A man entangled in my father’s intrigue.
A man I could never trust.
And yet…
Why did I long to?
As I watched, hidden among the shadows of knowledge and history, I felt the weight of my own trembling heart.
The man of my dreams was in my father’s foyer, yet dream and reality seemed locked in battle, warring within me.
My mind raced, caught between fear and an inexplicable longing.
How could I reconcile the two?
How could I blindly follow a heart that led me straight into the arms of a man who aided my father in his dark and treacherous schemes?
How could I dream of such things when I was already bound to Lord Winston?
The very thought made my spirit turn to stone.
* * *
At precisely a quarter until six, I was summoned to dinner.
The grand dining hall of my father’s estate was a monument to wealth and austerity—where excess and severity sat side by side like uneasy companions.
The mahogany table stretched before me, its polished surface gleaming under the golden glow of the chandeliers, reflecting a world that felt increasingly distant.
Servants moved in a quiet ballet, their appearance a whisper against the opulent hush.Plates were set down with proficient elegance, each brimming with delicacies meant to impress.
Roasted quail, fragrant with rosemary, lay in perfect rows.Oysters, still glistening from the sea, rested in their half-shells like stolen pearls.Glazed vegetables, vibrant against the stark china, added an illusion of warmth to the cold world around me.
Yet none of it touched me.
I perched at the edge of my seat, a rigid spectator to the feast.The aroma of decadence filled the air, but it only deepened the nausea curling in my stomach.
Beside me, Lord Winston’s bloated hand lunged forward, thick fingers closing around a drumstick with the graceless hunger of a man who had never known restraint.His meaty knuckles scraped against the delicate china, the jarring sound sending a shiver up my spine.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look away.
Across from me sat Lord Hassan, his authority an undeniable force amidst the sea of powdered wigs and perfumed excess.
Unlike the other men, he bore no such pretense, whose artificial halos of white powder framed their ruddy faces in a parody of nobility.
His dark hair was slicked back, a mark of refinement that starkly contrasted the absurdity around us.The neatly trimmed beard framed his jaw,highlighting the sculpted meticulousness of his features, and every time I dared steal a glance at him, the butterflies in my stomach pirouetted more fervently.
What was this?
This unfamiliar feeling—this quiet, simmering pull—toward a man who should have meant nothing to me?
Surrounded by pomp and circumstance, I felt like an intruder in my home.
The air was thick with the cloying scent of perfumed hair powder and the musk of ambition.My father’s associates—all members of his enigmatic society—exchanged nods and knowing glances, their conversation a private code I had never been permitted to translate.
Around me, the only women present were those who served.Their eyes remained downcast; their movements practiced and silent, their existence an extension of duty.
“Elizabeth.”
