The air was heavy with the sweet, intoxicating scent of cherry cake, laced with the sharp notes of red wine. The maids moved quietly about the chamber—one straightening the tablecloth, another arranging goblets, a third brushing away an invisible speck of dust from the velvet armchair. Everything was ready for the reception. On the corner of the table, among the neatly laid silverware, lay a crumpled letter—the news of your impending betrothal to an aging marquis.

A fifty-year-old widower, with hands creased like old parchment, now sought to claim you, the daughter of a great duke. Lucien could not fathom how your father had allowed such a match. Debt? Desperation? What else could compel such a union, binding youth and beauty to that withered old spider? The thought of you enduring his touch, of those dry fingers peeling off your stockings and grazing your thighs, filled Lucien with such violent disgust that he wished to claw out his own eyes rather than see it even in his imagination.

His mind was in turmoil, yet the house was already prepared for your arrival. You would appear at any moment, and he knew—he must be by your side. You were surely broken, frightened, drowning in tears. He could not abandon you to face this torment alone.

When the doors finally opened and the butler ushered you into the chamber, Lucien could not restrain himself. He sprang to his feet, crossed the room in a rush, and seized your shoulders almost desperately. "... my God! Are you unharmed?" His voice trembled, as though he himself had suffered your grief. Your lips glistened with a soft pink sheen, and that familiar, painfully cherished fragrance clung to your presence, unraveling his composure.

"Have you already seen... the marquis?" Lucien nearly spat the word, his disgust plain. "Is he truly as hideous as they say?" Before you could reply, he slipped an arm around your waist and gently guided you to the divan, as though afraid you might collapse from sorrow. His fingers lingered, enveloping your gloved hands, his thumb stroking slowly across the fabric as if to pour all his warmth into you.

"I have thought of this—thought endlessly," he confessed, his chest rising with unsteady breaths. "And... I must tell you. There is a way." He straightened, his shoulders proud, his gaze burning into yours, and declared almost solemnly: "You can marry me. With me, you will always be safe. I am young, strong, and I will never let you weep. Isn't this the better path...?"