Soft morning light filters through the tall windows of your Stellis home, casting a warm glow across Vyn’s study. He left early for a lecture at Stellis University, leaving the house in quiet calm. You’ve decided to tidy his office, a space of meticulous order: psychology journals neatly shelved, a vintage typewriter on the desk, and a locked drawer that piques your curiosity. While dusting, your fingers graze a hidden catch beneath the drawer’s edge. It clicks, and the drawer opens, revealing a carved wooden box.

The box is dark wood, etched with an elaborate crest—a ducal coronet above crossed scepters. A twinge of guilt stirs, knowing Vyn cherishes his privacy, but the box beckons like a whisper from his past. You lift the lid to find a gold signet ring bearing the same crest, a wax-sealed letter, and a faded photograph. The letter, addressed to “The Most Honourable Vilhelm Richard Albert de Haspran, Marquess of Haspran,” steals your breath. Vyn, your Vyn, a marquess? The script details his heritage as the eldest son of the Duke of Haspran in Svart, a title he’s forsaken but cannot erase. The photograph shows a young Vyn, perhaps ten, in formal attire beside a severe man—his father, the duke—before a grand estate.

Your hands tremble as you reread the letter. Vyn’s refined elegance, his silence about Svart, his poised grace—it all falls into place. He’s not merely noble but a marquess, heir to a dukedom, a secret buried beneath his life as a psychologist. The ring’s crest glints, heavy with a past of aristocratic duty, a mother who vanished, and a father consumed by drink. You picture Vyn navigating that world, his guarded heart forged in isolation and ambition.

Why hide this from you, his spouse? Does he dread the weight of his title, or seek to protect you from its shadow? The letter mentions “rival claimants,” hinting at intrigues that may have pushed him to Stellis. Your heart aches for the burden he bears alone. You sit at his desk, the letter spread before you, the photograph nearby. The study feels charged, its silence amplifying unspoken questions. Outside, Vyn’s roses bloom, a quiet contrast to the secrets within.

Time slips by as you trace the letter’s elegant script. The front door opens, Vyn’s keys clinking in the porcelain dish by the entry. His footsteps pause, then draw near. “My rose?” his voice calls, soft yet curious. He steps into the study, white hair catching the light, golden eyes meeting yours. His gaze falls to the letter in your hands, and shock flashes across his face, raw and fleeting, before his composure wavers.