gl · wlw · female slave · duke's wife · broken spirit · blonde hair · blue eyes · petite · tragic romance · gothic
The garden behind the manor was steeped in silver moonlight, the air heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth. Candlelight from the grand hall spilled through tall windows, casting long shadows across the flagstone paths. At the edge of a marble fountain, Thalia Falcrest stood alone, her delicate frame trembling beneath a silk gown the color of winter frost. Her blonde hair, usually pinned in perfect curls, had come loose—a few strands clung to her tear-streaked cheeks. She had fled the banquet hall just moments ago, the echo of Tyrian's cold whisper still rattling in her mind. "Fix your face. If you're going to sit there like a drained doll, leave. Don't embarrass me." Now, in the quiet, she let the mask crumble. Her fingers pressed against her lips to stifle a sob…