CLAIRE
When I turned eighteen, I was told I was to be engaged to the Duke of Stoneshire.
He had just graduated from the Royal Academy in Frussels—an institution known for turning noble sons into statesmen and kings—and was already whispered about in drawing rooms across the realm.
The nephew of the King, orphaned at six after a tragic carriage accident claimed both his parents, the young duke had ascended to his title while still in short trousers.
Yet from the start, he carried it with unnerving poise. Groomed to be flawless, he became a living emblem of nobility: polished, unreadable, and untouchable.
I met him only once before our wedding... on the day I turned twenty-one.
I had expected a man of cold demeanor, aloof and indifferent, perhaps even cruel.
There were no portraits of him circulating, no casual sketches in society papers, no features in the broadsheets.
He was a myth more than a man, until the doors opened, and he stepped into my life.
He brought red roses. That much I remember.
And I remember the silence that fell across the hall as he entered, as if the air had thickened around him.
His hair was sleek and black as ink, his skin so pale and luminous it seemed to glow in the candlelight. Eyes the color of ice and sapphire met mine with a quiet, commanding stillness... and I, who had been raised in courts and salons, among the most dazzling and pedigreed, could only stare.
I had been presented to princes. Danced with heirs. The Crown Prince himself—now the King—had once called me the most beautiful debutante of the season. Yet none of them held a candle to the man who stood before me that day.
He was perfect.
Too perfect.
Naturally, I was wary.
The Duke of Stoneshire was known for his silence, his detachment, the isolation in which he had been raised.
The rumors called him heartless. A brute. An ice-blooded noble sculpted for duty, not love.
But that day, he smiled.
And that day, he was gentle. Considerate, even. He took my gloved hand with care, and spoke with a voice both deep and soft, like velvet pulled taut. We dined. We laughed... nervously, at first.
And as the hours passed, the image I'd built of him began to crack.
He was human, after all.
Or so I thought.
We were of the same age then, and yet he felt older. Not in his face, but in his eyes. In the way he moved, the way he seemed to listen to what I didn't say.
Our wedding was originally set for autumn, but it was postponed after the death of his longtime family butler... a man who had raised him like a second father. I understood. Or tried to.
The ceremony was held the following summer, without much fanfare. One moment, I was my father's daughter.
The next, I was a duchess.
Five years have passed since then.
Five long years.
And on the night of our wedding, when I thought I would finally learn what it meant to be desired, what it meant to be loved, he presented me with a contract.
A legal document.
Terms. Conditions. Boundaries.
Signed and sealed in ink, and witnessed by his private lawyer slash his most trusted aide.
On our wedding night.
My wedding night...
I remember holding the parchment in my trembling hands, reading each line while the fire crackled in the hearth behind me. My husband stood by the window, his back to me. I tried not to let him see my expression.
He never touched me.
Not that night. Not ever.
In five years of marriage, my husband, my perfect, unreachable husband, has not once laid a hand on me.
Let alone offered his love.
**
There were three stipulations outlined in that contract.
First, I would be provided for in full. An ample monthly allowance. Freedom to spend, redecorate, entertain as I pleased. I was to be the duchess in title and in appearance. However, the South Wing of the manor was forbidden to me—strictly and without exception. I was not to enter, inquire, or interfere. It was as though that part of the estate did not exist.
Second, I was to bear him an heir.
But not yet.
Only when he deemed the time appropriate. Until then, I was free to pursue affection elsewhere, should I wish to do so. If I chose to take a lover, he would not object. He would, in fact, respect my decision. In return, I was never to expect affection from him. Not even the pretense of it.
The third condition: I was to keep far from his politics, his business, and his private affairs.
He would do the same for mine, barring matters of health or personal safety.
He did ask, with polite indifference, if I wished to add any terms of my own. I couldn't speak. I had no breath left to form words.
But I remember one thought flashing through my mind, clear and unyielding.
I am Claire Gold-Meyer. I will not be undone by this.
Ours was a political marriage, and I was not so naïve as to expect otherwise. The union would one day deliver him control over my father's lands and assets. My duchy was modest in size, but rich in resource. By marrying me, he would strengthen his influence and expand the King's faction.
But I never believed his motives were self-serving. The Duke of Stoneshire was—and remains—one of the monarchy's fiercest allies. Loyal to the throne. Loyal to his blood. If he gained anything from me, it was only ever in service of the Crown.
Still, I knew I must demand one thing in return.
He may treat me however he wishes, but I will not grant him the mercy of a divorce.
No matter how long the cold stretches on. No matter how painful the loneliness.
He made his choice.
So did I.
The contract was signed by both parties. Our marriage sealed not with a kiss, but with ink and obligation.
On my wedding night.
How romantic.
Ah, well.
Let the dreamers chase their fairy tales. I, for one, have learned the truth.
This is the real world.
And in the real world, love is not guaranteed.
But power... power can be claimed.
And I intend to claim mine.
**
But thinking back on it now, even in the absence of what the poets and fools call love, my husband has never once failed to live up to the name he bears.
He has never taken a mistress.
There have been no whispers in the corridors, no scandalous glances exchanged at court, no servant gossip about secret rendezvous or misplaced affections.
In truth, Aether Wolff has remained, by all appearances, the perfect husband.
So then...
Why?
Why does he leave that one part of our marriage untouched, unacknowledged, untended like a rose left to wilt beneath snow?
Why does he not try to fill the hollow between us?
Why won't he try to love me?
Is it me?
Am I... undesirable?
It's foolish, perhaps, but I've already fallen for him. In spite of the contract. In spite of the cold. In spite of the way he looks at me sometimes as if I were a painting on the wall... beautiful, motionless, and irrelevant.
Yes, I fell for him.
For the curve of his voice when he speaks with restraint.
For the discipline in his silence.
For the gentleness he offers... not with warmth, perhaps, but with care.
And care... can be more dangerous than affection.
Because care can masquerade as love.
Because care can make you hope.
He dines with me every evening he's home, no matter how late his meetings run or how weary he returns from diplomatic campaigns that keep him away for months—sometimes nearly a year at a time.
From the first morning after our wedding, red roses from the estate's greenhouse have graced my vanity, delivered daily with no note, as though he didn't want me to forget... that I was remembered.
At every tea party I host, he sends me a gift—jewels so exquisite the other noblewomen nearly choke on their jealousy.
At dinner, he always asks how my day was. Not as a formality, but with a calm, attentive patience that unsettles me more than silence ever could.
And when I fall ill, the manor turns into a palace of glass—fragile and hushed—under his command. The physician is summoned before I can finish a cough. The staff tiptoe around my chambers. I am not just cared for; I am protected.
So then why?
What is it that he cannot see in me?
What flaw lies buried in my presence that makes me invisible to the one man I wish would see me?
It's not vanity.
I know I am not lacking.
I was once called the Flower of the Four Kingdoms.
Not merely the most beautiful in Aristva, but among all the noble daughters of the Eastern Realms.
I have been painted, praised, paraded like a prize, and yet none of it matters to the man who married me.
I am educated. Accomplished. I can manage a household, play four instruments, speak three languages, and quote every imperial historian from memory.
I have been the model duchess—dignified, obedient, utterly faithful.
So why?
Why won't he choose to love me?
Is it possible... he simply cannot?
There was a time I wondered if his heart bent in another direction entirely. His closeness with the King—his cousin—and the First Prince of Kroux was well known, and I considered whether his affections might lie beyond the bounds of what society allowed.
But even that theory withered under scrutiny.
I searched, discreetly, carefully.
There was nothing.
No scandal. No secrets. No hidden truth beneath the surface.
Just him. As unknowable as ever.
And so I wonder.
And so I ache.
For five years, I have honored the contract.
For five years, I have smiled when required, spoken sweetly, hosted lavishly, and kept the illusion of our union intact.
For five years... I have worn the mask of the perfect wife.
But now?
Now, I am tired of playing a part in a story I never wrote.
I want to write a new one.
One where I am not merely the duchess in name, not merely the elegant shadow beside him.
No.
I will win your heart, Aether Wolff.
You may have chosen distance.
But I will choose war.