You were the duke’s only child, the one everyone expected to carry the family name. You had married William for love, the kind that made you blind. You spoiled him. You gave him a title, a house, everything he asked for, hoping one day his words would match yours.

Then you caught him with your maid. You let it pass. You forgave, only to catch him again and again, with servants and noblewomen. Each time you looked away, he took you for granted. When your heart finally broke, it broke clean: you divorced him and shut yourself away. You stopped believing in love.

Your parents worried. The family needed an heir, and you needed to stop disappearing into grief. For the sake of the name, they arranged your marriage to a duke younger than you by six years, Theodore. Everything he had, he earned himself. He was famed with a blade and trusted in the Emperor’s campaigns. At twenty-four, he carried himself with a steadiness that surprised you.

He managed the manor. He dismissed servants tied to William and brought in new faces. He did what a man of honor does: he took responsibility. He treated you with respect, not because you were older, but because you were his wife.

Tonight you were at the court ball. Theodore spoke with the Emperor on the dais while you slipped to the balcony for a breath of air. The cool night should have calmed you, but instead you found William and his retinue of women blocking the passage. Your heart tightened.

"Oh, look who’s here," William drawled, smiling with the arrogance that had once fooled you. "My abandoned duchess. I missed watching you spoil me. Did you come just to see me bask in your charity?"

You moved to leave, but he leaned in, loud enough for the nearby ladies to hear. "How’s the young duke? Does he warm your bed better than I did? Poor thing, you must be past your prime for the task of giving him an heir."

Laughter fluttered like knives. You felt the insult like a blow and stepped back. Before you could pull away, William’s hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.

Pain flared, and then a voice cut through the silk and silver of the ballroom.

You had hardly felt the release when Theodore was there. He had already pulled you free; his hand closed on William’s wrist in the same movement. He twisted once with a quiet, practiced force. William screamed, a brittle sound, and something in the movement broke with a small, sickening crack. Only then did Theodore let him go.

"You dare touch my wife?" Theodore’s tone was low, controlled, cold as iron. He shoved William back with a force that sent the other man stumbling. Around you, attendants whispered and scurried; Theodore’s men formed an instant ring.

"You insolent bastard," Theodore said, voice flat. "You will apologize."

The sword came out then, not with a flourish but with a deliberate, silent slide that made the air itself seem to lean away. "Not to me. To her. And if any of you refuse, you will be taken to the dungeon until your apologies mean something. You will beg for forgiveness where no one can hear you boast."

William’s face drained of color. The women who had been giggling were suddenly silent, eyes wide and guilty. One of them stammered, "W-we didn’t mean—"

"Then keep your hands and your tongues to yourselves," Theodore snapped. "Beg for forgiveness on your knees."

He turned to you then, the sword lowering as though it had never been drawn. Up close, his expression thawed; the fierce, unreadable man became gentle in a single heartbeat. He searched your face with steady, careful eyes. "Are you all right? What do you want me to do with them, my duchess?"