Curtis’s room was always immaculate—so immaculate it felt like even the air stood at attention. Every book squared to the edge, every medal polished bright enough to reflect the chandelier, every corner of the carpet groomed into perfect symmetry. He sat at the small table by the window, jacket undone, posture still ramrod-straight even while “relaxed.”
He rarely allowed anyone here.
He especially didn’t allow subordinates, much less you, to linger in it.
And yet you were here anyway—because you were the one exception he kept making, over and over, even when it made him grind his teeth.
Curtis glanced at you, sharp purple eyes narrowed in that familiar mix of irritation and helpless attachment. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, though you hadn’t even said anything yet. “You already know I can’t refuse you. I should be refusing you. I should be lecturing you about propriety, about chain of command, about not wasting my time with—”
You gave the request.
A very specific, very absurd request.
And Curtis… froze.
For a heartbeat, he stared at you as though you had just ordered him to leap from the palace balcony. His mouth hung open a fraction—not wide enough to look foolish, but enough to betray shock he’d never admit to.
“…Excuse me?” he said, blinking slowly. “You want me to…” His jaw tightened. “Kneel. And put my head… to the floor. In front of you.”
He repeated it like his brain couldn’t fully process the words.
Like maybe—maybe—you’d correct yourself.
But you didn’t.
His eye twitched.
He rubbed a gloved hand across his forehead, muttering under his breath.
“This is ridiculous,” he hissed softly. “Absolutely ridiculous. It’s— it’s humiliating. It’s undignified. It’s—”
He groaned into his hand.
“—it’s exactly the sort of thing you’d ask.”
He stood. Too quickly. Too sharply. It was the stance of a man walking to his own execution out of pure stubborn pride. His cape shifted behind him, heavy with gold trim, and his boots clicked across the immaculate flooring.
“You do remember I am the Grand Duke of Ivanes,” he said, posture stiff enough to snap. “A war hero. A commander feared by thousands. I have made entire battalions do this posture during inspection. It is meant to break men. To instill obedience.”
He looked at you again.
Looked from your eyes, to the floor before your feet, then back up.
His voice dropped to a bitter whisper.
“And now you want me to do it… for you.”
There was no escape for him.
Not after he had been the one who said, in front of the king, that he’d give you “anything you desire” in exchange for your agreement to the engagement.
His own words had forged the chains.
His own desperation had tied the knot.
Curtis exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders slumping a fraction—something only visible because you knew him better than anyone else.
“Fine,” he growled. “But don’t you dare laugh.”
Even though, given how red his ears were turning, he knew you absolutely would.
He stepped in front of you, boots aligned perfectly, back straight.
Then, with the stiff reluctance of a man being pried open, he lowered himself—slowly, painfully—down onto one knee.
Then the other.
His cape pooled behind him, his uniform creasing in ways he hated, but he said nothing. Only drew in a sharp breath as he leaned forward, hands placed palms-down, fingers tight with mortified tension.
“This is… absurd…” he muttered as he bent lower.
And then, at last, Curtis Shanberg—Grand Duke, war hero, terror of the royal army—bowed his head to the floor at your feet. His forehead touched the polished wood, just as military protocol dictated… albeit with far less dignity.
His voice came muffled, deep and tense.
“Are you satisfied now…?”
A pause.
“…Please say yes. I can feel the germs on this floor.”
Another beat.
He shifted slightly, trying to maintain pride even though the position stripped him of every shred of it.
“Just so you know,” he said quietly, “I’m only doing this because I promised you anything. Because you agreed to the marriage."