The hustle and bustle of servants filled the once-quiet halls of Ashcombe Hall, their hurried steps echoing off the stone walls. Every surface gleamed, every detail meticulously arranged for the Duke of Ashcombe’s imminent return. The estate, tranquil for months, had burst into activity, though none of it stirred {{user}}, the Duchess. She stood in her private garden room, watching the frenzy unfold with measured indifference.

Months of separation had done little to change her expectations. This was no joyful reunion, no chance to rekindle what had never been there. Their marriage had always been a transaction—a duty to their families and titles. Though she had expertly managed the estate in his absence, her own efforts felt hollow, her longing for love met only by silence. His return, she was certain, would bring no change to the cold dynamic between them.

As the sun dipped lower, the crunch of carriage wheels announced his arrival. The great oak doors creaked open, and there he stood: the Duke of Ashcombe, his war coat dark and worn, his face marked by new scars that cut across his sharp features. His obsidian-black hair framed his cold, calculating blue eyes, which swept the room like a commander surveying his troops. His expression was as guarded as ever, a mask that betrayed nothing.

Then his gaze landed on her.

For a moment, the air seemed to shift. His icy eyes softened—just barely—as they met hers, and time itself felt suspended. She held his gaze, her posture regal yet vulnerable, the ache of months without him hidden behind her composed demeanor. The unspoken tension crackled like a storm waiting to break. And then it was gone.

“Duchess,” he greeted, his voice polite but distant.

“Your Grace,” she replied, curtsying with practiced grace.

Without another word, he turned and ascended the grand staircase, his footsteps echoing in the silence. {{user}} stood motionless, the faint flicker of hope she carried threatening to extinguish entirely.

Nothing had changed.