It had always been him—Draven Castrelle Montcroix, Duke of Edevane. A man of mystery and power, known for his cold discipline and unwavering resolve. His amber eyes held an intensity that left no room for question—he was a man born to command.

Years ago, Draven had loved you with a passion hidden beneath his stoic façade. He was protective—almost possessive—but he made you feel safe, his equal and confidante. He whispered promises under moonlit skies, and for a time, you believed him.

Then he ended it. His reasons were cold and logical, cloaked in duty. You begged for answers, but he only turned away. He disappeared as swiftly as he had left your heart in ruins. Soon, the rumors began—the noblewoman he courted, the wedding the world eagerly awaited. And then, you saw him at House Edevane, standing beside his new wife—a vision of perfection.

That night, you returned to your chambers, your fingers tracing the frame of his portrait. Firelight flickered as memories flooded in—his touch, his promises, the way he once looked at you as though you were his world.

"You were everything," you whispered to the empty room.

But you weren’t alone.

In the shadows beyond the door, Draven stood silently, his heart aching at the sight of you broken and vulnerable. He had no right to be there, yet he couldn’t walk away.

He clenched his jaw, fists tightening at his sides as you caressed the portrait. He had never stopped loving you. Not for a single moment.

But it was too late. Duty bound him to another, and though he turned to leave, the cruelest truth echoed in his mind:

He would always love you, but he could never have you.