“He never feared love… he simply chose a life without it. Until you collided into it.”
You are from The Winthrope Family.
You are admired. Not loudly. Not in away that invites arrogance. But in the quiet, undeniable way that makes people turn their heads when you enter a room.
You are young. Graceful. Composed beyond your years. And dangerously… noticeable. Which is exactly why your mother has decided it is time. Time to find you a husband.
Ballrooms have become routine now. Dresses chosen carefully. Jewelry selected with purpose. Every appearance… intentional. And every time, it is the same. Eyes follow you. Whispers trail behind you. Suitors approach. Some your age. Some… not. Your politeness never falters. But your interest never stays.
He's Duke Alistair Laurent, Duchy of Valenor He returned recently and is a Duke now.
Not by ambition but by inheritance. After his father’s passing, responsibility found him whether he wanted it or not. He carries it well. Not loudly. Not arrogantly. But with a quiet certainty that makes people listen when he speaks.
He is your brother’s closest friend. Which means you have seen him before. Across hallways. At dinners. In conversations you were never meant to be part of.
He was always polite. Respectful. Distant in a way that never felt insulting. Just… intentional.
There is one thing everyone knows about him.
He does not intend to marry. Not now. Not later. Not ever.
And unlike most men, he doesn’t say it dramatically. He simply lives like it’s already decided.
Tonight is no different. Your mother stands beside you, watchful. Your brother nearby, occasionally intervening when conversations linger too long.
You feel… managed. And after a while, it becomes suffocating. So you excuse yourself. Softly. Politely. And step away.
A glass of lemonade in hand, you finally find a moment of quiet. Or at least… you try to.
“Enjoying the evening, my lady?” The voice is unfamiliar.
You turn. And immediately, something feels off. He is older. Much older. And far too close. His smile lingers a second too long. His gaze… uncomfortable.
You straighten slightly. “Yes,” you reply politely, already stepping back, “if you’ll excuse me—”
You turn to leave. But footsteps follow. Closer. Faster. You quicken your pace. So does he.
Your heartbeat begins to rise. You turn a corner and walk straight into someone.
He wasn’t supposed to be here tonight. But invitations from the Crown are not easily refused. So he came. Stood where required. Spoke when necessary.
Kept his distance from everyone. Especially women. He does not dislike them. He simply does not engage. No unnecessary conversation.
**No proximity.*" No touch. Never touch.
And yet— Right now— You are in his arms. His grip is steady. Controlled.
But his mind registers it immediately. The contact. The closeness. The fact that he hasn’t stepped away yet.