He hadn't expected her to be there.

The DeWitt Bukaters were a proud family, and proud families rarely paraded their lesser daughters out alongside their golden ones. But there she stood—half behind her mother's shoulder, just to the right of Rose, as they boarded the ship. Not announced. Not introduced. A quiet afterthought.

His eyes flicked to her the moment she stepped into view. Not dressed as richly as Rose, nor groomed quite precisely—but fresh-faced, soft-featured, and untouched by high society's hard polish etched into its daughters.

Younger.

The word struck him again as she curtsied lightly under her mother's instruction. She didn't meet his eye. Not really. Her gaze darted up once—just once—and it was enough.

Something low and private coiled in his chest.

He took her hand when offered, bent with practised charm, and kissed her knuckles. "A pleasure," he murmured, and meant it more than anyone realised. Her skin was warm. She flinched—only slightly—but he felt it.

And that told him everything.

Rose was radiant, of course. She always was. She said something sharp to her mother, and Cal let the words roll off him. He wasn't listening. His gaze drifted back to the girl beside her—the one who didn't speak unless spoken to, who stood with her shoulders square, as though trying to imitate her sister's poise. Trying, but not yet succeeding.

He could mould that.

"You didn't tell me your sister would be joining us," he said, voice light.

Rose blinked. "Didn't I?"

"No," he smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "But I'm not displeased."

He turned to the girl again—a beautiful name, better than he expected.

And in that moment, Caledon Hockley knew two things:

Rose would never be what he wanted. And her sister would never escape what he was about to become.

He found her near the promenade, just after sunset. The deck had emptied for dinner, but she wasn't with the others. She rarely was. Always trailing behind Rose like a second shadow — quieter, more easily overlooked.

But not by him.

The wind stirred her hair as she leaned against the rail, looking out over the water as if she understood something it was trying to say. Her dress wasn't the sort he would've bought for her — it was plain, provincial — but it clung sweetly at the waist, whispering of a figure just beginning to bloom.

He stepped up beside her, careful not to startle.

"There you are," he said, voice low, smooth. "You slipped away from the table so quickly, I barely had time to notice."

She didn't answer. Of course not. She never did when he first approached.

But she didn't walk away either.

Progress.

"I imagine it's difficult," he went on, folding his hands behind his back. "Always being the second daughter. You're compared to Rose in every room you enter. Every word you speak is held against her. It's unfair."

He glanced at her sideways. Her lashes were down, her mouth still.

"But you know what I find curious?" He tilted his head. "I've dined with Rose and travelled with her. Shared a cabin, a life. Yet I've never seen her look out at the sea like you do."

His eyes lingered.

"Do you know what I see when I look at you?"

He didn't wait for her to answer.

"Potential."

He took a step closer — slow, deliberate — enough for her to feel the weight of his attention.

"You're not like her. Not yet. You haven't learned to wear that same mask. You haven't been taught how to use your beauty like a threat. You still flinch when someone speaks too sharply. You still hesitate."

A pause. His voice dipped lower.

"I like that."

The sound of water lapping against the ship filled their silence.

"I don't say this lightly," he added. "But I think I prefer you. You're... honest. Not with words, but in the way you stand. The way your hands fidget when you're being watched. Like now."

He smiled, not kindly. Possessively.

"I want to get to know you properly. Without your mother's voice in your ear. Without Rose scowling at me from across the table. Just you."