CLAIRE
"Must you leave again… so soon?"
Her voice was soft... too soft, perhaps... as she lowered the glass of wine from her lips. The ruby liquid glinted in the candlelight, untouched save for a single, tentative sip.
Across the table, her husband lifted his eyes from the rim of his own goblet. The flicker of flame from the chandelier caught in his sharp gaze, but his expression remained as composed, as unreadable, as ever.
"I'm afraid so, my wife."
The words, spoken in that smooth, deliberate voice of his, landed between them like the quiet closing of a door.
Aether Wolff, Duke of Stoneshire, was a man of few words, and fewer affections.
His tone, as always, bore no warmth... only a refined distance, carefully measured and meticulously maintained. Claire had come to recognize the strain behind that voice, though. The forced civility.
The effort it cost him to engage, to speak of anything beyond politics, affairs of state, or the economy of foreign lands.
And still… she applauded him.
Because he tried.
He did not need to. But he did. In his own way.
And perhaps that was what began to frighten her, that she had grown to cherish even the smallest scraps of his care.
Even when it was cold.
Even when it was strained.
Because she wanted more.
More of his forced attention.
More of the small, reluctant gestures he offered her like coins to a beggar.
More of him—the man behind the title.
Because she was no longer content with this pale echo of a marriage.
Not when her heart, foolish and persistent, had begun to betray her. Not when she was falling for him more deeply with every passing day.
After dinner, he would—as always—retire to his study. The doors would close. The staff would vanish. No one disturbed the duke once he disappeared into that dark chamber of silence and strategy.
He was only twenty-six, yet his power rivaled that of seasoned statesmen. As the King's right hand, his influence over the realm was unshakable. As the ruler of the most formidable duchy in Aristva, he stood atop the nation's aristocracy like a monument carved from marble. And his wealth, what was publicly known of it, was enough to make kings uneasy.
Claire understood all this. She had no illusions about the weight of the crown he bore. She had been raised in the same world, after all... reared in an old and noble house, taught the language of diplomacy before the language of desire. She knew what it meant to wed for power.
But even power did not shield her from the ache of being unwanted.
She was everything a duchess ought to be—elegant, poised, faultless. Her wavy, shoulder-brushing hair was the color of spun gold, her eyes clear and sharp like the waters of Lake Cellestra. On the day of her debutante, she had stunned the capital into silence. And when she married the Duke of Stoneshire in a ceremony so grand that bards sang of it for weeks, her name became legend across the Four Kingdoms.
Noblewomen envied her. Noblemen fantasized about standing in her husband's place.
She was, by every standard, perfection made flesh.
And yet, he had never once come to her chambers.
The only kiss they had ever shared was the one given at the altar.
To him, it had been a formality. A brief press of lips. A symbolic seal.
To her, it had been her first kiss.
And she remembered it still.
Not for its passion, but because it was the only moment his mouth had ever met hers.
She stood alone now on the terrace, the evening air brushing cool against her arms as she gazed into the night. The garden below glowed faintly beneath the moonlight... rows of rosebushes stretching like shadows across the lawn.
"Your Grace?"
The voice startled her, and she turned.
Malcom Lenox, the Duke's ever-faithful aide, stood precisely two meters behind her—far enough to show deference, near enough to be heard without raising his voice.
"I apologize, Your Grace. I did call several times. Perhaps… you were lost in thought." He bowed slightly. "The night air is turning colder. May I suggest retiring indoors? I shall have warm herbal tea prepared in your chambers."
Claire offered a polite smile. "That's kind of you, Mr. Lenox. But I was just about to return to my rooms."
She passed him with a graceful nod, her gown whispering across the marble floor as she retreated through the corridor and back into the quiet opulence of the manor.
Only when she reached the doors of her bedchamber did she allow her lips to part.
"Malcom Lenox," she murmured to no one, her voice barely louder than a breath. "Every time I ask about him, you say nothing. As if silence were a form of loyalty."
She placed a hand upon the door.
"But I will not stop. I've made my choice."
Her fingers tightened around the handle.
I will make Aether Wolff fall in love with me.
With or without your help, Mr. Lenox.
**
That night, Claire made her decision.
She would break the contract.
Not out of recklessness. Not out of spite.
But because she could no longer stand the silence that smothered her day after day, nor the ache that bloomed in her chest every time her husband walked past her as though she were made of marble and not flesh and longing.
She was well aware of what this choice might cost her. The contract was clear. The rules were ironclad. But what was the point of perfection if it meant nothing to the man she married?
Clause One: she recited in her head, lips pressed together. I am forbidden from entering the South Wing.
Then surely—surely—something was being kept from her.
Something important.
For once, she thought, let me disobey. If only to remember what it means to be alive.
Besides… what could he truly do? He would not divorce her. He could not. That had been her one condition, and he had signed it in ink on the night of their wedding.
No matter what she discovered tonight, Aether Wolff remained bound to her.
Let that chain weigh on him for once.
It was well past midnight when Claire slipped from her bed, the silk of her nightgown whispering against her skin. Her feet were light on the marble floors, the corridors of the manor wrapped in shadows and sleep. She had mastered this house over the years... learned the patterns of the guards, the quiet corners, the creaking floorboards to avoid.
But the South Wing was different.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Only two guards posted: one at the outer veranda, one at the rear, both stationed like sentinels in a tomb. Claire entered from within the manor itself, bypassing them with ease.
The key had been the greatest risk.
She had tasked one of her most loyal maids to steal it from Mr. Lenox, the Duke's ever-watchful aide. Only he held access to the South Wing—unlocking its doors once a week for cleaning, personally overseeing the process, never allowing anyone to linger.
It had taken months. A clever hand. A forged excuse. But eventually, the girl had returned triumphant, key in hand, and even a spare.
Whispers within the staff confirmed what little they knew: the South Wing was not for the Duke himself, but for a specific guest. No one else.
Not even the King during his visits as Crown Prince had ever entered it.
Not once.
That alone had set fire to Claire's curiosity.
Who was this guest?
And why, in five years, had no one ever seen them?
And if they no longer visited… why keep the wing pristine?
**
She slipped the key into the lock. The soft click was deafening in the silence.
Claire stepped inside.
The air was cooler, untouched. She closed the door behind her, slow and cautious.
Darkness draped the corridor like a veil. No lights were lit, but the moonlight filtering through the high windows offered just enough illumination to catch the glint of silver frames, the gleam of polished floors.
The architecture was different. Not stark and imperial like the rest of the manor, but narrower... more intimate.
She wandered forward, heart thudding against her ribs, taking in the unfamiliar space.
Modern paintings lined the hallway... bold strokes of color and emotion. Sculptures curved with motion. As she moved into what appeared to be a sitting lounge, a black grand piano stood by the window, gleaming like obsidian under the moonlight. Her gaze caught a familiar painting hung above the fireplace.
Her breath hitched.
She had seen that portrait before, at the royal auction eight years ago. A piece once owned by a fallen monarch. The bidding had been brutal.
And the Duke had won it.
But Aether Wolff was not known to admire art. He did not decorate, did not indulge in aesthetic sentiment.
So who did this space belong to?
It was curated like a gallery. Yet every detail, from the positioning of the furniture to the delicate hues on the walls, whispered of something softer… something sacred.
She moved deeper into the wing.
A door opened into a bathroom—and Claire stopped.
The scent struck her first. A sweet blend of floral oils and herbs. She stepped in slowly, barefoot, eyes wide.
It was immaculate.
The centerpiece: a round, marble bathtub set beneath a wide window, framed by hanging blooms and delicate vines. The walls were lined with shelves bearing glass bottles of imported oils, rare soaps, and fragrant salts. The towels were folded with almost reverent care. The faucet was silver, mounted on a counter carved from gold-veined graphite.
Exquisite. Intimate. Prepared.
Not a guest bathroom. Not merely ceremonial.
This had been used. Regularly.
Claire's mind swirled.
Was he…?
Was Aether hiding a mistress?
She tried to laugh, but the sound came out hollow. Her throat tightened. She sat down on a nearby couch, upholstered in pale cotton, and stared at the floor as if answers would rise from the marble.
If he had loved another—or still did—why keep it secret? Why keep her in the dark?
Why maintain this space with such care… and not hers?
Hers, which was perfectly tasteful, elegantly large, the envy of any noble lady... but reproducible. Imitable.
This place… was one of a kind.
The unease in her chest tightened into something jagged.
She stood.
One more door remained.
She didn't want to open it.
But she did.
**
The bedchamber beyond was a dream built from moonlight.
White. Everywhere.
The queen-sized bed was draped in delicate sheets, netted with sheer fabric that fluttered ever so slightly from the breeze sneaking in through the cracked windows. The walls were adorned with moonflower-shaped porcelain, impossibly rare and handcrafted with the skill of royal artisans. The floor was plush beneath her steps, the air tinged with lavender and something softer, like skin warmed by sunlight.
Claire's throat closed.
Who was this for?
She didn't belong in this room. No. This room belonged to someone loved. Cherished.
She turned to leave, heart pounding.
But something caught her eye... a door tucked in the corner.
She hesitated.
No, she thought. That's enough. I've seen too much.
But curiosity had her in its grip, claws sunk deep.
She crossed the room and pushed the door open.
A closet.
Not just any closet.
A wardrobe the size of a parlor.
Shelves upon shelves of luxury dresses, shoes lined in perfect symmetry, velvet-lined drawers filled with jewelry—real stones, rare stones. Custom-made gowns, some from couturiers who refused commissions unless personally requested by the royal family.
Claire's breath hitched.
This… this was for someone real. Someone who had been here.
Had lived here.
A mistress.
Either past or present... she didn't know which was worse.
Her hands clenched into fists.
That bastard.
Wait.
A sound.
Footsteps.
Someone's coming.
No.
NO!