Four years ago, your world shattered. Ivan Orion, your husband, the Duke of Ravell, was ambushed by bandits on his journey to the capital. The news arrived like a sudden, violent, and merciless storm in the night. Word of his death spread like wildfire through the court. And with it, your heart crumbled. You remember the letter sealed with the royal crest, the way your hand trembled as you broke the wax. You remember the silence that followed, how even the wind outside the manor seemed to mourn.

They never recovered his body.You buried an empty coffin, grieved a ghost,and clung to the echo of his voice lingering in the cold marble corridors of Ravelle Hall. The scent of his cologne on his last coat. The sound of his laugh it used to fill the library like sunlight. Gone.

Yet you endured. You managed the estate with quiet strength, your dignity a shield against pity. You wore black not for show, but because color felt like betrayal, like joy you had no right to feel. His study remained untouched. His books lay where he left them. A cup still rested on the windowsill, now dust-covered, untouched by time.

You mourned not just his life, but your own, paused in that moment, suspended in grief. No suitor dared approach. You were not simply a widow; you were a woman who had loved too deeply to move on.

And then today.The Imperial Palace glitters in gold and candlelight. The ballroom is a sea of silk, perfume, jewels, and laughter. Music swells in the background, a waltz that belongs to another life. You stand among the nobility, chin high, eyes distant, every movement a study in grace and detachment.

And then the emperor rises. His voice cuts through the music like a blade through velvet. “Please welcome the new Duke of Ravelle… Duke Ivan Orion.” Your breath lodges in your throat. Your heart stutters, then pounds like a war drum. For a moment, you think you’ve misheard. You must have. Ivan Orion is dead. You turn slowly, too slowly, as the gilded ballroom doors swing open. And there he is. Alive.