Chapter Text
The corset is always worn a little too tight on the night of the annual royal ball.
You stand perfectly still, staring at your reflection in the full-length gilded mirror as your maids pulls the laces taut. You let out a small, controlled breath, watching the way the heavy silk of your gown shifts over your frame. It’s an ethereal dress—the exact shade of deep emerald that your mother always said complemented your eyes, adorned with intricate silver embroidery along the bodice. Every detail has been accounted for. Your hair is pinned up flawlessly, not a single strand out of place, and the L/N family diamonds catch the flickering candlelight from the chandelier above.
You look every bit the perfect Marchioness.
But as you look closer at your own eyes in the glass, you can see the faint shadow of exhaustion. It isn’t from physical labor. It’s the mental weight of knowing exactly what tonight entails. Three hours of polite smiles. Three hours of nodding gracefully while the elderly duchesses and gossiping countesses whisper just loud enough for you to hear, wondering why, after three years of marriage, the Marquis’s estate still hasn’t announced an heir.
They never blame the man, of course. Especially not a man as charming and handsome as Marquis Moz.
"Oh, Y/N, you look absolutely gorgeous!"
The door to your dressing room bursts open, and the heavy atmosphere instantly lifts. Countess Luna Wright breezes into the room, a whirlwind of soft pink curls and expensive perfume. Her own gown is a romantic rose-gold that highlights her soft curves, her broad hips swaying slightly as she rushes over to you.
"If I were a man, I’d faint right here on your rugs," Luna teases, offering you a bright, genuine smile that warms the chilly room. "Marquis Moz won't know what hit him. Though, knowing him, he’ll probably just spend the evening bragging to the other lords about his beautiful wife before getting distracted by the wine."
You let out a soft, wry chuckle, the tension in your shoulders relaxing slightly. Luna has been your best friend since you were debutantes, and she is one of the very few people who sees through the glittering facade of your life. While she can be a bit air-headed and a hopeless romantic at heart—constantly fantasizing about finding some brilliant, hardworking man to sweep her off her feet—she possesses a stubborn loyalty that you value above everything else.
"Let him brag," you say softly, smoothing down the front of your gown. "At least it keeps him occupied."
"You shouldn't be so casual about it," Luna sighs, her expressive face softening into a look of pity that you quickly turn away from. She steps closer, adjusting a stray piece of silver thread on your sleeve. "I just wish... well, I wish he treated you the way a husband should. You do so much for that estate, Y/N. I saw the stacks of ledgers on your desk when I walked in. You shouldn't have to manage his family's financial affairs while he's out pretending to be such a mighty man."
Someone has to keep us afloat, you think bitterly, though you keep the thought behind your teeth. Moz loves the prestige of being a Marquis, but he has absolutely no patience for the tedious paperwork or the shipping manifests that actually fund his lavish lifestyle. You aren't trying to be a political mastermind; you simply learned how to read the ledgers because you didn't want your household to go bankrupt while your husband was chasing every pretty face in the capital.
"It keeps my mind busy, Luna," you reply smoothly, offering her a reassuring smile. "Besides, a little mathematics never hurt anyone."
"If you say so," Luna murmurs doubtfully. Before she can press further, the heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway signal that your time is up. Luna gives your hand a supportive squeeze before stepping back, putting on her perfect, aristocratic smile just as the door clicks open.
Marquis Moz stands in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.
He is, unfortunately, undeniably handsome. His tall, muscular frame is practically made for the tailored imperial dress uniform he wears, and his brown dreadlocks are tied back into a neat, low ponytail. The distinct facial markings curling above his eyebrows give him an exotic, dangerous edge that noblewomen find utterly intoxicating. He looks at you with easygoing brown eyes, a cocky smirk playing on his lips.
"Well, look at you," Moz purrs, stepping into the room. He smells like expensive cologne and the faint, sweet scent of wine he clearly started drinking before you even finished getting dressed. He walks around you, his eyes scanning your appearance like a merchant inspecting a fine piece of jewelry. "The emerald suits you, Y/N. The Nanami princes will be green with envy tonight. Good. A man of my status deserves a wife who commands the room."
"Thank you, My Lord," you say, your voice perfectly polite, perfectly distant. You've long since stopped hoping for genuine affection from him. The memory of walking into his chambers two years ago and seeing him with another woman is permanently burned into your mind. You had given him your heart initially, falling for his easygoing charms when you were a naive nineteen-year-old. Now, at twenty-two, you just want to survive the night without public humiliation.
Moz turns his attention to Luna, giving her a playful, exaggerated bow. "Countess Wright. Radiant as always. Are you ready to witness the grandest event of the season?"
"Always, Marquis," Luna replies, her tone polite but cooler than usual. She looks at you, a silent message of support passing between your eyes. "I will see you inside the ballroom, Y/N. Try to save me a dance before the lords corner me."
With a final wave, Luna exits, leaving you alone with your husband.
The silence that settles over the dressing room is heavy. Moz doesn't offer you his arm immediately. Instead, he walks over to your vanity, casually picking up one of your silver hairpins, tossing it up and catching it with sharp, effortless reflexes. His instincts are always sharp—he is a cunning man beneath his easygoing exterior, which only makes navigating your marriage feel like walking through a minefield.
"You've been quiet lately," Moz notes, not looking at you. "The servants say you spend all your nights in the study. You rejected my invitation to join me in the gardens three nights ago."
Your invitation to sleep with you for your own entertainment, your mind corrects. You feel absolutely nothing when he touches you; it is a one-sided chore meant solely for producing an heir, and you've grown to resent it so deeply that the mere thought makes you sick.
"I had a headache, My Lord. And the autumn trade reports required my signature," you say evenly.
Moz drops the silver pin back onto the table with a sharp clink. He turns to you, his easygoing smirk replaced by annoyance, his pride clearly stung by your rejection. "Right. Just remember your actual duties, wife. A Marquisate needs a future heir, not just balanced finances. We'll try again after the ball season ends. And tonight, I expect you to smile. Don't look like a scolded child while I'm introducing you to the foreign dignitaries."
"Of course," you whisper.
He offers his arm then, his expression instantly shifting back to that charming, carefree mask he wears so well. You place your gloved hand on his forearm, feeling the hard muscle beneath the expensive fabric. He feels like a stranger. He has always felt like a stranger.
The carriage ride to the imperial palace was long and silent. Moz stares out the window, his fingers tapping a restless beat against his knee, his mind clearly already at the party, wondering which new women will catch his eye this year. You sit across from him, staring at your own gloved hands, watching the faint, barely noticeable shadow of an ink stain near your thumb that your maid couldn't quite scrub away.
By the time the carriage comes to a halt in front of the grand, brightly lit imperial palace, your heart is beating an anxious rhythm against your ribs.
The carriage door is opened, and the sound of classical music, laughter, and the chatter of hundreds of nobles washes over you. Moz steps out first, turning to offer you a hand with a dazzling smile that causes a group of nearby noblewomen to giggle behind their fans.
You take his hand, stepping out into the crisp autumn air, plastering a perfect, empty smile onto your face.
The grand ballroom of the Nanami imperial palace is a sea of gold, sparkling gem crystals, and smooth silk.
As the herald loudly announces your titles at the top of the marble staircase—“Marquis Moz and Marchioness Y/N of the House Shrike”—hundreds of pairs of eyes track your descent. You can feel the weight of those looks instantly. Beside you, Moz absorbs the attention like a plant soaking up the sun. He pulls his shoulders back, his chest expanding under his tailored uniform, that effortless, cocky smirk firmly in place.
"Keep your chin up, Y/N," Moz mutters out of the side of his mouth, his smile never wavering as he waves to a passing count. "Everyone is watching. Give them a show."
You do exactly as you are trained to do. You tilt your head just so, letting the diamonds around your throat catch the light of ten thousand candles, and smile gently. Just breathe and smile.
The moment your heels touch the polished ballroom floor, Moz’s attention shifts. His sharp, brown eyes scan the crowd, completely bypassing the elderly statesmen who head toward him to talk politics, and locking onto a group of young, laughing noblewomen near the punch fountains.
"Ah, there's Count Ibara," Moz lies smoothly, his hand already slipping away from your waist, leaving a sudden, cold space. "I must go pay my respects, darling. Don't wander too far. I want you by my side when I greet the Crown Prince later."
"Of course, My Lord," you murmur.
You don't even look to see if he hears you. He is already walking away, his tall, muscular frame cutting a path through the crowd. Within seconds, he is surrounded by fluttering silk fans and high-pitched giggles, his deep, easygoing laughter echoing over the music as he immediately begins to flirt.
You are left standing alone at the edge of the dance floor.
It takes exactly two minutes for the whispering to begin. You stand near a marble pillar, holding a glass of champagne you have no intention of drinking, watching the shifting patterns of the crowd. Two elderly baronesses pretend to inspect a floral arrangement a few feet away, but their eyes are glued to you.
"...three years, and still nothing," one whispers, her voice carrying over. "Such a shame. A fine man like the Marquis deserves an heir. My daughter, on the other hand, fell pregnant within the first three months..."
"...they say she locks herself away in the study," the other replies, clicking her tongue. "What a disobedient lady. No wonder the poor man looks elsewhere for his entertainment..."
Their words don't surprise you, but they still feel like needles pressing into your skin. A disobedient lady. They have no idea about the nights Moz came home smelling of expensive perfume and sweet wine, expecting you to simply lie there and play the part of the dutiful womb. They have no idea.
Your chest feels tight. The corset suddenly feels twice as restrictive as it did in your dressing room, suffocating you. The heat of the ballroom, the heavy mix of expensive colognes, the artificial laughter—it’s too much. You need to breathe.
Stepping backward into the shadows of the pillar, you slip away from the main floor. You move quickly but gracefully, taking a side corridor that leads away from the thrumming music. You know this palace layout well enough; most nobles stay clustered near the ballroom or the grand terraces, but the eastern wing holds the private lounges—rooms meant for quiet political negotiations or resting dignitaries.
The deeper you walk into the corridor, the more the noise fades. The stone floors absorb the sound of your heels, and the air grows cooler, crisp with the scent of the autumn night drifting through the arched windows.
You find a massive oak door at the very end of the hall. Testing the brass handle, it gives way silently.
You slip inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.
The room is vast, dimly lit by a single dying fire in a grand hearth. Lavish velvet armchairs, dark mahogany tables, and heavy drapes create a somber, peaceful sanctuary. There is no one here.
You let out a long breath, your shoulders finally dropping from their rigid posture. You walk over to a large velvet chaise lounge near the hearth and sit down, placing your champagne glass on a side table. You close your eyes, leaning your head back against the plush fabric, and simply listen to the silence.
For the first time all night, you can think. Your inner monologue drifts back to the ledgers on your desk at home. The grain prices are rising, and the southern port fees need to be renegotiated. It’s tedious work, but it’s real. It’s a puzzle you can solve. Unlike your marriage, where the rules change constantly and you are always destined to lose.
You stare down at your hands, rubbing your thumb over the faint ink stain on your glove. You feel a sudden wave of bitterness. You are twenty-two years old, beautifully dressed, dripping in diamonds, and sitting completely alone in an empty room because your husband prefers the company of anyone else.
Is this it? you think. Is this the rest of my life?
Suddenly, the heavy click of the door handle breaks the silence.
Your eyes snap open, and your posture instantly corrects itself. You pull your spine straight, your face smoothing into that practiced, aristocratic mask as you prepare to apologize to whatever high-ranking royal you’ve accidentally disturbed.
The door swings open, and a man steps into the lounge.
He doesn't look like the other nobles in the ballroom. He is tall, his well-built frame casting an imposing silhouette against the light. He wears a dark military dress uniform, but the top buttons are casually undone, revealing the strong column of his throat. His blonde hair is medium length, neatly slicked back, but a single, heavy strand has fallen out of place, framing his face with a careless elegance.
Between his fingers, he holds an unlit cigarette.
He stops when he sees you, his golden-brown eyes locking onto yours. They are relaxed, framed by long eyelashes, but beneath that calm exterior, you can practically feel his mind analyzing you. His gaze moves from the diamonds at your throat, down to your rigid posture, and finally to your eyes.
A slow, amused smile curves his purple lips. He doesn't look flustered or embarrassed to have walked in on a lady. Instead, he looks thoroughly intrigued.
"Ah," he says, his voice a deep, smooth drawl that seems to cut through the quiet room. "I see someone else had the same idea to escape the vultures."
You slowly let your breath out, keeping your hands folded neatly in your lap to hide the slight tremor in your fingers. The imposing man steps further into the room, closing the heavy oak door behind him with a definitive thud.
You recognize him now. You’ve never met him face-to-face—Moz usually ran in entirely different, more chaotic circles—but anyone with eyes in the capital knew the silhouette of Duke Stanley Snyder. He was the Crown’s most lethal weapon, a man whose military genius was whispered about with a mix of reverence and terror.
"Your Grace," you say, your voice perfectly modulated, masking the sudden spike of adrenaline in your chest. You begin to shift, preparing to stand. "I apologize if I have intruded upon your space. I can leave you to your peace."
"Don't bother," Stanley says easily. He waves a dismissive hand, walking over toward the hearth. His boots make a heavy, rhythmic sound against the polished floorboards. "There's plenty of room for two deserters. Sit down, Marchioness Shrike."
The fact that he knows exactly who you are freezes you for a second. You slowly settle back into the plush velvet of the chaise lounge, watching him pull a small matchbox from his uniform pocket. With a single strike of his thumb, a small flame illuminates his face. He brings it to the tip of his cigarette, inhaling deeply.
The bitter, distinct scent of tobacco cuts through the suffocating floral perfume you’ve been breathing all night. It’s strangely comforting.
Stanley leans his shoulder against the heavy marble mantelpiece, one hand tucked loosely into his trouser pocket as he exhales a slow plume of smoke. His eyes never left your face. He is openly studying you, his thick eyelashes casting long shadows against his cheekbones. It’s an incredibly bold, almost improper stare, yet he does it with the relaxed confidence of a man who has never been told 'no' in his entire life.
"You look stunning, Marchioness. Truly," Stanley speaks after a long silence, his voice a low, teasing drawl that makes your skin prickle. "Looks like every detail is accounted for. But your eyes look a bit empty."
You falter. Nobles never speak this directly to a face. In the ballroom, everything is wrapped in three layers of politeness and fake flattery. To have a man look at you for less than two minutes and point out the exact rot beneath your glittering surface is utterly jarring.
"Your Grace is mistaken," you reply, pulling your aristocratic mask tightly around yourself. You offer him a small, empty smile. "I am merely... fatigued from the festivities. The heat in the ballroom is quite oppressive tonight."
Stanley lets out a low chuckle. It’s an amused sound, his lips curving upward as he takes another slow drag of his cigarette. He shifts his weight, leaning a bit closer.
"Fatigued? No. I’ve seen soldiers fatigued after a three-day march through rain and mud, Marchioness," Stanley says, his tone dripping with a dangerous charm. "You don't look tired. You look bored. And remarkably lonely for a woman married to a man who claims to love beautiful things."
Ouch.
A sharp spark of indignation flares up inside you, burning away the initial nervousness. He is openly mocking Moz’s notorious reputation, and while you don't love your husband, having your marital humiliation laid bare by a stranger stings your pride.
"A true gentleman wouldn't point out a lady's loneliness, Duke Snyder," you counter, your voice turning sharp and steady. You lock your gaze with his, refusing to look down.
Stanley’s smile widens just a fraction, his eyes lighting up with genuine interest. He clearly wasn't expecting you to snap back, and your mind notes that he seems to enjoy it.
"Good thing I'm a soldier first, a Duke second, and a gentleman only when it suits me," he says smoothly, leaning in just enough that you can catch the faint warmth radiating from his body. "And a lovely, capable woman like you shouldn't be left alone to fade into nothing. It’s a waste of a perfectly good view."
Before you can process the sudden heat behind his words, the distant sound of voices and approaching footsteps echoes from the corridor outside. The private lounge is about to be invaded by other escaping guests.
The brief illusion of your sanctuary is broken.
Stanley sighs softly, dropping the remnant of his cigarette onto the floor and crushing it out with the heel of his boot. He straightens his posture, pulling his uniform jacket back into immaculate order. The relaxed, flirty soldier instantly shifts back into the calm, poised Duke, but as he looks down at you one last time, the warmth in his eyes remains.
"Until next time, Marchioness," he murmurs, bowing his head to you with a lazy grace. "Try not to let the vultures eat you alive out there."
With that, he turns and walks toward the side exit of the lounge, disappearing into the shadows just as the main doors begin to rattle open.
You sit alone for a moment, your heart hammering against the tight fabric of your corset. Your thumb unconsciously rubs against the faint ink stain on your glove. For the first time in three years, you don't feel entirely invisible or lonely.
The heavy oak doors of the main entrance burst open, and a couple of laughing, half-drunk barons stumbled into the lounge.
You quickly smoothed down the front of your emerald gown, standing up before they could notice you sitting alone in the dim light. Your mind was still stuck on the sudden, intense presence of Duke Stanley. The smell of his cigarette still hung faintly in the air, a sharp contrast to the suffocating floral scents of the palace.
“Try not to let the vultures eat you alive.”
His words echoed in your head as you slipped past the rowdy barons and walked back down the quiet corridor toward the grand ballroom. You forced your posture straight, pulling your polite mask back over your face.
When you re-entered the ballroom, the noise hit you instantly. The music playing was a fast, lively waltz. You scanned the crowd, looking for the familiar broad shoulders and brown dreadlocks of your husband. It didn't take long to spot him. Moz was near the center balcony, a glass of wine in his hand, throwing his head back in a loud, easygoing laugh as two young duchesses hung onto his every word.
He looked completely cocky, handsome, and entirely unbothered by your absence. He hadn't even noticed you were gone.
"There you are," a soft voice breathed beside you.
You turned to see Luna stepping up to your side, a look of quiet relief on her face. She held a small plate of pastries, her pink curls bouncing slightly as she tilted her head to examine you.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Luna murmured, stepping closer so her voice wouldn't carry over the music. "Did something happen? Did Moz say something to you before?"
"No," you said quickly, offering her a reassuring smile. "I just needed some air. The heat in here was getting to me."
Luna sighed, glancing over at Moz, who was now raising his glass to toast another lord. "He's infuriating. Truly. He spends the whole carriage ride telling you to look perfect, and then he abandons you the second he spots a pretty lady. If I find a husband, Y/N, he's going to be someone who actually stays by my side. Someone dedicated."
"I hope you find him, Luna," you said softly, and you meant it. You didn't want your best friend to ever experience the crushing loneliness of a House Shrike marriage.
"Marchioness Shrike!"
A booming voice interrupted you. You turned to see a wealthy trade merchant you recognized from the estate's shipping ledgers approaching, flanked by two other high-ranking lords.
"Ah, the lovely lady of the house," the merchant said, bowing slightly. "We were just looking for the Marquis to discuss the upcoming grain quotas for the southern ports. The current shipping tariffs are proving to be... difficult."
You glanced over at Moz, who was currently occupied whispering something into a young lady's ear, making her blush furiously. He wouldn't care about grain quotas tonight. He would likely just nod and agree to whatever terms the merchants proposed, completely oblivious to how much it would hurt the estate's treasury.
"My husband is occupied with foreign dignitaries at the moment," you said smoothly, stepping forward to intercept them before they could disturb him. "But I handle the Shrike estate's shipping manifests. The current tariffs are set to protect our local farmers from the early winter frost. If we lower them, our own tenants will starve before the first snow."
The merchant blinked, clearly surprised that a young marchioness knew anything about port tariffs. The two lords behind him exchanged a quiet, impressed look.
"Well... I suppose that is true, Marchioness," the merchant stammered, adjusting his collar. "But the port fees—"
"The port fees remain as they are stated in the contract signed last spring," you interrupted gently, your voice calm but firm. "We can re-evaluate the terms when the spring thaw begins. Until then, the Shrike estate expects the full delivery on schedule."
The merchant opened his mouth to argue, but realized he had no ground to stand on. He gave a tight, respectful bow. "Of course. As you wish, Marchioness."
As they walked away, Luna let out a low whistle, looking at you with wide eyes. "Wow. You completely shut them down. I don't even know what a tariff is, and you just handled them like a general."
"I just know how much money we lose if they cheat us," you said simply.
But as you spoke, you felt a strange sensation, like eyes burning into the back of your neck. You slowly turned your head, scanning the upper VIP balcony that overlooked the entire ballroom.
Standing against the gilded railing, high above the glittering crowd, was Duke Stanley.
He had a fresh cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling slowly around his slicked-back blonde hair. He wasn't looking at the royals, or the dancers, or the grand spectacle of the ball. He was looking directly down at you.
He had seen the entire interaction with the merchants.
When your eyes met his across the massive room, Stanley didn't look away. Instead, he raised his glass of wine in a silent toast, his purple lips curving into that same amused smile from the lounge. He looked at you not just as a beautiful woman, but as someone who had just masterfully controlled a room full of powerful men.
Your breath caught in your throat. You quickly looked away as you gripped your champagne glass a little tighter.
"Y/N? Are you listening to me?" Luna asked, nudging your arm.
"Yes," you lied, forcing your gaze back to her. "Sorry, what were you saying?"
Before Luna could answer, a heavy hand clapped down on your shoulder. Moz had finally returned, smelling strongly of sweet wine, his easygoing smirk plastered across his face.
"There you are, wife," Moz said loudly, pulling you against his side with a careless, possessive grip. "The Crown Prince is about to make his entrance. Come along, we need to be at the front of the line."
He didn't ask how your evening was. He didn't ask where you had been. He just led you away, his fingers digging slightly into your waist as he guided you through the crowd like a prized horse he was proud to show off.
You walked beside him, your perfect smile back in place, but your mind was entirely elsewhere. For the rest of the night, as you bowed to royalty and smiled for the cameras of high society, you couldn't shake the feeling of those golden-brown eyes watching your every move from the shadows.