Chapter 2
After moving into the ducal residence, Caine treated me like an honored guest—always courteous, always keeping just the right amount of distance.
On the first and fifteenth of every month, he'd join me for dinner in Rainmere Pavilion, asking about my habits and meals like a dutiful older brother—never crossing any lines.
"Miss Verne, have you been getting used to things lately?" he asked, seated with impeccable grace, his utensils moving without a misstep. But his gaze never really lingered on me.
"Yes, Your Grace, everything is fine," I answered quietly, my eyes lowered as I stole a quick look at his flawless profile.
"The servants—have they been attentive?" he asked.
"Yes, everyone has been very kind to me," I replied.
After our curt little exchange, silence stretched between us. I wished I could just say to him: I didn't need this kind of polite concern.
What I truly wanted was…
But even I couldn't put it into words.
The servants would gossip that Caine only ever had eyes for Loretta, the young lady of the chancellor's house.
She was both beautiful and gifted, Caine's childhood friend and one of the most renowned talents in all of Valleria.
I'd only caught a glimpse of Loretta from afar once, the day she visited to enjoy the flowers here.
She wore a pale lavender dress, her hair swept up with flowers; when she walked, her skirt rippled like flowing water—so stunningly lovely, she didn't seem like someone from this mortal world.
Caine walked right beside her; even his usually stoic face softened with a rare, gentle smile.
It was then that the gulf between us became crystal clear.
And me? Just some general's daughter, rough around the edges and clueless about anything refined.
Loretta, on the other hand, was a master at everything—music, chess, painting, calligraphy—always so graceful, and blessed with a prestigious family.
No wonder Caine's eyes held something entirely different when he looked at her, compared to me.
But everything changed that early summer—Loretta ended up marrying the heir to the Duke of Arden from Eldoria Province.
The day of the wedding, all of Valleria was decked out in festive lights and decorations, the whole city buzzing with joy.
Caine didn't show up at the wedding. Instead, he got himself dead drunk in the ducal residence.
I was already drifting in sleep when a frantic knocking at my door jolted me awake. Opening it, I found Gavin Vale—Caine's personal guard—looking frazzled.
"Miss Verne, Mr. Valen is... more than a little drunk. He keeps calling your name and I just... I'm at my wits' end," Gavin admitted, looking hopeless.
I hurriedly threw on a robe and shadowed him to the main hall. As we opened the door, the sharp stench of liquor hit me, heavy enough to make my head spin.
Caine was sprawled out on the bed, his shirt half open, clutching a wine jug so tight his knuckles were white. His gaze was glazed and distant.
"Your Grace?" I called softly, inching closer, trying not to startle him.
Suddenly, he snapped his head up—his eyes, bleary just a moment before, locked onto my face.
"Lorrie... is that you?" he slurred.
My heart gave a lurch. Lorrie was my childhood nickname... and Loretta's too.
"Your Grace, you're drunk. Let me help you rest..." I reached for him, but before I knew it, he pulled me into his arms, holding me close.
"Lorrie... Why did you choose him? Am I really so much less than he is?" Caine's voice was thick with agony and yearning.
His lips burned against my ear, the heady smell of wine tangled with the crisp pine scent I'd long associated with him.
His grip tightened around my wrist, breath warm and sharp with alcohol, pressing against my neck so fiercely it sent pain shooting up my arm.
The silk curtains fluttered in the night breeze, moonlight falling across his battle-worn armor, highlighting the splattered stains of dried blood.
"Lorrie..." His voice was raw, cracking with desperate longing. As his palm brushed the calluses in my hand, he stilled abruptly.
"Your hands..." His words faltered, confusion and disbelief heavy in every syllable.
I went stiff. Loretta was famed across Valleria for her musical grace—her fingers slender and smooth, untouched by hardship.
Unlike me, who'd wielded swords since childhood with my father, my hands forever toughened by old scars and calluses.
"You've got the wrong person, Your Grace," I whispered.
I fought to get away, but he forcefully flipped me over and held me down.
The hard metal of his armor pressed painfully into my skin as he dropped sloppy, wine-soaked kisses over me, scattering away the last remnants of my sanity.
Somehow, I was swept right up in his damnable tenderness.
The silk blankets surged like waves as I stared at the candle by the bed, my shattered whimpers vanishing into the night.
As the faint light of dawn crept in, he lay there satisfied and sleeping, while I shrank into the farthest corner of the bed, counting the cracks in the window lattice.
Three days later, the butler showed up with a wedding dress. Not some elaborate, regal ensemble—just a robe embroidered with some flowers and a simple headdress.
No paperwork, no official documents—nothing at all. I got the message loud and clear: this was his way of telling me it was time to leave the ducal residence on my own.