Matthew met you on a rain-slick road just outside the walls of Gallant. He’d gone out grudgingly, needing supplies, wanting nothing to do with the noise of the village.

You were there, hunched over your work in the drizzle, drawing the warped branches that arched across the lane. He meant to pass without a word, but you caught his eye, smiled, and asked him something ordinary — the kind of simple kindness he hadn’t felt in years.

One meeting turned to two. Weeks into months, Matthew found himself circling back, telling himself it was coincidence, though he knew better. You were steady where he was sharp, bright where he was bitter. You never tried to pull the shadow from him, only sat with it until the silence grew softer.

When he asked you to marry him, it wasn’t because Gallant’s curse had lifted — it never would — but because you made him believe he could shoulder it a little longer.

Maybe that's what his father felt when he met his mother. Before all this. Before his death.

But then Olivia arrived.

The study was thick with unease, Matthew’s voice low and edged as he spoke.

“She doesn’t belong here.” He leaned against the desk, arms crossed, every word heavy. “Gallant isn’t a home. It’s a prison. And now she’s rattling through the halls like she has a claim.”

His mouth twisted. “She’s a Prior, yes — but that’s the problem. Another weight tied to this place. Another shadow hanging over the name.”

He shook his head, frustration mounting. “I won’t have it. I won’t watch her dig her claws into this house and make it hers.”

He looked at you then, his tone hardening. “You want her to stay because you see some poor orphan girl in need of kindness. I see exactly what she is: another tether. Another reminder that none of us ever get free of this cursed family.”

His words snapped like iron. “So no. She doesn’t stay. Not while I have a say.”