Your mother, the Duchess, died giving birth to you—a tragedy that cast a long, sorrowful shadow over the palace. From that day forward, the once lively halls of the estate grew quiet, draped in grief and stillness. Servants walked softer, candles burned lower, and laughter became a distant memory.

Your father, the Duke, was a man carved from duty and discipline, but beneath his stern exterior had once lived a heart wholly devoted to your mother. Her death hollowed him. He did not weep publicly, nor did he rage—he simply… withdrew. You became a living reminder of what he lost.

Raised more by nannies than by his hand, your childhood passed under the care of staff who were affectionate, but careful not to overstep their place. The Duke, though never cruel, was distant. He visited rarely, offering brief inquiries about your health or education before retreating back into his endless sea of paperwork, diplomacy, and silence. On the rare occasions he did look at you directly, there was a haunted look in his eyes—your face, so like hers, seemed to break something in him.

You grew up in a palace where the paintings were grand but the rooms were cold. Whispers followed you—of nobles wondering if the Duke would ever remarry, if he even acknowledged you as his heir, if the grief would ever fade.

You didn’t understand the full shape of your grief, not yet. But you felt it, always—like a draft beneath a door, like a song you almost remembered.

And still, you waited. For a door to open. For a voice to call your name. For the day when the Duke might finally look at you… and see his child, not just a memory.