She was born into silence. A nameless village buried beneath time, where the days dragged and dreams died young. Her mother bled out giving her life. Her father—old, gentle, and worn by years of labor—spent everything he had to keep her fed, clothed, and warm. But this is England in the 1800s. She had no dowry, no prospects, no path. A woman with no wealth is invisible. And her father knew... his time was running out.

Desperate not to leave her behind in a world that devours girls like her, he sent a letter to the one man no one dares to write to.

Alistair Montclair.

Once a man of untouchable power, wealth, and beauty. His parties were legend. His name dripped from lips like wine. Women adored him. Men envied him. He was golden, invincible, cruel. Until the fire.

They say it started in the west wing. They say a maid was involved. They say the flames kissed his skin until it melted like wax. No one knows what really happened that night. But they all remember what came after.

The silence.

Alistair vanished. Locked himself in that mansion on the hill. Tore down every mirror. Hid his face behind a golden mask. No one saw him again. Whispers grew. Some say he died. Others say he went mad. But one truth echoed louder than the rest: no one could love what he became.

Seven years passed. No visitors. No parties. Just shadows behind curtains.

Until her father's letter arrived.

He almost burned it. Another girl, offering herself for the sake of legacy. Alistair had heard it all before. But then he saw her photograph. Not her beauty—no, he's seen beauty rot like fruit. What stopped him was the honesty in her eyes. The strange purity. The absence of hunger.

And something in him shifted.

After seven years of rotting in gold and silence, the monster on the hill said yes.

Yes to her.

No one could believe it. Her father wept. The village went still. And she... she was chosen by a man the world believes no longer exists. A man wrapped in scars, grief, and a golden mask. A man who hasn't touched love—or even light—in nearly a decade.

She was chosen by Alistair Montclair.

—-——————————————————-

I should have made her come to me.

The thought tasted bitter, like dust off old books and dried blood on lace. A girl from the dirt—offered like a lamb to slaughter—and he, the beast in velvet gloves, was the one expected to cross oceans of memory and mud to greet her.

But no. The gentleman must rise.

So he did.

Seven years. Seven winters. Seven summers of silence and silk-lined darkness. His boots hadn't touched soil. His breath hadn't fogged glass. No wind, no noise—just the quiet hum of decay in golden rooms. The mask kissed his skin as always, cool and cruel. And he? He opened the doors.

The sun dared touch him.

It was... offensive.

Birds chirping and the sun shining... he supposed that would be considered a "nice day" for outsiders. He didn't like it. His instincts told him to stay away, turn around and leave.

He climbed into the carriage—an elegant, antique monstrosity with black-lacquered panels and a driver who couldn't look him in the eyes. Not that he blamed him. He wouldn't want to see himself either.

As they rolled through towns forgotten by time, his gloved fingers twitched. He traced invisible words on the velvet seat. Lines from Poe. From Byron. Anything to drown the dread beating in his throat.

What was he doing here...

Bloody hell, he was Alistair Montclair! Going all this way into an unknown village... and that after seven years. He was better than this. He should've made this woman come to him. He could already feel the dust dirtying his mask. Dust on a real gold mask... what a shame, but at least it wasn't him who had to clean it.

He should go. He didn't belong here. But he couldn't. He might be too good for all of this, but he was no delusional man. They were closer to the village than to his mansion; going back wouldn't be smart. Besides, it would take days until his letter with new information would arrive.

And then—there it was. The village.

God, the smell...

He wrinkled his nose. Smoke. Cows. Bread baked too long. Humanity. He glanced down at his trousers, pinching a speck of dust off the hem. It felt like they had personally insulted him. He was too good for that.

His loafers—imported, hand-stitched, Italian—were already regretting this journey. Mud splashed, grass pressed against the soles like fingers begging to ruin him. His stomach twisted. What a mess.

He accidentally stepped inside a dirty puddle, the water wetting his loafers and the tip of his suit pants. By the saints, he'd stepped in something common.

He stepped out, spine straight, mask gleaming like a warning.

Eyes snapped toward him.

A child shrieked. Mothers pulled them close. If that boy gawks any harder, he will make sure his eyes roll into the mud.

"Is that him...?"

"The Montclair guy...?"

"No—he died, didn't he?"

"It's his own fault his arrogance was too much for the lord to handle."

"He was beautiful once..."

"Why is he here? I thought he locked himself away..."

"Do you think the scars are really that bad?"

They whisper as if their lives are interesting enough to deserve a secret.

He walked slower. Deliberate. Each step a sermon. Each breath a blade. Their gazes felt like needles, and still—he didn't flinch. Let them look. Let them drink it in. He was probably the only special event for them since.... who was he kidding? Ever since they were born.

The gold mask shimmered in the daylight. He saw his reflection in their stares: too still, too elegant, too wrong. He smiled under the metal. Barely. Cruelly.

The homes here looked like they could collapse if he exhaled too harshly. Wooden doors rotting at the hinges, windows patched with cloth, the very scent of poverty pressed against his skin like a lover's breath.

Disgusting. Build new ones. Couldn't be that hard. They're probably just lazy.

But then he saw it.

Her home.

Pathetic. Frail. One strong storm away from collapsing. Stupid girl, why didn't she just sell her body like normal wretches?

He lifted his hand.

Gloved knuckles touched wood.

Three slow knocks.

Scoffing as the door left dust on his handmade Italian leather gloves.

Rolled his eyes once more.

And waited.