Chapter 1
“I’ve made up my mind, I’ll marry that dying heir!”
Eleanor Viremont announced, her voice slicing through the hushed parlor like a drawn blade.
She stood at the far end of the flower–strewn hall, crimson lips curling into a mocking smirk.
Lord Baldwin Viremont nearly dropped his silver–gilt goblet.
He shot up from his carved oak chair, eyes wide with disbelief before relief softened his features.
“Eleanor, you’ve come around? Excellent! The Wolvestons are pressing hard–you’ll leave for Westmarch within a fortnight. Whatever you need, just say. the word…”
“That’s it?” Her laugh was sharp as shattered glass. “I’m taking the place of your darling little bastard in this cursed marriage, and that’s all you have to offer?”
The warmth in the parlor vanished in a blink.
Baldwin’s jaw clenched.
His voice dropped low, tight.
“Watch your tongue! Bastard? She’s your sister!”
Eleanor’s smile thinned, all ice and edges.
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“A sister from another woman? She’s no kin of mine. She’s the stain of your betrayal, and I’ll never claim her!”
A muscle jumped in Baldwin’s temple.
He set the goblet down with a loud clink, forcing calm.
“What do you want?”
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“A million gold crowns,” she said coolly.“Oh, and once I’m married, send Roland to protect your precious little bastard daughter.”
His expression froze.
For a long second, he just stared at her like she’d lost her wits.
“Have you gone mad? A million would bleed me dry! And Roland–your favorite knight? You used to joke about marrying him! You’d give him up just like that?”
“Do you agree or not?” she snapped, already turning away.
“Fine!” Baldwin slammed his fist on the table, rising.
“The day you leave for Westmarch, I’ll see it done.”
He didn’t argue further.
Years ago, Lord Edmund Wolveston had been the most sought–after heir in Crownspire.
Baldwin had sealed a betrothal for one of his daughters, originally meant for Cecily Viremont, the sweet, soft–spoken child born of his long–term mistress.
But after Edmund’s accident left him half–paralyzed and not expected to live past twenty–five, Baldwin changed his mind.
He turned to Eleanor–his legitimate daughter, the one too proud for her own good.
Eleanor lifted her chin, every inch the cold, proud noblewoman.
She never let anyone see her bleed.
As she stepped past the threshold, her father’s voice followed.
I understand wanting the money. But Roland? You’ve always favored him. Why give him to Cecily?”
Her fingers clenched around her embroidered handkerchief.
She didn’t turn back, but her eyes burned, the name piercing her heart like a thorn.
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With a sharp step, she crossed the threshold, shutting out Baldwin and his words.
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It was past midnight when Eleanor returned to her room.
As she passed Roland Thorne’s chamber, a sound caught her ear.
The door stood slightly ajar.
Through the narrow gap, she saw him–half–reclining on the bed, his eyes closed, his voice low and hoarse as he whispered.
“Cecily… my darling… so sweet…”
A portrait sat nearby–Cecily at her coming–of–age feast, dressed in velvet, her smile as soft as spring rain.
Eleanor’s nails dug into her palm, silk tearing beneath her grip.
‘Because he, like you, only cares about Cecily,‘ she whispered to herself, answering the wretched question she’d left unspoken.
Three years ago, Eleanor had first laid eyes on him during the selection of her personal guard. Among the towering knights, Roland had stood apart–tall, broad–shouldered, sharp–jawed, with eyes like stormclouds in winter.
After her mother died, Eleanor grew wild and sharp–tongued, brushing off decorum like dust on her hem.
She mocked the court’s silly pageantry, flirted for sport, and made Roland–stoic, uptight, maddeningly proper–her favorite plaything.
She tried everything.
Once, she feigned drunkenness and collapsed into his arms–he scooped her up by the collar like a misbehaving pup and dumped her straight into bed. Another night, she showed up at his door wearing nothing but moonlight and a sheer gown–he didn’t blink, just threw his cloak over her shoulders and escorted her back like a chastised child.
Once, she even pretended to drown in the lily pond. He dove in without hesitation, lifted her out like a sack of flour, and not once did his hands stray. No matter how she teased him, how she pushed and provoked, Roland never so much as flinched.
He called her “my lady” with maddening detachment–and she fell for him
anyway.
She didn’t know when it happened. Maybe it was because, after her mother died, she had no one else.
She’d been seven when Baldwin brought Cecily home–a bastard girl barely three months younger.
Her mother had been pregnant again, and the news shattered her. That night, sobbing uncontrollably, she went into early labor. The physician didn’t arrive in time. Mother and child both died.
From that day on, Eleanor hated Baldwin. Hated Cecily. She left the manor and cut herself off from the rest of the household. She dined in silence, read by candlelight in empty halls, and learned to face the world with no one at her side. She grew up that way–isolated, untouched, fiercely self–reliant.
Her beauty soon caught the eye of every rake and rogue in the realm, so she hired a guard. Roland was the first. And with him nearby, for the first time in years, she didn’t feel quite so alone.
For three years, she flirted, fought, and finally fell. A thousand nights of silent yearning, her feelings buried beneath pride and pretense. She’d thought him cold, untouched by desire.
Until that night.
She caught him in his chamber, alone in the dark, clutching Cecily’s portrait–whispering her name in a breathless, broken voice.
Eleanor didn’t move. She stood frozen behind the door, heart pounding, as the truth unfolded before her in grotesque clarity.
And then-
A shadow slipped in through the window.
“My lord,” the man said slightly. “How long will you keep playing this knight’s game? You’re a prince, not some common guard. If you want Lady Cecily, why not just ask the king for her hand? Why skulk around like a thief just to catch a glimpse?”
Roland’s voice was cool as a blade. “I’ve looked into it. She’s gentle, too soft for the spotlight. If I reveal who I am too soon, I’ll frighten her. I want her to love me–not my title.”
“Ha! A prince lovesick and patient. Never thought I’d see the day. I figured Lady Eleanor’s constant flirting might sway you. She’s Crownspire’s famed
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beauty–noblemen fall over themselves for her.”
Roland gave a low chuckle, and Eleanor’s heart sank like stone. “Is that so? She doesn’t interest me. She’s nothing compared to Cecily–not even a shadow of her light.”
Each word drove another nail into her heart.
And in that moment, something in her broke.
She no longer loved him.
Inside, Roland lingered, his hand resting low, breath catching in his throat–dragging out the moment, lost in the fantasy of Cecily’s smile.
Eleanor’s smile was colder than winter as she slammed the door wide open.
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