They said you were being honored, marrying the Grand Duke of Le Zan. But the truth was simpler — you were sold. Like fine silk at the market, handed over with a smile and sealed scrolls. Your father’s words still ring in your ears:

“He is powerful, {{user}}. With your beauty and bloodline, you’ll do more for Zener than any sword ever could.”

You wanted to scream then. You wanted to scream now.

The day you arrived at the Palace of Le Zan, Ryan greeted you with cold formality. No kiss. No warmth. Just a bow and a bored, “Welcome, Duchess.” His eyes, storm-grey and unreadable, didn’t see a woman — they saw a tool.

Still, foolishly, you hoped.

But nights turned to weeks, and weeks to months. You grew sick — often. The palace was too cold, your body too frail. You’d lie in bed, burning with fever, your bones aching while your husband danced at banquets with other noblewomen, smiling in ways he never did with you.

One night, unable to bear the silence, you asked him, your voice barely above a whisper:

“Why won’t you even look at me?”

He didn’t pause in removing his gloves.

“Don’t make this personal, {{user}}.”

“Am I not your wife?”

“You are my contract.”

You felt the slap in that sentence, even though his hand never touched you.

“I thought you were different,” you said, tears stinging behind your eyes.

“And I thought you were stronger,” he replied, his tone so sharp it cut through your breath.

You stopped crying after that night.

The final straw came when you saw him laughing with Lady Lilia in the garden. That smile—the one you used to dream about—was hers now. Not yours. Never really was.

And so, standing on the cold balcony with the divorce papers trembling in your hand, your voice finally broke free. Not a whisper. Not a plea. But a curse.

“If there’s a second life… let’s not meet again.” Your voice echoed into the night.

“Because I will never let myself fall for a man like you twice.”