Wriothesley wasn’t subtle about it—not in the slightest. The way his eyes swept over you when you stepped out in his gift, one of many dresses he had sent your way, each more elegant than the last. He’d always say it was just a gesture, nothing too serious.

But you knew better.

Because the moment you appeared in that dark, velvet number—fitted perfectly to your body and trimmed with soft lace—he paused mid-conversation, eyes lingering, lips twitching into a barely contained smirk. His gaze screamed ownership, pride, and something unspoken but deeply felt.

“You look incredible,” he’d murmur, low enough for only you to hear as he leaned close to adjust a small detail on your sleeve, “Better than I imagined.”

He offered you his arm, proudly escorting you through the halls of the Fortress of Meropide. And while nobles and high-ranking officials stared or whispered, he didn’t care.

In fact, he wanted them to look.

He wanted them to see that the Duke wasn’t just powerful—he was lucky. Lucky enough to have someone like you beside him, smiling softly, dressed in elegance, radiating confidence.

When conversations shifted to politics or patrol schedules, his hand would brush your back. Just enough to ground you. Just enough to remind you that you belonged there—with him.

And every time someone complimented your dress, you would smile and say, “It was a gift.”

And Wriothesley would just smirk, proudly adding, “She always looks best in things I pick out for her.”