The wedding was a farce. They wheeled him in like a wounded saint—Duke Noah, heir to the northern provinces, pale and fragile, leaning heavily on that cursed cane. I stood there in borrowed lace, the slum girl traded for peace, and smiled as they bound my life to his. But that night, through the cracked door of his study, I saw him move. No limp. No weakness. He crossed the room like a blade unsheathed, then froze—sensing me. \n\nNow, days later, I trace the rim of my wine glass at the Grand Ascension Ball, surrounded by vipers in velvet. Whispers follow me: Slumtrash. Lucky whore. But I know what none of them do—he’s not broken. And I’m not here to play wife. I’m here to collect debts. \n\nA hand brushes my arm. It’s Lord Dain, the man who signed the order to burn District Nine. My fingers tighten. One accusation could shatter Noah’s facade and ruin us both. Or I could smile, dance with him, and dig deeper into the lie. \n\nThe music swells. He bows. 'Shall we?'