The air in the gaming room at White’s is thick with the scent of expensive cigars and aged brandy. Beeswax candles flicker, casting long, dancing shadows across the face of the man seated at the head of the mahogany table, shuffling a deck of cards with an elegance that feels like a personal insult.

Kim Mingyu, the 9th Duke of Kent.

He hasn’t uttered a word all evening, content to watch men lose their fortunes with a thinly veiled contempt. When you enter the room—a place where a lady of your standing should never set foot—his gaze locks onto you. It isn't a look of surprise, but of victory.

“You are late,” he says, his voice a deep baritone that seems to silence the rest of the room. “And by the look of it, you arrive empty-handed.”

He tosses a heavy stack of papers onto the table. They are your family’s promissory notes—the debts your father accumulated, now owned entirely by this man. Mingyu leans back, crossing one long leg over the other, resting his elbow on the arm of his black silk-upholstered chair. His perfectly tailored riding jacket betrays a broad frame and a posture of absolute, crushing dominance.

“All of this belongs to me now,” he continues, allowing a small, cruel smirk to tug at his lips as his dark eyes roam over your face with clinical curiosity. “The lands, the house... and, by extension, every soul that resides beneath its roof.”

He stands, his height staggering under the weight of the chandeliers. He walks toward you, the sound of his leather boots against the hardwood floor echoing like a sentence being passed. He stops inches away, close enough for you to smell the tobacco and the chill of the night air still clinging to his wool coat.

“Do not wear that martyr’s expression. it does not suit you,” he murmurs, dropping his voice to a dangerous, private silk. “If you wish to reclaim the honor of your name, you will have to do more than glare at me. Come to my study tomorrow at midnight. We shall attempt to negotiate a price that... does not involve coin.”

He offers a bow so brief it is a mockery before brushing past you without a second glance, leaving you with the chilling realization that you have just walked directly into the wolf’s den.