"Yes, I will marry you," I answered, my voice stronger than I expected.
Duke Alaric's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes seemed to lighten. He nodded once, as though my acceptance was a foregone conclusion. Before he could respond, the door burst open, revealing my father's panicked face.
"Isabella!" Baron Reginald gasped. "You cannot possibly agree to this. You don't understand what you're saying."
I straightened my spine, drawing strength from the Duke's presence. "I understand perfectly, Father. I'm accepting His Grace's proposal."
My father stepped into the room, his face flushed. "This is madness. You've barely met the man! And you—" He turned to Alaric. "What could you possibly want with her? She's damaged goods. The rumors alone would—"
"Careful, Baron," Alaric cut in, his voice deceptively soft. "That's my future wife you're insulting."
My father faltered, seeming to remember who he was addressing. He changed tactics, desperation creeping into his voice. "Isabella, think about what you're doing. You've never been in society. You don't know how to be a duchess. This will end in disaster."
"Unlike you," I replied, "His Grace doesn't seem concerned about my supposed shortcomings."
"Because he doesn't know you!" my father nearly shouted. "The fits of temper, the strange behaviors—"
"Behaviors encouraged by neglect and mistreatment," Alaric interjected coldly. "Which brings me to a matter I'd like to discuss." He stepped toward my father, who instinctively backed away. "I've brought gifts for your family, Baron. Perhaps we could speak privately about them while Isabella prepares herself."
The mention of gifts worked like magic. My father's expression immediately shifted, greed replacing concern.
"Gifts?" he repeated, suddenly looking much more agreeable. "Yes, of course, Your Grace. We can discuss everything in my study."
I watched in disbelief as my father transformed before my eyes, his objections to our marriage apparently forgotten at the promise of material gain. My gaze met Alaric's, and I saw the contempt in his eyes—not for me, but for the man who had sold his principles so quickly.
"Isabella," Alaric said, "I'll return shortly. We have matters to discuss."
I nodded, wondering what "gifts" he had brought and what he planned to say to my father. As they left, Alistair remained at the door, offering me a small, reassuring smile.
"Don't worry, my lady," he said softly. "His Grace knows exactly what he's doing."
Twenty minutes later, Alaric returned alone. He closed the door behind him and surveyed my sparse room with narrowed eyes.
"So this is how the Baron houses his eldest daughter," he said, taking in the faded wallpaper and worn furniture. "More prison than bedchamber."
"Did my father agree to the marriage?" I asked, ignoring his comment. I'd long since stopped seeing my room as anything but a cell.
"He did." Alaric's lips curved into a cold smile. "After I reminded him of our earlier conversation in the hallway."
"What conversation?"
"The one where I threw him against your door and explained what would happen if he continued to deny me."
I gasped. "You threatened my father?"
"I merely provided consequences for his actions." Alaric shrugged, then gestured to a small table in the corner where several sketches lay. "These are yours?"
I nodded, surprised by his interest. "Just drawings to pass the time."
He picked up one—a portrait of Mittens when she was healthier. "You have talent."
"Thank you," I said, unsure how to respond to the unexpected compliment. "What gifts did you promise my father?"
"Financial relief." Alaric set down the drawing. "The Baron's debts are substantial, and I've offered to clear them as a wedding gift—after we're married, of course."
I couldn't hide my surprise. "That's... generous."
"It's calculated," he corrected. "I needed him to agree quickly, and money speaks louder than threats sometimes." He looked at the kitten still curled on my pillow. "Why were you being punished, truly?"
I sighed, sitting on the edge of my bed. "Clara broke Mittens' leg deliberately. When Lady Beatrix suggested putting her down, I refused. Things... escalated."
"And for this, they locked you away without food."
It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway.
"I'm sorry about your cat," he said, his voice softening slightly.
"She's not dead yet," I replied. "But I worry she won't survive long."
"Have you ever—"
"I'm so sorry!" I blurted suddenly, unable to contain the question burning inside me. "I've been disrespectful to you. I've questioned your decisions and—"
"Stop," Alaric commanded. "Don't apologize for asking questions or speaking your mind. That was not part of our agreement."
"But Clara—"
"If you apologize for your sister's actions one more time," he said firmly, "I will walk out that door, and this marriage will be off."
I fell silent, startled by his intensity.
Alaric sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I did not agree to marry a doormat, Isabella. I agreed to marry a woman who showed courage by approaching me in the woods."
His words washed over me, unfamiliar yet welcome. No one had ever wanted me to show spirit before.
"When will the wedding be?" I asked instead.
"Two weeks. Enough time for preparations without giving your family opportunity to interfere." He looked around my barren room again. "Pack whatever you wish to take. You'll move to my estate tomorrow."
My heart leaped. "Tomorrow? But—"
"Is that a problem?"
"No!" I said quickly. "But... could I come tonight instead? I don't want to stay here anymore."
Alaric studied me for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, to my surprise, he shook his head.
"No."
"But why?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "You've seen how they treat me. Why make me stay even one more night?"
"Because," he said evenly, "if you run away tonight, you leave as a victim. If you walk out tomorrow, head high, using my name and your new status, you leave as my future duchess."
I stared at him, digesting his words.
"You want me to fight back," I said slowly.
"I want you to become the woman you're capable of being." His gaze was intense. "You spoke of confidence, Isabella. This is where it begins."
My heart pounded as I considered his words. For years, I'd dreamed of escaping this house, this life. But Alaric was right—sneaking away would only reinforce the narrative that I was broken, shameful, something to be hidden.
"One night," he continued. "Use it to stand your ground. When they try to keep you in your place, remind them who you're about to become."
"What if I'm not strong enough?"
"Then perhaps I've misjudged you." His voice was calm, but the words stung. "But I don't think I have."
He extended his hand to me. "Show me I'm right, Isabella. Stop pretending to be afraid when I can see the fire behind your eyes."
I looked at his outstretched hand, then back to his face. This man, this stranger who would soon be my husband, saw something in me that no one else ever had—not even myself.
With a deep breath, I placed my hand in his, feeling the warmth and strength of his grip.
"I'll show them," I promised, my voice steady. "I'll show you."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Good. Tomorrow, we begin our charade, Duchess." He squeezed my hand once before releasing it. "Tonight, you take back your dignity."
As he turned to leave, I felt something new unfurling inside me—not hope exactly, but something harder, more resilient. I thought of Clara's smug face, Lady Beatrix's cruel words, my father's indifference. For the first time, I allowed myself to imagine facing them not as the cowering, masked daughter, but as the future Duchess Thorne.