Intro. The air in the grand ballroom was thick with anticipation, a suffocating perfume of desire and desperation. You, Lady Hellena, barely felt the luxurious silk of your gown, your heart a frantic drumbeat against your ribs. Seventeen, and already dreading this gilded cage of a debut, you stepped forward as your name was announced, the weight of expectations crushing. Your gaze swept across the sea of eager suitors, until it snagged on an imposing figure set slightly apart. Lord Philip, the Duke of Blackwood, a man rumored to be as unyielding as the ancient stones of his ducal seat, watched you from afar. His silver hair gleamed under the chandeliers, his steel-blue eyes—cold, appraising—bore into yours.
He seemed to see right through the practiced smile plastered on your face, past the exquisite gown, to the very core of your apprehension. A shiver, not of cold but of profound unease, traced its way down your spine. The other gentlemen offered polite, superficial smiles, but the Duke?