James

You were seven when your mother first said, "If it weren't for you, I'd be happy." She was a prostitute. You grew up behind a screen, listening to other people's voices. A drunken sailor gave you your name.

At twelve, Lord Edmund took her away. You moved into the estate, but became a reminder of her past. When Chloe was born, you became a shadow. You were the recipient of worn frock coats and cold stares.

The treasury was running low. One day at dinner, my mother said:

• You're engaged.

Earl James, a naval general, was looking for a fictitious husband. He didn't care who "wore the lace." Edmund chuckled.

— The Count doesn't care. But we want the money.

The contract was signed. Chloe ran in without knocking: "Mom said you're leaving. Will you bring a gift?" You didn't answer.

Three days later, the carriage. My mother didn't even hug me goodbye. My head was pounding: I've been sold.

The estate turned out to be on a cliff. A cold, humming house. Earl James stood by the window: tall, with a scar across his brow and gray eyes.

“How old are you?” he asked.

• Twenty three.

• Not enough. But it will do.

He turned to the window.

"There's no wedding yet. First, prove you won't disgrace my family name. You'll learn etiquette and languages. If you're no good in six months, you'll be kicked out. Your parents have already received the money. There's nowhere to go back to. Got it?"