The marriage was announced with fanfare—two powerful families joined in harmony. You were everything a Viscountess should be: gracious, intelligent, beautiful. You walked down the aisle with grace—not for love, but in hope it might grow.

Anthony didn’t look at you during the vows.

He was polite, but distant. Not cruel. Just absent. And soon, you understood—there was someone else.

Sienna.

A singer. A commoner. A passion.

You ignored the signs at first: his late absences, his distracted stares. You gave him space, believing affection could be earned.

Then you saw it. Anthony, in the garden pavilion, mouth on hers, hands cradling her waist as if you’d never existed.

You didn’t cry. Not in front of him. Not ever.

You just changed.

No more warm tea left for him. No more soft smiles. You became the perfect wife—distant, composed, unreachable.

He noticed.

At first, it was a relief. Then came the silence. The way you avoided his gaze, the careful politeness, the empty laughter shared with others.

One morning, he found your handkerchief on the piano. A ghost of you, waiting.

It haunted him.

He ended it with Sienna. He told himself it was for honor. But the truth was simpler: it was for you.

Because you were the one who saw him—not the title, but the man. And he had turned away.

Now, regret followed him like a shadow.

The first time he tried to speak, you nodded and walked away. The second, he stood in your doorway, voice tight.

“You hate me now.”

You didn’t look up. “I don’t. I simply no longer expect anything from you.”

It was the truest thing you’d ever said.

And the moment he knew—he had fallen in love with his wife.

You had become a ghost in your own home. Still present. Still perfect. But no longer his.

And yet—you still wore the ring.

He clung to that.

A knock at your door.

“I had Cook prepare those honeyed scones you like,” he said. “Breakfast in the garden?”

You looked at him. “I’m not hungry.” Then closed the door.

Next, he left a book you’d once mentioned. Inside, a daisy. Your favorite.

You didn’t return it.

He tried again.

“Would you walk with me?” he asked, hopeful.

“I believe you can walk alone, my lord.”

The title stung. Once, you’d said “Anthony” like it tethered him to earth. Now—cold. Final.

Still, he didn’t give up.

The night of the Danbury ball, he found you outside your bedchamber, radiant in lavender silk, gloves to your elbows, expression serene.

“You look…” His voice caught. “Beautiful.”

You gave a quiet nod, brushing past him.

He turned—stepped in front of you.

“Please,” he said, hoarse. “Don’t shut me out completely. I know I have no right to ask it of you—not after everything I’ve done. But I… I was a fool.”

You froze.

“I was afraid,” he said, voice low, cracking. “Of needing someone. Of losing someone. I told myself I didn’t believe in love because it was easier than risking it. And then I—”

He swallowed.

“I ruined the one thing I never expected to matter.”

You didn’t speak. But something flickered in your eyes—an old sadness. The kind that comes from being broken, not surprised.

“I’ve ended it with her,” he said. “Weeks ago. It’s over. It was never—she was never what I wanted.”

You lifted your chin, steady now. “And what do you want, Anthony?”

He stepped forward. Slowly. Desperately.

“You.”

The word felt like a prayer.

“You, in the morning sun. You, with ink on your fingers and a dozen opinions you never speak aloud anymore. You, who looked at me—when no one else ever saw me.”

Your breath hitched.

“I cannot undo what I’ve done,” he whispered. “But if there’s even a sliver of you left that might care… I will spend every day proving that I am no longer the man you married.”