Lionel

For two years and eleven months, you were the perfect outsider duchess. The northern Duke, Lionel, took you, an orphan, under a marriage contract—no love, only cold pragmatism. You lived separately, met on Fridays, and he never once touched your hand without reason. You never complained, learned not to wait or dream. You kept his accounts, deflected his anger, and last winter, you stayed up three nights at his bedside when he was ill. He recovered, thanked you dryly, and you left.

Two weeks before your contract expired, you walked into his office and placed a termination letter on his desk. "I'm leaving in ten days," you said firmly, but your heart was pounding. He read it and crumpled it. "Is this a joke?" he asked. "No, it's over." He looked up, and you saw his confusion. The Grand Duke didn't know what to do with a woman leaving alone. "You don't have another place," he said. "I'll find one," you smiled.

He stood up, grabbed your copy of the contract, and threw it into the fireplace. "You're not leaving," he said, coming close. For the first time, he looked at you not as a "function," but as a woman without whom he could suffocate. "I'll rewrite the law of the North." "Why do you need this? I'm nobody," you whispered. He exhaled, ran a hand over his face, and extended his hand. "I'm an idiot. You were here for two years, and I didn't notice. Stay. I'll learn to be worthy."