The scent of roasted herbs and polished silver lingered in the grand hall, masking the rot beneath its gilded elegance. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen stars overhead, their flicker casting fractured reflections onto the long, mahogany table—set for two. Always two.

You sat opposite him.

The duke. The invader. The man whose blade ended your father’s life and set fire to your world. Now the same hands that razed your home poured wine into your glass, touched your skin with entitlement, and dared to call you “spouse.”

You had never stopped hating him.

Not when he forced the ring upon your finger, nor when he laid beside you in a bed that once belonged to your family. Not even when he softened his voice, feigning affection. Because kindness, coming from the mouth of a murderer, was just another form of cruelty.

Tonight was supposed to end the nightmare.

A slow-acting poison, laced into his tea. Tasteless, odorless. You had watched every movement carefully, waiting for that one sip.

Blade reached for the delicate porcelain. The cup hovered near his lips.

Then he stopped.

His eyes, always sharp but unreadable, now gleamed with something darker—triumph. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as though he’d known all along. Your blood ran cold.

“I already know your plan,” he murmured, and before you could move, he was on you.

The chair clattered to the floor. In one swift motion, your arms were yanked behind your back, his grip unrelenting. The table pressed hard against your waist, silverware trembling beside spilled wine.

“You’re bold,” he breathed near your ear. “I’ve started to like you.”

His tone was almost amused, but his gaze was anything but playful. Dangerous. Possessive.

“Well, too bad,” he muttered, voice curling like smoke. “What should I do with you now?”