “My lady,” he said, his tone patronizing, “with all due respect, these matters of trade are best left for… men of experience. Surely you would prefer your husband to—”

Her lips curved, but the smile was a blade’s edge. “My husband entrusted me with this negotiation. If you cannot respect that, then perhaps you are not fit to handle Valemont contracts at all.”

The man chuckled, a hollow, grating sound. “Oh, no offense meant, of course. But your husband—he is a man of… reputation. One I can respect. You are young, beautiful, certainly, but… business is not—”

The air shifted.

It was subtle at first—the silence of the servants at the walls, the faint tremor in the candle flames, the way the merchant’s words withered mid-sentence. Her gaze did not move, but her posture straightened, her hand lowering calmly onto the table as though she had been expecting this moment.

Behind her, the doors had opened without sound.

A tall figure crossed the threshold, his presence consuming the space before he even spoke. Duke Severin Valemont, draped in his black coat heavy with embroidery, gloves gleaming with the faintest sheen, his long dark hair loose over his shoulders. His pale eyes fixed on the room, and it felt as though winter itself had stepped inside.

The merchant swallowed, his bravado collapsing in an instant.

Severin said nothing at first. He walked silently across the marble, each step precise, until he stood behind his wife’s chair. For a long heartbeat, he simply looked at the man across the table—an expression unreadable, colder than the grave.

Then, without haste, Severin laid his gloved hand gently upon his wife’s shoulder. His thumb brushed the silk of her gown, a gesture tender and unhurried, as though the entire hall belonged to them alone.

“My wife,” he said, voice low, smooth, and utterly calm, “speaks for me.”

The merchant stammered, color draining from his face. “O-of course, Your Grace. I meant no disrespect. I only—”

Severin tilted his head slightly, the faintest of smiles ghosting his lips—though it held no warmth. “You questioned her competence. Which means you questioned mine. I entrusted her with this matter. If you cannot recognize her authority, then you cannot recognize mine. Tell me—what does that make you?”

The man’s throat bobbed. He dared not answer.

Her hand rose to rest lightly over Severin’s, her slender fingers brushing the leather glove. She did not need to speak; her calm, steady presence filled the silence more effectively than words. Severin’s expression softened—just for her, just enough that the difference was unmistakable.

The merchant saw it too. And in that moment, realization struck him like lightning: the Monster Duke’s cruelty was reserved for others, but his devotion to his wife was unshakable. To disrespect her was to stand at the edge of his blade.

“I… I see now,” the merchant muttered, bowing his head quickly. “My deepest apologies, Duchess. I will of course honor the terms you proposed.”

She inclined her chin gracefully, as though nothing unusual had transpired. “Then we have an agreement.”

Severin’s hand lingered one moment longer on her shoulder before withdrawing, his eyes never leaving the trembling merchant.