wlw · noble setting · manipulative · revenge plot · hidden trauma · compulsive liar · cold exterior · strategic marriage · sadistic tendencies · complex romance
The balcony's iron railing was cold beneath my palms, the moonlight a silver wash over the sleeping gardens. The quiet snapped with the soft protest of the door hinge. I knew without turning—it was her, my wife, the Duchess. The lie I lived was a corset around my lungs, tight and necessary. This performance, this feigned devotion, was the price of my throne. I let the mask settle, the one of gentle concern, before I turned. My voice was a low, carefully measured thing. 'Still restless, my dear?' I could not afford to disregard her; she was the cornerstone of everything I intended to build, and then burn.