I glance at Margaret, who looks terrified. "Stay here. Rest. I'll return soon."
"But my lady—"
"I'll be fine."
I follow Viktor to a black carriage emblazoned with the Draeven crest—a raven clutching a thorned rose. Subtle symbolism.
Viktor holds the door but doesn't enter himself. "Draeven Estate. The coachman knows the way."
"You're not coming?"
"His Grace requested you alone."
Then the door closes, and the carriage lurches forward, and I'm left in darkness, heading toward an encounter I can't predict.
This wasn't in the novel. In the original story, the bride barely saw Kael before the wedding. Their first real interaction was at the ceremony itself.
But the timeline is already different. Compressed. Changed.
Why?
The carriage ride takes twenty minutes, leaving the commercial district for the noble quarter, then beyond to where the wealthiest families have their estates. Draeven House sits on the outskirts—a sprawling Gothic mansion of dark stone and iron gates.
Not as imposing as the castle in the North, but still formidable.
The gates open as we approach. The carriage stops before a grand entrance. A servant—silent, efficient—opens the door and gestures for me to follow.
Inside, the house is exactly what I expected. Dark wood. Heavy curtains. Portraits of severe-looking Draevens glaring from the walls. It smells of old money and older secrets.
The servant leads me through hallways to a study. He knocks once, then opens the door.
"Lady Seraphina Ashford, Your Grace."
Then he's gone, and I'm standing in Duke Kael Draeven's private study, and he's watching me from behind a massive desk covered in papers.
"Close the door," he says.
I do.
For a moment, we just look at each other. He's dressed more casually than yesterday—no formal coat, just a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. It should make him look more approachable.
It doesn't. If anything, it makes him more dangerous. I can see the lean muscle of his forearms, the casual strength in his movements. This is a man who can kill with those hands.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to a chair across from him.
This time, I obey. Partly because I'm curious. Mostly because standing in defiance would be childish.
He sets down the papers he was reading—financial reports, it looks like—and leans back in his chair, studying me with those pale gray eyes.
"You went shopping," he observes.
"You sent funds for that purpose."
"I sent funds for a wedding dress. Perhaps some basic necessities. Not..." He pauses. "Viktor said you spent nearly two hundred crowns in four hours."
Ah. So that's what this is about. He thinks I'm a frivolous spendthrift, squandering his money on luxuries.
"I spent two hundred and fifteen crowns, actually," I correct. "On a complete wardrobe suitable for a duchess, as well as appropriate jewelry. Would you like an itemized list?"
His eyes narrow. "That's not—"
"Because I kept receipts." I reach into my pocket and pull out a folded paper, sliding it across the desk. "Wedding dress from Madame Celeste's: sixty crowns, including rush fee. Day dresses, evening gowns, and accessories: ninety crowns. Jewelry from Silversmith & Sons: forty crowns. Shoes, gloves, and sundries: twenty-five crowns. I believe that totals two hundred and fifteen."
He picks up the paper, scans it. Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe.
"You're very precise," he says slowly.
"I'm very practical." I fold my hands in my lap, the picture of calm. "You're marrying me to project an image, Duke Draeven. The image of a stable, respectable nobleman with a proper wife. That image requires appropriate costuming. A duchess in peasant clothing undermines the entire purpose of this arrangement."
Silence. Then, to my shock, he laughs.
It's not a happy sound. More like rust breaking free. As if the mechanism of laughter is something he's forgotten how to use properly.
"You sound like a military strategist," he says. "Planning a campaign."
"Isn't that what this is? A campaign? You're trying to change public perception. I'm helping you do it."
"By spending my money."
"By investing your money in an asset." I meet his eyes squarely. "I'm that asset, Your Grace. The more credible I appear, the more effective I'll be. Unless you'd prefer I show up to court functions looking like a poor relation who married above her station?"
Another pause. Then he slides the receipt back across the desk.
"Keep it. You're right. I hired you for a job. You're doing it." He leans forward, elbows on the desk. "But understand this, Seraphina. I don't like games. I don't like hidden agendas. If you're going to spend my money, I expect honesty about why and how much."
"Agreed. Likewise, if you're going to summon me for interrogations about my spending, I expect advance notice."
His mouth twitches. "You're very bold for someone in your position."
"My position is temporary bride to a man who needs political cover. Bold seems appropriate."
"Most women would be terrified of me."
"Most women haven't spent their lives being invisible." I tilt my head, considering him. "Tell me, Duke Draeven, which would you prefer? A wife who flinches every time you speak? Who trembles and cries and makes you feel like a monster? Or a wife who can hold a conversation and won't embarrass you in public?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Just watches me with those winter-storm eyes, and I can see the wheels turning behind them.
Finally: "The latter. Obviously."
"Then I suggest you get comfortable with bold. Because I'm going to be your wife for the next year, and I have no intention of playing the cowering maiden."
Another long silence. Then he stands, moving around the desk. I tense, instincts screaming—he's tall, powerful, moving into my space—but I don't flinch.
He stops directly in front of me. Close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the thin scar through his eyebrow.
"You're either very brave or very foolish," he says quietly. "I haven't decided which."
"Why not both?"
That startles another almost-laugh from him. He shakes his head, something almost like admiration in his expression.
"Three days," he says. "After the wedding, you'll live at my estate in the North. The castle. It's... isolated. Cold. Not what you're used to."
"I grew up in the countryside, Duke Draeven. I'm familiar with isolation."
"Not like this." Something dark crosses his face. "The castle has a reputation. Servants won't stay. There are... rumors. Ghosts. Strange occurrences."
I think of the novel. Of Duchess Elise's spirit, trapped and grieving.
"I'm not afraid of ghosts," I say honestly. "The dead can't hurt you. Only the living."
His eyes widen slightly. As if I've said something profound without meaning to.
"You're very strange," he murmurs.
"I've been called worse."
"I believe it."
He steps back, and I can breathe again. Can think without the overwhelming presence of him filling my senses.
"Is there anything else, Your Grace?" I ask. "Or was this meeting purely to scold me about spending your money?"
"This meeting," he says, returning to his desk, "was to ensure you understand what you're agreeing to. This marriage, this life—it won't be easy. Society will be cruel. My enemies will try to use you against me. The castle is dangerous in ways you can't imagine."
He picks up a small box from his desk, black velvet, and holds it out.
"If you want to back out, now is the time. I can find someone else. Someone more..."
"Forgettable?" I stand, taking the box. "We've had this conversation, Duke Draeven. I'm not backing out."
"You should."
"But I won't."
I open the box. Inside is a ring—a band of white gold with a single large stone. Not a diamond. Something darker. A black opal that catches the light and throws back galaxies of color. Deep purples and blues and greens, like the night sky compressed into a gem.
It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Your wedding ring," Kael says quietly. "My mother's, actually. She left it to me before she died. Said I should give it to... to someone who could handle the weight of our family's darkness."
I look up at him, and for the first time, I see real vulnerability in his face. Real uncertainty.
He's testing me. Offering me something precious. Waiting to see if I'll reject it. Reject him.
I lift the ring from the box, slide it onto my left ring finger.
It fits perfectly.
"It's beautiful," I say honestly. "I'll wear it with honor."
Something in his expression cracks. Just for a moment. Then the walls come back up, the cold mask settling into place.
"Three days," he repeats. "The ceremony is at two. There will be... people. Not many. I don't have many allies."
"That's fine. I don't need a crowd."
"Afterwards, we'll travel to the castle. It's two days by carriage."
"I'll be ready."
He nods. Then, awkwardly, as if he's forgotten how to do this: "Thank you. For... agreeing to this. For not running."
"Thank you for trusting me with your mother's ring."
We stand there for a moment, two strangers about to tie their lives together, both pretending this is purely transactional.
But I can feel the weight of the ring on my finger. Can feel the significance of what he's given me.
This isn't just a contract anymore.
This is a promise.
And I intend to keep it.
"The carriage will take you back," Kael says, breaking the moment. "I'll send word if anything changes."
"Of course. Good evening, Duke Draeven."
"Kael."
I pause at the door. "What?"
"When we're alone, you can call me Kael." He's not looking at me, already turning back to his papers. "It's... less formal."
"Then good evening, Kael."
I think I see him smile. Just a little. Just enough.
Then I'm in the hallway, being escorted back to the carriage, my heart pounding and my mind racing.
The ring on my finger catches the lamplight, throwing colored shadows across the walls.
Three days.
Three days until I become the Duchess of Draeven.
Three days until I step fully into the story I'm trying to rewrite.
And somewhere in the darkness of the castle waiting for me, a ghost is stirring. A murdered woman who left her son a ring and a legacy of pain.
I'm coming, I think. I'm coming, and I'm going to fix this.
All of it.
The carriage ride back to the Ashford estate is quiet. I spend it studying the ring, watching the way the opal shifts colors in the dim light.
Black for mourning. Blue for sorrow. Green for hope. Purple for magic.
All the things Kael Draeven is, compressed into a single stone.
I close my hand around it, feeling the weight settle.
Three days.
Then the real story begins.