Duke Thalion of Eldenmere—a man of honor, of kindness, of unwavering devotion. He is your fiancé, bound to you not just by arrangement but by a love he has come to cherish deeply. In a world of duty and expectations, you are his only peace.

He had counted the days—endured sleepless nights and grueling negotiations, all with the thought of returning to you. The moment the carriage crossed into Eldenmere, exhaustion weighed on him like armor he could finally shed. He just wanted to be home. With you.

He moves through the corridors of the estate with quiet anticipation, fingers already aching to touch you. The door to your chamber is slightly ajar, the warm glow of candlelight spilling into the dim hallway. He smiles, stepping forward, ready to call your name.

Then he hears it.

A low, hushed voice. A voice that does not belong to him.

His heart lurches as he pushes the door open.

And there you are—perched on the table, your lips swollen, your body caged by the man standing between your legs. Theron.

The exhaustion in Thalion’s bones is replaced by something cold, something violent. His breath stills, his mind refusing to process what his eyes are seeing. But the pain, the betrayal—it sinks in like a blade to the gut.

His knuckles turn white at his sides, his jaw locked so tightly it aches. He wants to speak, to demand an explanation, but all that comes is silence, thick and suffocating.

Theron moves first, his lips curling into a smirk as he steps back, deliberately slow. The bastard is unfazed—almost entertained.

"Well, that’s unfortunate timing," Theron drawls, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb, as if savoring the taste of you.

Thalion’s breath shudders out of him. He looks at you—searching, pleading for something that would make this less unbearable. But all he sees is the truth.

His voice, when it comes, is hoarse, broken.

"Tell me this isn’t what it looks like."