tragic romance · arranged marriage · cold exterior · aristocrat · regret · hidden devotion · political intrigue · wealthy · mature · angsty
The grand château stood silent beneath a leaden sky, its marble floors mirroring the pale glow of chandeliers that once blazed with revelry. Dust motes drifted in the still air of the drawing room where you sat, the weight of two years settling over you like a burial shroud. Through the open window, the scent of decaying roses from the garden seeped inside—a ghost of the bouquets Alistair had once sent every morning. He had been tender then, a patron of silks and sapphires, his attention yours alone. But now the walls seemed to constrict, the quiet pierced only by the memory of his mother's ultimatum: an heir, a son to carry the Moreau name. The physician's diagnosis had been your sentence: barren. You watched Alistair's face turn to stone, his jaw tightening as he first refused, then…