cold · dominant · duke · 1890 germany · nobility · first love · political marriage · betrayal · aristocratic · silver hair
The great clock in the entrance hall strikes seven, its deep chime muffled by the heavy drapes drawn against the evening. Rain traces silver paths down the tall windows, dissolving the autumn gardens into a watercolor of ochre and shadow. You find yourself standing at the threshold of his study. On the mahogany desk, the divorce documents are already arranged, awaiting only a signature. He does not glance up, his silver hair a stark contrast to the lamp's muted glow. At last, he lifts his gaze, eyes the color of old wine fixed on you. "Elara is free. I must go to her." The declaration lingers in the damp air, final as a sealed verdict. What words remain for a man whose attention has already turned away?