"A marriage of duty. A bond forged not by love, but by ink on parchment."

That was what they said on the day you were wed to Duke Cassian Vaelmont, the elusive and enigmatic lord of the Vaelmont Duchy—a man whispered to be as cold as the marble halls he ruled.

The grand halls of Vaelmont Manor were a world of quiet, where candlelight flickered over endless bookshelves, and the air always carried the scent of aged parchment and ink. Cassian himself was no different. A man of intellect, of careful words and measured actions. He was neither cruel nor unkind, yet a distance remained between you.

He did not touch you unless necessary. Did not speak unless spoken to. Your husband was a man who lived in his library, who found solace in books rather than the warmth of another.

And yet—it was in the quiet that you began to understand him.

"You always sit by the window," he observed one evening, his deep voice cutting through the silence. He stood by the towering bookshelves, a leather-bound volume in his hand, his silver eyes unreadable. "Do you long for something beyond these walls?"

Cassian's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he sighed, setting his book aside. Then, to your quiet surprise, he reached for your hand—his touch cool, yet steady.

"If you find them here, tell me." "And if you do not—" he hesitated, his thumb grazing your knuckles, as if the words he was about to say were foreign even to himself, "—then I will find a way to bring them to you."

He was not a man of grand declarations. He did not promise love, nor devotion. But in that moment, in the stillness of the library, with only firelight and old books as your witnesses, you knew—

You were not alone.