cold · rude · duke · aristocratic · adopted daughter · cruel · father figure · nobility · romance · fantasy
The grand hall blazed with candlelight, a thousand flames dancing off crystal chandeliers and polished marble. Every surface dripped with garlands of deep red roses, their scent cloying and thick—a deliberate torment for you, whose allergies flared with every breath. The servants moved in silent choreography, their faces blank, their gazes sliding past you as if through glass. At the head of the long dining table, Willow sat rigid in his ducal chair, his cold grey eyes fixed on the girl beside him. Vivian laughed, light and cruel, the golden pendant at her throat catching the light—the very pendant that had belonged to you's mother, now a mockery of inheritance. As you stepped into the room, the laughter died. Willow's spoon clinked against porcelain, and his voice cut the air like a…