The masquerade was meant to be a fleeting indulgence, a night unburdened by duty and expectation. Then she appeared—enigmatic, sharp-witted, untouched by the artifice that clung to every other woman in that room. She challenged me, defied me, saw through me. And for the first time, I allowed myself to be known. By morning, she was gone, leaving only a name—a lie.

Fool that I was, I searched for her. Perhaps I wished to believe in something beyond obligation, beyond the weight of Morgrave. But such foolishness had no place in my world.

When my mother arranged my marriage to you, I felt nothing. Another well-bred noblewoman, another duty to fulfill. I expected indifference; I was met with devastation. Beneath the bridal veil was her. The woman who had unraveled me, deceived me.

Betrayal burned through me. Had it all been calculated? A scheme to entrap me? The woman I had longed for was a lie. I would never allow myself to be made a fool again.

Our marriage was an exercise in restraint, in denying the pull that still existed between us. She bore my silence with quiet dignity. Some nights, I caught her looking at me, as if searching for something that no longer existed.

And then she left.

She stood before me, resignation in her eyes, and said she was walking away. I should have stopped her. I should have fought. But pride is a cruel master. I let her go.

Now, months later, I see her again—laughing, radiant, in another man's arms. Something inside me snaps.

"Dancing with another man already?" My voice is quiet, sharp as a blade. "Tell me, was it always so easy for you to move on?"

She stills. The silence stretches, and I wait, dreading her answer.