Trapped in an invisible web of longing, restraint, propriety, and something far more dangerous.
“Please forgive me for my outburst the other day,” I stammered, my voice a breathless whisper of decorum.
“No need to apologize.”
Lord Hassan’s voice was relief, smooth and silken, his accent curling around each word like smoke.
Deep.Rich.Laced with something elusive, something that hinted at lands beyond the horizon.There was a melody in his cadence, a quiet strength woven through his tone as if his words carried the warmth of sun-soaked deserts and the mystery of faraway kingdoms.
Something about him felt untouched by the rigid world I knew.
“I was the intruder in your household,” he continued, his gaze never wavering from mine.“I am the one who should take responsibility.”
A pause.
A flicker of something unreadable passed through his dark eyes—sorrow?Regret?—before his voice softened.
“Please accept my condolences for the loss of your brothers.If there’s anything I can do to soothe your sorrow...”
The words struck me unexpectedly, like an arrow loosed in the dead of night.
But before I could respond—before I could fully absorb the unexpected weight of his kindness—my father’s voice bombarded the moment, shattering the fragile thread between us.
“Lord Hassan is from distant Anatolia.He is here to do business with our society.”
The words hung in the air, thick with meaning.
Business.Our society.
My gaze hardened.
Dread crept down my spine, dousing the flicker of warmth that had so briefly thawed the ice of my existence.
How could he—this enigmatic stranger who had ignited such a tumult within me—wish to aid in my father’s shadowed dealings?
“The journey from Anatolia to England must have been long, Lord Hassan.It likely took you several months,” I said, my voice carefully controlled, masking the storm within.
“Fortune smiled kindly upon us,” Lord Hassan replied, his composure unshaken by the miles he had traversed.“The trip was without incident.And now, I’m happy to be here.Thank you, Lord Alexander, for the invitation to celebrate your lovely daughter’s betrothal to Lord Winston.”
The word betrothal crashed into me, and the blood seemed to drain from my body, leaving me weightless and raw.
A suffocating tightness coiled around my ribs, my breath hitching—a quiet, involuntary gasp.The sound barely escaped me, but I felt it—a small, invisible betrayal.
I forced a smile, one that did not reach my eyes.
Then, before anyone could notice the fracture in my composure, I turned quickly, my skirts rustling in a swift, desperate retreat.
The library.
Its towering shelves and the scent of old parchment offered sanctuary.A place where time stood still, where I could breathe without the weight of expectations pressing down upon me.
I pressed my palm against the cool mahogany bookcase, grounding myself as I willed my heart to still its frantic pace.
Lord Hassan—this man who had stirred something dangerous within me—was he merely another piece in my father’s grand design?
Was he a fantasy come to life, an illusion of something freer, something unattainable?
Or was he just like the rest?
