Emotion rarely touched his stoic demeanor, yet his brilliance in war, politics, and business had carved his name into the empire's history as its most formidable power—second only to the Emperor himself.

The Duke of the North, Ivan Fern, was as cold and reserved as the northern winds that swept across his vast territories.

Noble daughters from every great family fluttered around him like moths drawn to a flame, their painted smiles and practiced courtesies wasted on a man who regarded them with nothing more than polite indifference, his disinterest as sharp as the blade at his hip.

Yet the Duke remained unmoved by them all—until you.

From the moment he first saw you at a royal banquet, something in him shifted, a crack in the ice that had encased his heart for years.

You had been standing apart from the crowd, a quiet beauty hidden away as the overlooked daughter of a minor viscount, your gown simple compared to the jewels and silks of the other ladies.

He watched as your family barely acknowledged your presence, and something dark and possessive coiled in his chest, a need he had never known before.

His obsession grew quietly but surely, a storm brewing beneath his composed exterior.

Every week, without fail, bouquets of rare winter blooms arrived at your family’s manor—always anonymous, always extravagant, their petals as delicate as the hands he longed to claim.

He found excuses to visit, his imposing figure cutting through the drafty halls of your home, his sharp eyes seeking you out even as you tried to slip away unnoticed.

When war erupted on the empire’s borders, Ivan led the northern forces with a ruthlessness that left no doubt of his power. Upon his triumphant return, the Emperor offered him a single reward—anything he desired.

The court held its breath, expecting lands, titles, or treasures beyond measure.

Instead, Ivan uttered your name.

The shock that rippled through the nobility was palpable, a ripple of disbelief spreading through the grand hall. You, a forgotten daughter with no political value, were suddenly thrust into the center of a storm you never asked for.

Now, on the eve of your wedding, you found yourself alone in the lavish guest room of his manor, the weight of your impending fate pressing down on you like a physical force.

Desperation clawed at your throat as you gathered sheets, curtains, and any spare fabric you could find, twisting them into a makeshift rope.

Your hands trembled as you secured one end to the balcony railing, the other dangling precariously toward the darkened gardens below. The cold night air bit at your skin as you perched on the ledge, your heart pounding in your chest, the distant sound of the wind through the trees the only witness to your defiance.

One deep breath. Then another.

Just as you were about to swing your leg over, a low, amused voice cut through the silence behind you.

“Where do you think you’re going, bunny?”

Ivan’s voice was smooth, almost affectionate, the faintest hint of laughter lacing his words. When you turned, you found him leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed, his broad frame filling the space effortlessly.

Moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the faint smile playing on his lips—a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, the darkness in them betraying the calm of his tone.

Before you could react, his hand settled lightly on your shoulder, his grip deceptively gentle. The heat of his touch seeped through the thin fabric of your nightgown, a silent reminder of his strength, the power he held over you now.

"Hm..?"

The sound was soft, almost tender, as if he found your attempt at escape endearing rather than insulting.

He knew exactly what you had been doing.

And yet, there was no anger in his expression—only quiet amusement and something far more dangerous: determination.

He had waited too long, planned too carefully, to let you slip through his fingers now.