Chapter 1
I'd been married to Prince Alex Ashford for three years. He was always polite, always distant, and never crossed the line, like we were strangers sharing a house.
I thought that was his nature, cold and aloof, until the night I handed him the divorce papers.
He tore the paper apart slowly, like he was savoring it. Then he wrapped one of the strips around my wrist. He looked at me and said, "Do you even know how I got through these three years?"
The candlelight flickered. The hunger in his eyes finally broke loose.
"Every time you smiled at me," he said, "I wanted to tie you up like that. Keep you with me. So you wouldn't look at anyone else. So you wouldn't cry for anyone but me."
*****
On a midwinter night, a crescent moon hung like an icy silver hook above the thatched roofs and timber gables of Rosewood Manor.
The cold had turned into a thin mist that drifted silently past the soot-stained stone walls and through the narrow arrow-slit windows of the corridor.
Snow still clung to the eaves of the great hall, reflecting the faint, flickering glow of iron cressets and tallow candles. The light cast a ghostly shimmer across the silent flagstones.
Charlotte leaned against the window in the side chamber of the main house, clutching a letter that had already gone damp in her hands. Someone had slipped it through the side gate earlier that day.
She recognized her brother Edward Hayes's handwriting right away. He'd only written a few short lines: [The snowstorm in the north has finally let up. I'm safe. Don't worry. I'll be home soon.]
His writing was firm, but it couldn't hide the exhaustion from his long journey or the cold, battle-hardened edge beneath his words.
Charlotte's fingers traced the rough edge of the paper. The northern cold seemed to settle right into her chest, making her feel hollow and weighed down.
She had been married to Alex for three years. Everyone said she was lucky. Her husband was the king's younger brother, handsome, powerful, and known for being an upright man. There was no cheating, no drama in their life.
For three years, Alex treated her with perfect politeness. At dinner, he would nod to the footman to bring her anything she couldn't easily reach.
At night, he always slept on the far edge of the bed, lying perfectly still. His breathing was so soft it was almost like he wasn't there.
When she got sick, the best medicine was sent for right away. He'd sit by her bedside for a while and ask how she was doing, his eyes calm and impossible to read.
They were like polite strangers in their own marriage, always courteous, always distant. She was trapped in that grand, empty manor.
Charlotte used to think that was just who he was. Cold and distant. Untouchable. Beautiful to look at, but impossible to reach.
At first, Charlotte tried to get closer, hoping for a little care and love from Alex. She would tidy his manuscripts, pour him a cup of mead and quietly leave a plate of homemade cakes beside him while he read.
But he only gave her a small nod and murmured, "Thanks." His gaze skimmed past her as if she were nothing more than a shadow cast by the flame. His politeness was so distant that her hand would freeze in midair and slowly turn cold.
So Charlotte learned to keep quiet and look pretty. She wore a soft, pleasant smile. She did her duties as his wife, managing the household, attending royal events, and playing the part of the perfect royal couple beside him.
Only in the dead of night did she let the cold exhaustion and a vague, unnameable emptiness seep into her bones. She would lie alone in the spacious bed, listening to his steady, almost mechanical breathing beside her.