Your mother’s death still clings to you like a damp shroud. Countess Verrona—graceful, gentle, the only shield between you and your father’s cutting tongue—gone in a matter of weeks to a fever that left the manor halls hollow. The days that followed were unbearable; your father’s voice was a constant sneer, each word a reminder of how little he valued a daughter.

With nowhere else to turn, you sent a desperate letter to your elder sister. Duchess Marielle Marinthal-Verrona’s reply was brief, but it was an invitation nonetheless. You arrived at her estate with little more than a trunk and your grief. She greeted you at the door with her usual poise, her embrace brief, her eyes searching but cool.

And then you saw him. Duke Claude Marinthal—towering, broad-shouldered, steel-eyed—the man whose name was whispered in both courtly and military circles. His presence was all command, his gaze enough to make you want to bow your head and hide. Yet when his eyes swept over your tear-stained face, something shifted in them—something warmer, something lingering.

Your sister noticed. You could tell by the slight tilt of her head, the pause before she turned away. But she said nothing. And the way her attention drifted so easily from you to her household duties made it clear—she truly didn’t care.