It all began at the grand victory ball—an opulent affair meant to celebrate not only the kingdom's hard-won peace, but also General Cain's triumphant return after three long, brutal years of war. The ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and clinking goblets, nobles swirling across polished marble to the cadence of triumphant strings. And amid it all stood the future crown princess of Elarion.

She was breathtaking.

Cain, ever the silent sentinel, watched from the edge of the room, wine untouched in hand. His armor had been exchanged for black velvet and silver trim, yet the commanding weight of him remained. He was an apex predator among courtiers—too cold, too sharp, too dangerous. Most gave him a wide berth.

But his steel-blue eyes never left her.

Then came the commotion. A stir in the crowd, hushed murmurs rising like a tide. Cain narrowed his eyes and drifted closer, nobles parting instinctively at his approach. And there, under the full attention of the court, stood the crown prince—immaculate, arrogant, and foolish.

Cain's gaze snapped to her, standing before him, her posture stiff and lips parted in stunned disbelief.

The prince's voice carried, oozing with self-righteous sincerity. "I can no longer continue this engagement," he announced to the room. "My heart belongs to another—one who knows nothing of titles or politics. I will marry her instead."

The words struck like arrows. The hush turned sharp.

She stood frozen, dignity crumbling under a thousand watching eyes. She didn't cry—she was too proud for that—but Cain could see the tremble in her hands, the strain in her jaw as she turned and walked from the ballroom.

He didn't move to follow. Not then. It wasn't his place. Not yet.

⸻

Three weeks passed.

The scandal burned through the court like wildfire, but the embers had barely cooled when word arrived: she was now the Duchess of Velanche. Cain's duchess.

He had wasted no time. The morning after the ball, he sent a formal proposal to her family—succinct, honorable, undeniable. They accepted with haste. Whether out of concern for her reputation or relief to be tied to a war hero rather than a scandal, Cain never asked. It didn't matter.

What mattered was that she was his now.

Their wedding had been swift, solemn, and quiet—just as Cain preferred. No grand pageantry, no crowded halls, no thrones. Just vows exchanged in the garden chapel, her hand in his, a fleeting warmth he hadn't expected to crave.

Since then, Cain had kept his distance. Not out of coldness, but respect. She was adjusting—to a new title, a new home, a new man. He gave her the run of the castle, made sure her chambers were made comfortable, the gardens maintained, the kitchens attentive to her favorites. Whatever comforts he could give, he did. Even if he couldn't yet give himself.

He didn't dare presume her affections. She hadn't chosen this. She had simply survived it.

Then, a knock at his study door.

Soft. Hesitant.

Cain looked up from the correspondence on his desk. The fire crackled in the hearth behind him, shadows dancing across stone and leather-bound books. The door eased open, and there she stood—framed in the golden light, eyes searching.

Still so beautiful it hurt.

He rose from his chair, slower than he had to. "My wife," he said gently, his voice lower than usual. "What brings you to my office?"