I crouched in the corner of my prison cell, my knees drawn to my chest, my fingers absently tracing the grime that coated my skin. Days—weeks?—had passed without a proper bath. My dress, once an elegant gown worthy of a future marchioness, now clung to me in filth, the fabric stiff and rank.

The wide burn scar on my left cheek itched, but I barely felt it over the deeper pain weighing down my chest. A single shaft of pale light slipped between the iron bars above, casting a ghostly glow over the damp stone floor.

I reached toward it, fingertips grazing nothing but air. I used to believe light meant hope.

Now, it was just a reminder of everything I had lost.

How had it come to this?

The answer was simple.

I was sentenced to die because my cousin couldn’t risk my ex-fiancé falling back in love with me.

A bitter laugh almost bubbled up my throat, but I swallowed it down. For weeks, I had refused to cry.

Not when they shackled me like a criminal and dragged me from the Percival estate.
Not when my parents turned their backs on me.
Not even when the Imperial Decree declared me guilty of treason without trial.

I was the daughter of a baron, once betrothed to the future Marquess of Norville, and yet, I was nothing now. No title. No name. No voice.

I pressed my head back against the cold stone wall and exhaled slowly.

There was no escape.

And then—

Footsteps.

Measured. Sharp. Unhurried.

I had learned the sounds of my jailers' boots in the past weeks. This was different.

My body stiffened as the steps halted outside my cell.

Silence.

Then, a deep voice, smooth yet commanding, cut through the still air.

"Raise your head and look at me, Cassandra Inglerad."

A shiver ran down my spine. Not from fear but something else. Recognition.

Slowly, I lifted my gaze, strands of dirty blonde hair falling across my face.

There he stood.

Archduke Evan Cromwell.

I had only seen him from a distance before—at court, in passing glances. At twenty-five years old, he was one of the youngest men to take the title of Archduke.

He was a man whispered about in high society, admired and feared in equal measure. His presence was like a blade—sharp, precise, and impossible to ignore.

Tall and imposing, dressed in a dark embroidered coat, his piercing blue eyes studied me with an intensity that made my breath hitch.

I clenched my jaw. My mind was hazy from exhaustion, my body weak from hunger. Was I hallucinating?

"...Evan Cromwell?" I rasped, my voice barely recognizable.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze swept over me, taking in my torn dress, my shackled wrists, the hollowness in my eyes.

Something flickered in his expression—too brief for me to decipher.

Then, with a curt nod, he gestured to the guard beside him.

The man hesitated for only a second before unlocking the iron door with a heavy clank.

I blinked.

This couldn’t be real.

"You can't be real," I murmured, figuring I was hallucinating him.

His lips quirked slightly. "And yet, here I am."

The guard stepped aside, allowing Evan to enter the small, damp cell.

I pressed back against the wall instinctively. “What business do you have with me?”

He crouched before me, effortlessly balanced, his movements fluid. Up close, he smelled of cedar and faint soap, a stark contrast to the stench of this place.

"I'm here to remove you from this prison," he said simply.

I narrowed my eyes. "Why?"

His smile was slow, unreadable. "Does it matter?"

It should have. I should have questioned him, demanded answers. But my limbs were too weak, my mind too drained, and above all else—

I didn’t want to die.

He extended his hand toward me, fingers steady.

"Come with me, Cassandra." His voice dipped lower. "Your freedom awaits."

For a long moment, I didn’t move.

I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust anyone.

But what choice did I have?

I placed my trembling hand in his.

His fingers closed around mine—warm, solid. Unyielding.

And just like that, my fate changed.

One Month Ago

I hadn’t meant to return to my chambers early that night.

The ball was still in full swing below, laughter and music echoing up the grand staircase. My mother had insisted I entertain the guests, but I needed a moment to breathe.

As I pushed open my bedroom door, I froze.

The candlelight flickered unnaturally, casting shifting shadows across the silk sheets of my bed.

And then—

A moan.

Low, breathy, unmistakably intimate.

I froze.

The sheets rustled. My gaze followed the movement.

My fiancé, Lorran—the future Marquess of Norville—was on my bed, making it rattle. His golden hair, normally impeccably groomed, fell into his face as his body moved.

On top of the bed with him was my cousin, Brynda.

A dull roaring filled my ears, drowning out the sound of my own breath. My body refused to move, my mind refusing to believe what it saw.

Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the scene before me. Lorran’s back glistened with sweat, a hand tangled in Brynda’s hair.

The same hands that had held mine in courtship. The same hands that had once promised me forever.

The scent of jasmine clung to the air. My perfume. She was using my bed and wearing my perfume while having sex with my fiancé.

My fingers trembled. My stomach twisted.

A strangled noise escaped my throat before I could stop it.

Lorran’s head snapped toward me. His flushed face, full of pleasure only a second ago, paled instantly.

“Cassandra—” he stammered, reaching for the sheets as if covering himself could erase what I had already seen.

But my gaze wasn’t on him anymore.

It was on her.

Brynda didn’t even flinch.

She simply blinked at me, her expression unreadable, as if I were the one who had walked into the wrong room.

A slow, sweet smile curved her lips.

"Cousin," she murmured, voice honeyed, "you shouldn't be here."

The audacity.

My stomach twisted, bile rising in my throat. My own cousin. The girl I had shared childhood secrets with.

How long?

I swallowed down the acid burning my throat. "How long?"

Lorran had the nerve to look regretful. "Cassie, please—"

"How. Long."

He exhaled sharply. "...A month."

A full month.

One month of whispered promises. One month of him standing beside me while my mother planned our wedding. One month of Brynda smiling at me over breakfast, pretending she wasn’t sleeping with my fiancé.

I felt sick.

My nails dug into my palms, grounding me, keeping me from crumbling.

Brynda sighed as if she was the one burdened. “Don’t look at me like that, dear cousin.” Her voice was soft, sweet—the perfect mask. “It’s not as though we planned to fall in love. It just happened.”

I turned to her, my expression blank, though fury burned in my chest.

She tilted her head, studying me with the wide-eyed innocence that, up until this very moment, had fooled me.

“You are too chaste, Cassandra. Did you really expect him to wait for you? Lorran has needs.”

Lorran flinched. “Brynda—”

She reached for his hand, squeezing it, never taking her eyes off me.

Her gaze rested on the scar on my face. It covered the entire side, from the top of the forehead, over the temple, and half of my left cheek. I hid it often with my hair, but it could never be fully covered.

Then I saw it—that millisecond of a smirk passing across Brynda’s face. It was fast but undeniable. That triumph.

The betrayal was complete.

And yet—

I didn’t break. Something inside me snapped.

Not here. Not in front of them.

I smoothed down the fabric of my gown, my movements precise, deliberate. Then, lifting my chin, I met Brynda’s gaze.

"I hope you enjoy him," I said coolly. "Clearly, he was never worth my time anyway."

Then, without another word, I turned and walked away.

Not realizing that was the moment Brynda decided that—

I had to disappear.