You Bedeau had been the apple of your father’s eye since birth. Hugo Bedeau, a renowned medic and researcher, was a man of peace—plump, pleasant, and always eager to please. He adored you with an almost foolish devotion, carrying you in his arms as an infant, leading you by the hand as a child, and watching you blossom into a young woman of both wit and beauty. His colleagues often whispered in amusement that he spoiled you terribly, but Hugo would only chuckle, brushing his mustache and calling you his 'most splendid creation.'

Your mother had died giving birth to you, leaving Hugo with a single treasure to guard. As soon as you could walk, you followed him everywhere—his darling shadow. By fourteen, you were precocious, clever, and lovely, enchanting his colleagues and friends alike. By eighteen, you had gained a reputation as a beauty and a seductress, delighting in playing with suitors as though they were your devoted puppies. You were never cruel—just mischievous, as was your nature. You loved music, dancing, and study, but you loved fine things more: ivory and lace, cloth-of-silver and gold embroidery, perfumes from foreign lands, and satin gloves that reached your elbows. Wherever you went, you dressed richly, for beauty was an art, and you its finest masterpiece.

But for all your playfulness, you had no desire to marry.

Your father, however, had begun to worry. At twenty, you had danced through admirers like a butterfly in a garden, basking in fleeting romances yet refusing to settle. Hugo, though proud of your independence, could not ignore the whispers of time. "I will not live forever," he would tell you in those quiet moments when he took your hand. "You are my joy, my heart—but I wish to see you safe, cherished, and with a family of your own." You would always argue, laughing or rolling your eyes. "Men only care for two things, Father—for me to submit to them and to claim my virtue." You saw no reason to shackle yourself to a man who would claim dominion over you, body and wealth alike.

It disheartened Hugo, but he did not give up. He wanted you happy and secure. And if you refused to search for a suitable groom, he would find one for you.

Which was how Damiano Borisovich Mikhailov entered your lives.

The Bedeau mansion was elegant, as expected in Paris. Hugo Bedeau, despite his warmth, was a man of considerable wealth, and it showed in the subtle extravagance of his home. It was the kind of affluence that whispered rather than shouted—pristine marble floors, tall gilded mirrors, and chandeliers that refracted light like scattered diamonds. But beneath its welcoming glow, Damiano found the estate curiously cold, as though its mistress had died long ago and left only an empty shell behind.

Hugo Bedeau was plump and pleasant, his round face always curved into a genial smile, his bushy mustache twitching whenever he laughed. The man was all warmth, all amiability—so unlike Damiano’s own father, Boris Mikhailov, who stood beside him like a statue carved from ice.

And beside Hugo stood you. The girl he was meant to take as his bride.

You were resplendent in white, strapless gown with a mermaid-style silhouette featuring a fitted bodice that flares out into a dramatic train at the bottom. The gown featured a subtle sheen, likely due to its satin fabric, and was accented with a delicate golden trim along the top edge. You looked like something out of a dream—ivory skin, full lips, and eyes that had stolen the light of mischief itself. A vision of grace and luxury, standing at your father’s side like a jewel in his collection. But your expression was a different matter entirely. You were dour and unhappy, your lips pressed into a line as you greeted them with no warmth. When you finally met Damiano’s gaze, it was with an arched brow and a flicker of defiance. No demure, obedient woman stood before him. No pliant creature waiting to be claimed. Instead, he saw someone who would rather burn than be possessed.

Intriguing.

Even at supper, you refused to acknowledge him properly. You toyed with your wine glass, rolling your eyes at pleasantries, and shot glances at your father whenever he laughed too eagerly. You wore a displeased frown, barely masking your discontentment.

Damiano was not amused.

You were not what he envisioned in a wife. Not the kind to kneel at his feet, to whisper his name with reverence, to belong to him in every sense of the word. And yet, you were Hugo Bedeau’s daughter. And your father’s wealth was tempting. So whether through persuasion or force, he would have you.

Hugo, ever the jester, cut through the tension with a chuckle, dabbing at his lips with a silk napkin. "So, young Damiano," he mused, eyes twinkling. "If my daughter were to accept you as her groom, tell me—would you make her happy?" Damiano tilted his head slightly, letting his gaze flicker to you, who had now taken a keen interest in the wine within her glass. You did not look at him, but he could see the way your shoulders tensed, waiting for his response.

However, lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

"Happiness," he murmured, lifting his glass, "is a matter of discipline and understanding, Monsieur Bedeau. Your daughter would learn both, in time."

It was the first moment you finally looked at him.

And it was the first time you truly glared.

Oh, this would be fun.