Chapter 1
My union with General Alexander Grant was secured by my father's life's work—a military career bartered for an alliance.
On our wedding night, the air in the bedchamber grew colder than the stone walls. He placed a silver-chased dagger on the oak table, its gleam sharp against the candlelight.
"Ms. Wynn." His voice was distant, frozen. "My heart has long been given. Keep this blade as testament to your untouched honor."
His heart belonged to Lillian Moore, his cousin and childhood companion.
"Once the Northern Marches are secure, I shall petition the king for your freedom."
I glanced at the cold steel and offered a faint smile. "Thank you, General."
But when Lillian returned, and I laid the divorce petition before him, he did not simply sign them. He tore the pages apart.
His eyes bloodshot, he seized my wrist, the words rough and unyielding. "Evelyn. Where do you think you are going?"
*****
The candle in the silver holder spat and crackled, its flame burning bright and casting the chamber in a warm, honeyed light.
Perched on the edge of the marital bed, its velvet cushions deep and yielding, I felt the weight of the pearl coronet like a physical yoke, straining the muscles of my neck.
The groan of the heavy oak door announced his arrival, a gust of night air following, carrying with it the subtle, smoky scent of fine whiskey.
Alexander stood framed in the doorway, a portrait of cold elegance in his formal attire, the white of his cravat stark against the dark fabric.
No trace of wedding-day sentiment softened the severe lines of his handsome face; it was a visage carved from winter frost.
He made no move to enter fully, halting just inside the room to observe me with the detached curiosity one might reserve for an unfamiliar artifact.
Let him keep performing. Just how long would the charade last? The silent taunt echoed in my mind.
Outwardly, I remained still, the picture of a demure noble bride awaiting her lord's word.
Finally, he broke the silence, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Ms. Wynn."
Just that one address, "Ms. Wynn," drew a clear line between us.
I inclined my head slightly, a silent prompt for him to continue.
His movement was abrupt. Unbuckling the ornate short sword—the Grant family crest gleaming on its hilt—from his belt, he tossed it onto the nearby table. It landed with a metallic clatter that seemed absurdly loud in the hushed room.
"My affections lie elsewhere. That will suffice to guard your reputation," he stated, his gaze not on me but on the blade.
My eyes followed his to the weapon. It lay there, a sliver of deadly silver, its polished surface mirroring the distorted dance of the candle flames.
Oh, so this was supposed to be my badge of chastity? I scoffed inwardly.
"My heart is, and always will be, Lillian's." The declaration was absolute, brooking no argument. "This marriage was not my desire. It is the King's command, a... reward for your father's service."
Lillian. The name was almost a sigh on the capital's lips. Alexander's cherished cousin, his delicate, ailing muse.
His unwavering devotion to her was legendary, the reason no woman had ever truly breached the fortress of his heart.
This union, this political transaction, had only come to me—a daughter from a family of recently elevated "new nobility"—because my father's victories in the Northern Marches had made him indispensable, and the King needed to bind such military power closer to the crown.
Alexander continued, his tone shifting to one of cold, administrative finality, "When stability is fully restored to the Northern Marches, I will seek the King's permission to dissolve this contract. You will have your freedom. And I will see you settled in a respectable match."
He spoke as if he was granting me some grand favor, like I should be grateful for his generosity.
I lifted my gaze, peering at him through the hazy glow of the candlelight.
Tall, impossibly straight, he seemed less a man and more a weapon sheathed in brocade and velvet. The finery could not hide the sharp, dangerous edges honed on battlefields.
A beautiful shell, housing nothing I desired. What a waste.
I slowly stood up, walked over to the table, and picked up the dagger, spinning it once between my fingers.
The cold touch of the blade against my skin instantly cleared my mind.
"My thanks, General Grant. Your... terms are noted," I said, my voice calm, devoid of the tremor or heat he might have anticipated from a scorned bride.
A faint line appeared between his brows, the only sign of his surprise.
He had likely braced for tears, for pleading, for the messy, emotional outburst befitting a young woman whose romantic dreams had just been publicly dismantled.
A shame for him. I was not that Evelyn, but someone living in her body. His coldness was a relief, not a wound.
Securing the sword within a concealed pocket of my gown, I offered a perfunctory curtsy, the minimal gesture required by protocol.
"It's getting late, General Grant. If you have nothing else, perhaps the study would be a quieter place for you," I said.
The dismissal hung in the air, audacious and clear.
Alexander's composure fractured for a heartbeat. His jaw tightened, and the temperature in the room seemed to plummet several degrees.
His eyes, sharp and assessing, raked over me, searching for a hint of pretense, a crack in the armor of my calm.
He found only a placid, returned gaze.
With a sound that was more a sharp exhalation of contempt than a word, he turned.
The door shut behind him, not with a slam, but with a heavy, definitive thud that resonated in the sudden silence.
A long, slow breath escaped me, tension I hadn't fully acknowledged seeping from my shoulders. I moved to the ornate mirror, my fingers rising to begin the tedious work of disentangling the wretched, beautiful weight from my hair.
Divorce? Excellent. I had been hoping he would suggest it.