The Pact

Back from the broken greenhouse, everything seemed foggy. Now the chill didn’t only sting - it hummed, like moments before thunder rolls in. A quiet servant showed up again to lead the way indoors, yet each hallway looked foreign under my steps. Something shifted inside me by then. Bargaining with fury of the sky changed how I walked, who I was.

Darkness stayed heavy, but my eyes remained open. By the window I waited, sunrise pulling color into the world - first soft violet, then pale ash. Over again, the deal between us ran through my head. Who protects whom. What happens if one breaks first. How balance holds only because both fear losing.

Not once did it feel like dating. My days came under strict control, like a takeover by force.

Fog still hung low when things got under way. In came Mrs. Greyson - another servant, sharp-eyed, her hair like brushed iron - followed by two quiet maids who looked neither left nor right. My clothes, books, even small keepsakes were tucked into cases without so much as a glance my way. Nothing was offered for choice. Their judgment ruled every item. A handful of books, plain dresses, a tiny box with my mother's pearls inside. Gone without mention - the elegant clothes, those presents from Christian.

A fresh set of clothes might fit better now, His Grace thinks, said Mrs. Greyson. Her words left no room to reply. Not a place to belong. Not a family. Just a role to fill.

Quiet crying came from my mother in the parlor. Stiff as a post, my father stayed on his feet. Shame lived in his eyes, yet so did relief. To them, the Duke’s quick passion felt like fate stepping in. A broken family spared by something holy. The agreement between us? Hidden. Their view: just a storybook ending.

“He is… formidable, Paige,” my father said, his hand on my shoulder trembling. “To have garnered his attention… be cautious. Be grateful.”

He never saw it coming. Built on careful steps, every move stayed tight. Thankfulness didn’t enter the picture - never once crossed his mind.

Midday brought the arrival of the Duke's carriage. Sleek and black, it carried no insignia yet felt imposing just standing there. When they helped me climb in, my eyes drifted toward him - he sat high on a large, shifting black horse close by, talking quietly with Captain Alex Starwood. Dressed once more for riding, clad in deep leather and gleaming footwear, he wore authority like a second skin. Not once did he turn his gaze in my direction. Locked in place like freight, I waited. Romance had not started its act.

A quiet trip, brief in miles. Not outside the city's edge stood the Wingknight estate - deep within the highborn quarter it sat, built from cold gray rock, edges like blades. Open arms? Never. Tall walls watched instead.

Instead of guest rooms, they led me to a suite tucked inside the east wing. Stark beauty filled the space - clean lines, quiet light. Cream-colored silk covered the walls, smooth under my fingers. Dark mahogany stood solid in every corner, each piece gleaming like wet stone. A fire burned low in the hearth, fighting the draft that slipped through cracks. Windows stretched wide, yet showed only a closed yard below, no glimpse of sky beyond buildings. Outside those panes, thin iron bars curled into flowers - a cage shaped like art.

A cage covered in gold. Exactly like the collapse predicted long ago.

Back came Mrs. Greyson. Dinner with His Grace tonight, she said. A gown landed on the wide bed - deep sapphire, intricate, bolder than any of mine. Wear it, he wants. A dress that said something loud. Not just fabric, but the opening play we made together out in the open.

The light thinned out, leaving everything still. A soft girl called Liza guided me into the blue gown. Like it knew my shape without asking. When shadows stretched long across the floor, another servant arrived - silent - to walk me to a low-lit room where one table waited.

A glass of wine sat half-poured in Noah Wingknight's hand when I entered. Dark trousers and a navy jacket now covered him, stretching wide across his frame like it didn’t belong on any real person. Flickering candles took the edge off his cheekbones, yet something hard stayed locked in his gaze. His stare moved toward me - not rushed - measuring every inch from the twist of hair Liza arranged down to the curve of the blue dress.

“It fits,” he said, tone flat. Not praise. Just stating what was seen.

That was your pick, I said, standing near the entrance.

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. “I did. Sit. We need to discuss the narrative.”

Something felt off right from the start. Dishes arrived, steaming and perfect, then vanished, mostly uneaten. While we picked at the food, he told it like it happened. Our meeting - accidental, at the music school - only slightly rearranged. It started with him staring too long at something I said - called it fresh, though really it was just honesty dressed up. Right away, there was pull between us, sharp and clear, so we stopped pretending otherwise - even if saying it out loud made it sound bigger than it was.

“You will accompany me to the Ellington soirée in three days,” he stated, swirling his wine. “You will smile. You will hold my arm. You will look at me as if I’ve hung the moon. Can you do that?”

“I can act like it,” I told her, words dull in the air.

His eyes narrowed. “See that you do. The credibility of this arrangement is your protection. If Christian sniffs out the deception, he will call the betrothal contract breach and sue for what’s left of your family’s assets. This only works if we are utterly convincing.”

“And in private?” I asked, meeting his gaze. “What is the script for when we are alone?”

He leaned back in his chair, the candlelight dancing in his eyes. “In private, Miss Rimestone, there is no script. In private, you will tell me what you know. And I will decide what to do with it. Our interactions will be transactional. Clear?”

A deal. That term ought to have left me feeling used. Yet somehow, it held me up. Doing things by the book meant I knew where I stood. Boundaries were clear.

“Clear,” I echoed.

A small nod, sharp and quick. That settled it between us. Still, he stayed seated. His eyes watched me from above his drink. The space around us keeps secrets well. Ears won’t find their way here. Now then - what has your collection murmured lately? What should sit at the front of my thoughts?

Out of nowhere, a chill ran down my spine. With eyelids shut tight, I touched something restless inside - like knowing before it happens. Since the agreement, everything felt sharper. Court secrets crept in, murmurs in hallways, schemes aimed his way... It began without warning

“A fire,” I said, my eyes snapping open. “At the Royal Archives. Within the fortnight. It will be set to destroy the land grant records for the western marches. The ones that prove the Rothmere family’s claim is fraudulent. Someone doesn’t want you to see them.”

A hush passed over his features, replaced by something cold, sharp. That case - the Rothmere job - was buried deep beneath everything else he’d ever done. His fingers eased the glass onto the table without sound. A single word followed: “Who?”

“I don’t know. The novel… my source… didn’t say. Only that it happens, and the evidence is lost.”

A quiet stretch passed while he just looked. Up he got, slow and steady. Tomorrow, that thing would be shifted, so he said. Toward the exit he went, one step after another. At the threshold, a stop. Over his shoulder, eyes met mine again. Gone was the man, back was the title, sharp in tone. Sleep should come easy, he claimed. Bars on the glass, locks on the frame - all for protection, nothing more. Those stationed by your room? Best not to challenge their presence

Footsteps faded down the hall, yet the air held traces like dust after a storm. The chair sagged where he’d sat, memory pressing into the fabric.

Back in that bare room of mine, the warmth gone now - just glowing bits left in the hearth. Not a sound anywhere. Hands flat against the chill pane, peering through to the yard below, lit by moonlight, shut off from me.

A shape shifted at the edge of sight. Resting on the rocky ledge out past the grating, a form appeared. A presence where none existed moments earlier.

A lone white rose, lifeless, each petal turned dark and twisted - sharp as a claw's edge. Underneath, held down by a jagged thorn, lay a torn piece of old paper.

A whisper reached me first, deep inside the Duke’s stronghold.

Firm as the lock held fast, a shape slipped through anyway. Stillness broke when it moved inside.