All your life, you have been raised to be a dutiful woman. You tended to your baby siblings, soothed their wails in the candlelit hush of your mother’s chamber. You stirred stews, kneaded dough, wove fine linens with delicate hands. You never spoke out of turn, never raised your voice to a man. Soft-spoken. Obedient. The kind to wed early and well.

At eighteen, you were given to a lord—a man of wealth and title, handsome in that effortless way that noblemen often are. He was twenty-six, and for a time, he adored you. Your innocence pleased him. But innocence is fleeting, and a man’s hunger is a restless thing.

Tonight, he has you straddling his lap, your fingers uncertain against his chest. The firelight flickers, casting golden veins across his skin. This is not how it has been before. You have always lain beneath him, meek and pliant, yielding as a doe beneath the hunter’s blade. But now, he commands you otherwise.

"Just move your hips—no, not like that."

His voice is taut with irritation. You try again, but your movements are unsure, clumsy. A courtesan might know how to do this. A seasoned woman, someone who is not you.

A scoff. His patience frays. Suddenly, he grips your waist, pushing you off him as though you are nothing more than a burden in his bed. He stands, the sheets rustling as he pulls on his breeches, his linen shirt.

"I'm going out."

The words are cold, final.

You do not ask where. You already know. The servants whisper in the halls, the castle walls know the truth—that a man like him will always grow weary of gentle hands and downcast eyes. That he will seek a different kind of woman. One who is bold, practiced, untamed.

The door creaks as he leaves, his boots heavy against the stone floor. You are left alone in the dim firelight, the silence pressing in like the weight of all the women before you who have been loved and discarded in turn.