4. A Doll for the Duke

The door creaked open but not like before, no tray sliding in, no glance from a maid, no quick shut.

I sat up slowly, eyes narrowed, because it never opened this wide unless—

My mother stood there.

Her silhouette framed in the doorway, soft blonde hair braided neatly over one shoulder, eyes too bright in the dim light. She looked... tired. Like she'd aged ten years in the span of one.

What the hell did she want?

She stepped in quietly, her heeled shoes making little sound against the cold floor. She had a bundle in her arms, rich silk, pastel blue, embroidered with golden thread. One of the dresses I hated. Too tight at the waist. Too dainty for someone who couldn't sit still.

She laid them down at the foot of my bed like she had a right to be here.

"You should get ready," she said, voice clipped. Not cold, not warm either. Just… distant. Like we weren’t even related.

I said nothing. My hands curled into fists in my lap.

Her eyes flicked to my bandaged arms. Her lips tightened.

"There’s a healer in the bath chamber if you want the rest of the wounds treated," she added.

I didn’t ask why. I didn’t need to.

She answered anyway.

"Duke Davian is coming to meet you."

My heart dropped. Just like that. No pause. No build up. No asking if I was okay. Just....meet your future husband, darling, be a good girl about it.

I shot to my feet, anger pulsing up my spine. "Are you serious?"

She flinched. Barely. Like she was used to bracing for screams.

Her expression didn’t change. "Your father wants no indiscipline."

I laughed loudly and bitterly. "Oh, no, we wouldn’t want to ruin Father’s precious reputation with an undisciplined daughter, would we?"

Her gaze dropped.

Then, softly, too softly, "Be obedient, Cessalie. Keep your wounds covered."

She turned to leave.

That’s when I snapped. "Why did you even come here? To play mother? Or to make sure I don’t embarrass you in front of a man I didn’t ask to marry?"

She stopped in the doorway. Didn’t look back. Didn’t argue. Didn’t say I was wrong.

She just stood there.

There was pain in her eyes. I saw it. For a second, I almost...almost...felt bad.

But then she said nothing.

No, Cessalie. Silence wasn’t love.

Silence was surrender. She left the door open behind her. A quiet message.

Dress up. Obey. Hide the bruises.

I stared at the pile of dresses like they were chains, not fabric.

Part of me wanted to rip them apart, shred the delicate silk into ribbons with my nails. But what would that do? They’d just send more. Maybe even someone to dress me like I was a doll too broken to move on her own.

So I chose the least revolting one. A muted gray-blue gown with sheer sleeves and gold detailing. Fitted at the waist, flowing at the bottom. The kind that made you look like you belonged somewhere you didn’t ask to be.

The fabric felt soft against my skin, almost mocking. I could still feel the stinging under the sleeves, the way the cloth dragged over the healing lashes on my back. They burned like the fabric was reminding me to behave.

I moved to the mirror. The one above my dresser. Cracked a little in the corner from the last time I threw something at it.

The scar on my cheek stared back at me.

I grabbed the powder and concealer and pressed it into the skin until the pinkness dulled. Then the brush. Soft circles. A little blush to distract. Not too much. He might think I want him.

I let my hair down. It fell past my shoulders, straight, no pins, no jewels. Just enough to frame my face and cover the edge of that damn scar.

I didn’t look pretty, I only looked tamed like I was preparing for slaughter, not suitors.

And that was the point, wasn’t it?

I looked at myself for one last second. My reflection looked back like she didn’t recognize me.

Maybe neither would he.

The door creaked open again. This time, it wasn’t my mother. It was the Rena, head bowed like always, voice barely above a whisper.

"It’s time, my lady."

She didn’t have to say more. I stood up without a word, the rustle of fabric the only answer I gave. Two guards waited at the door, hovering behind me like I was going to bolt at any second. And honestly, if the windows in this wing weren’t so damn high, maybe I would’ve.

They didn’t speak either. Just followed. Like I was a prisoner being marched to trial.

We passed through corridor after corridor, all lined with stone and age and power. The halls smelled of old perfume and dust, like every woman who walked here before me left behind a trace of everything she couldn’t say out loud.

My eyes didn’t linger on the tapestries or the chandeliers anymore. I’d seen them a hundred times. When you’re always locked up, walking these hallways feels like a privilege. But now? They were just walls that led to another cage.

And i was being prepared to sent to another cage. To Davian. Duke Davian. Twenty-four. Widower. His wife died just four months ago. They’d only been married for a year.

They said she was sick. "Delicate," someone had whispered near the drawing room once, when they thought I wasn’t listening.

Delicate, my ass.

I’d seen what delicate women looked like in this world. Shushed. Soft. Obedient. And when they broke under the pressure, they were called tragic. No one ever blamed the men.

I didn’t know Davian well. Only what I’d heard in passing. A noble. A Duke. Member of the Royal Court—those elite few who advised the Crown and decided how the world should move.

People said he wasn’t cruel. Said he was... composed. Honorable. The kind of man who didn’t raise his voice even when he had the power to destroy.

But even the quietest men in this world held knives. Some just hid them better.

Still, a part of me, however small, hoped he wasn’t like the rest. Hoped maybe he wasn’t like Father.

But there was doubt. Doubt was safer than hope. But still, it sat there. Low in my stomach. Waiting to be proven wrong.

The last door came into view. Larger, darker wood. The kind of door only important people got to stand behind.

Rena paused, eyes flickering toward me like she wanted to say good luck, but even that felt too dangerous.

I didn’t ask her to open it. I just nodded.

Let’s get this over with.

The door opened with a slow, heavy groan. That kind of weighty silence followed, where even the flicker of candles sounded too loud.

And there he was.

Duke Davian.

He stood by the window, tall and composed, back to the room like some painting from a tragedy. The sunlight caught the side of his face, casting a gold halo against sharp cheekbones and a jawline so precise it looked carved. His suit was all black, no embroidery, just clean lines and expensive tailoring that clung to his lean, athletic frame like second skin.

Everything about him screamed control. The way he stood, spine straight, hands loosely clasped behind him. Not rigid, but never relaxed either. He wasn’t the kind of man who slouched. He didn’t need to.

When he turned, it was slow. Like he wasn’t rushing for anyone.

His eyes landed on me, and it took every ounce of effort not to shrink under that gaze. Deep brown, almost black, but not cold. Just unreadable. Like he was already weighing every word I might say. Judging without judgment.

He was handsome, undeniably. Devastatingly, in the kind of way that made people hold their breath. But his face held something else too. A sadness maybe? Or something colder. The grief that aged a man long before his time.

I didn’t bow. I just stood there.

"Lady Cessalie," he said, voice low and smooth, like silk wrapped around a blade.

I blinked. "Your Grace."

My voice didn’t shake. I was proud of that.

There was a long pause where he just looked at me. Not with hunger. Not with anger. Just... observation.

"You’ve grown," he said finally, and I hated how that sounded. Like I was a child being paraded.

I didn’t reply. Let silence say it for me.

His eyes lingered on my face, probably catching the edge of the scar I hadn’t fully covered with powder. But he didn’t comment.

Behind me, I could still feel the guards, still hear their breath. Waiting for me to mess up. To say the wrong thing.

Davian stepped forward. Not close. Not enough to intimidate. Just enough to be polite.

"I know this isn’t how you would have preferred to meet."

Oh. So he did know.

I crossed my hands behind my back, digging nails into my palm. "No, it isn’t. But I don’t get many things I prefer."

His brow twitched. The first crack in his expression. Almost a frown, but not quite.

"I won’t force you," he said. Just like that. No pomp. No persuasion. "I came only to speak. Your father wishes for this match. But I care more for clarity than obedience."

That made me pause. The words didn’t even register fully. Not right away.

I’d never heard a man say that in my house. I won’t force you.

I should’ve felt relieved. Or suspicious. Or grateful. But all I felt... was tired.

I stared at him, trying to see beneath that flawless mask. What did he really want from me? What did he gain from marrying the weakest Draevin daughter? The one with no magic. No purpose.

Was this mercy? Or politics?

"I don’t trust men who say nice things," I muttered.

His expression didn’t change. But something in his voice softened. "You shouldn’t."

He didn’t sit down right away. Just moved to the side table, poured himself a glass of water, and turned back to me like we weren’t standing in the middle of an arranged inspection.

"I won’t lie to you," he said. "I know what kind of man your father is. He is no different than any man in this world."

My breath stalled. Just a second. Just long enough to let his words hit.

He watched me, calm. Not like someone trying to win my favor, but like someone who wasn’t afraid of my silence.

I blinked slowly, keeping my face unreadable. But inside? My mind was a storm. Why was he talking like this? Why did he sound like he cared?

"I like you, Cessalie," he said, finally sitting across from me. He didn’t reach for my hand. Didn’t move closer. Just sat, hands on his lap like a diplomat. "Not because you’re a Draevin. Not because you’re the only unmarried daughter left. I’ve seen you from afar for years. Quiet. Sharp. Unapologetically yourself, even when they try to suffocate that."

I looked away. Too many things stirred in my chest at once.

His wife died four months ago. Four. And yet here he was, saying these things with a voice like honey and grief, clean and slow. I didn’t know what disturbed me more. The sincerity in his tone or the possibility that it was fake.

"You don’t even know me," I muttered.

"I know enough."

That made me look back at him. And he held my gaze with that same damn calm. No pity. No pressure.

"I don’t want to tie you to the responsibilities of a Lady, Cessalie," he said. "I have enough status. Enough wealth. I don’t need a pretty wife to host my dinners. If you want to read your books in peace, you can. If you want to leave this house and never return to it, I’ll help you pack."

It was almost too much.

My throat felt tight, but I held my ground. "Why me?"

His answer came easily. "Because you look like you’re tired of being trapped. And I’d like to offer you a key instead of a cage."

That line. It should’ve made me feel safe. Seen. Instead, all I felt was a knot tightening in my stomach.

No one was this good. Not in this world. Not in my world.

And still... a small part of me, buried somewhere deep beneath the scars and bruises and unread books... wanted to believe him. Just a little.

But I didn’t. Not yet.

He leaned back, just enough to give me space. No push. No pressure. Like he knew I was a cornered animal, and he was smart enough not to move too fast.

"I know trust doesn’t come easy for you," he said. "I don’t expect it today. Or tomorrow."

I didn’t answer. My eyes stayed fixed on the little crack in the wall behind him. Safer than looking into the face of a man who said all the right things.

Men always did.

Soft words. Warm voices. Promises. That’s how they lured women in, not with force. With gentleness. With affection. That’s how they sunk their teeth in. Not when you were running, but when you finally stopped and thought maybe you’d found peace.

They waited until your guard dropped. Then they clipped your wings.

He kept speaking, voice like silk pulled slowly over my bruises. "You don’t have to love me. I’m not even asking you to like me. But I want you to feel safe. Eventually. When you're ready."

I still didn’t say anything.

By now, any other man would’ve gotten annoyed. Offended. They would’ve started throwing around words like rude or ungrateful or difficult.

But Davian? He just smiled a little. Like he’d expected my silence.

"There’s no escaping the marriage," he said, calm as ever. "That part’s already sealed. I won’t lie about that."

His honesty made my stomach churn.

"But what happens between now and then," he continued, "that’s between you and me. I won’t tell your father a word. I won’t demand anything. I’ll wait."

Wait. Like I was some kind of slow burning clock. Like eventually I’d soften. Fall. Give in.

I looked at him finally. Dead in the eyes. "You’re very patient, your grace."

He gave a quiet nod. "I have to be. You’re not the kind of girl a man should rush."

Even as my instincts screamed don’t trust him, a part of me… a small, dangerous part… whispered maybe. Maybe he meant it.

Rune, I'm so desperate. Pathetic. Just a few soft and honeyed words about safety and comfort made you weak.

I didn’t let that part win.

We sat in silence for a bit. He didn’t rush to fill it, and weirdly, that made it easier to breathe.

"You don’t trust me," he said eventually, tone neutral.

"I don’t trust men," I corrected flatly.

He didn’t flinch. "That’s fair."

Fair. Hah. No one in my life had ever used that word with me without twisting it into a weapon.

"I was told your wife died," I said, voice low. "Four months ago."

His jaw shifted, just a little. Not enough to give anything away. "Yes."

"She was sick?"

"That’s what they say."

I stared at him. He stared back. He wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t telling the full truth either.

"Do you miss her?"

"I didn’t love her," he said. "She was kind. We were friends. But it was arranged, like this. The difference is, I won’t pretend this is love. I won’t expect you to become something you’re not."

"And what am I?" I asked.

He smiled softly. "You’re tired."

I looked away again. "I don’t want to be a wife."

"I know."

"I’m not soft."

"I know."

"I don’t trust kind words."

"I won’t stop saying them."

He said it like a fact, not a threat. And I hated that I wanted to believe him. To let someone carry even a fraction of the weight I’d been dragging since I was old enough to notice the way my father looked through me.

But I couldn’t.

So I didn’t answer, and he didn’t press.

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