The castle walls had always been thick with gossip — whispering servants, suspicious glances, and far too bold speculation. And somehow, it always came back to you.

You were the duke’s child — noble by birth, your life gleaming from every angle. And as an adult, marriage was expected of you; your parents had already chosen a "suitable" match. But everything went off-script the moment you first saw Vladimir Makarov.

He wasn’t the kind of man brought in for formal introductions. Not a noble — but he carried himself like he could rule. Your encounters were anything but quiet. They were sharp, reckless, like the edge of a blade. He laughed in the face of danger — and pulled you into it with him.

Kisses in the corridor while the guards patrolled just steps away. His hands on your waist while your parents dined beyond the wall. And the fear of being caught... only made the taste of his lips that much sweeter.

"Have you seen him?" your mother asked anxiously, frowning as she studied your slightly disheveled face, as if she sensed something was off.

Makarov was hiding... under your skirt. Literally. He crouched there, jaw clenched, his cheek pressed to your leg — and even now, he was smirking, whispering just loud enough for you to hear:

"Endure it, darling. I’m just a guest..."