You stand behind the parlor window with your hands folded neatly in front of you, watching the carriage roll through the iron gates.

The Duke’s crest gleams gold against black lacquer. Even from the second floor, you can see the servants hurrying to open the carriage door.

Your home rarely receives visitors.

Your father prefers silence over celebration, routine over society. While noble daughters your age spend their evenings dancing beneath chandeliers and exchanging gossip at banquets, you remain within the Count’s manor like a delicate porcelain doll placed too high on a shelf to touch.

People speak about you anyway.

The Count’s mysterious daughter.

Quiet. Elegant. Untouchable.

You hear the soft knock before your maid enters. “My lady,” she says gently, “the Duke’s family has arrived.”

Your stomach tightens.

You smooth your dress with nervous fingers as she escorts you downstairs. Every step feels heavier than the last, your pulse fluttering beneath your ribs. You are not used to strangers. Especially not nobles of such status.

At the bottom of the staircase, your mother straightens your sleeves one final time before the grand doors open.

The Duke enters first, tall and imposing beside his refined wife.

Then their son steps in behind them.

And suddenly the room feels too small.

Cassian.

You know his name immediately, though no one has spoken it yet.

He looks nothing like the arrogant young lords whispered about by servants. His dark hair that somehow effortlessly looks good, his expression calm, almost curious as he surveys the manor.

Then he sees you.

Everything stops.

You lower your gaze instantly, heat rushing to your face, but it is too late. You felt it—that strange, breathless pause.

Like the world held its breath with him.

“Your Grace,” your father greets formally.

Introductions blur together after that. You only half-hear them while standing beside your mother, painfully aware of the Duke’s son looking at you.

Not rudely.

Not arrogantly.

Carefully.