Han-d on Heart

—-----------------

The title of wallflower had never offended you. It was accurate. You preferred corners. Preferred observation. Preferred the quiet safety of being unnoticed. What offended you was the assumption that invisibility meant insignificance. Thatbecause men were not lined up outside your door with calling cards and bouquets, you were somehow less.

The drawing room existed for one purpose: waiting.

Waiting for callers. Waiting for an opportunity. Waiting for something to change.

You had long ago accepted that no one was coming for you. Your sisters had not.

“I have a very good feeling about Mr Jones,” Ester announces, smoothing her skirts as though she can already feel the weight of a proposal ring. “I truly believe he could be the one.”

You turn a page of your book, though you haven’t absorbed a single word in several minutes.

Chloe leans forward eagerly. “I hear Viscount Seo Changbin intends to find a wife this season.”

Ester gasps. “We must make ourselves known at the next ball. Though I suppose we shall have to pry him away from that dreadful woman who keeps lingering near him.”

You cannot help it; a quiet, involuntary huff escapes you.

Ester’s head snaps in your direction. “Oh,” she says sweetly, “we had quite forgotten you were here.”

You lower your book.

“It must be exhausting for you, Y/N,” Chloe sighs.

You know better than to ask. You ask anyway. “What do you mean?”

“To attend every ball,” Ester continues, “and yet never be remembered.”

The giggle that follows is light. Practised. Polished.

You look to your mother for intervention. She does not look up from her embroidery. The thread moves. The needle dips. Silence answers you.

“Perhaps,” Ester adds thoughtfully, “some people simply are not meant to marry.”

Something inside you, something quiet and carefully contained, splinters. It is not the words. It is the certainty with which she says them. As though it has already been decided. As though you have already been dismissed.

You tell yourself you do not care. You tell yourself marriage is a convenience, not a necessity, but that is not true. You want to be chosen. Not pitied, not tolerated. Chosen.

The rage comes quickly, bright and blinding and humiliating and before you can stop yourself, you hear your own voice say:

“I am already spoken for.”

Silence crashes into the room.

Your mother’s embroidery stills.

Chloe blinks. “With who?”

You do not think. You do not weigh the consequences. Your gaze lands on the pamphlet resting on the side table, The Ton’s Observer, its headline bold, accusatory, ever-watchful.

And his name surfaces.

“Earl Lee Minho.”

The air changes. Even you feel it. It is an outrageous choice. He is titled. Reserved. Practically mythical in his absence from society. A man mothers chase and daughters whisper about, and a man who has never once looked at you.

Your heart begins to pound.

Ester scoffs first. “He has never called.”

“He is a private man,” you reply evenly. You are surprised at how steady you sound. “We correspond.”

Your mother finally looks up. “Where did you meet him?”

“At the gallery opening last season.”

You had seen him there. From across the room. He had stood apart from the crowd, indifferent to the performance of it all. No one had noticed him observing. No one had noticed you, either.It makes the lie easier.

“You have been courting that long,” Chloe presses, “and there has been no proposal?”

“It did not begin as a courtship,” you say smoothly now, the story building itself. “It was a friendship. Only recently did he admit to deeper feelings.”

The words feel dangerous. Exciting.

“Can we see the letters?” Chloe demands.

“No.” It comes out sharper than intended. “They are private.”

A pause. Ester studies you carefully. “You do realise,” she says slowly, “we shall not believe it until we see it.”

“That is fine,” you answer, your pulse loud in your ears, “I know the truth.”

And the truth is that you have just constructed a lie far larger than yourself, but something has shifted. You see it in their expressions, the doubt laced with something else. Jealousy.Because for the first time, you are not the forgotten one. For the first time, you have been chosen.

Even if it is a fiction.

When you leave the drawing room, your hands tremble slightly. You tell yourself the lie will stay contained. You tell yourself this room holds it. You tell yourself the Ton will never hear. But even as you close the door behind you, a small, treacherous part of you feels victorious because for one brief moment you were not overlooked.

—-----------------

You had forgotten something vital. The Ton does not require evidence; it requires only suggestion. A few days later, as you promenade with your sisters beneath a sky that feels far too bright, you begin to notice it. Not immediately.

At first, it is only a pause, a fraction too long, in a lady’s greeting.

Then a bow from a gentleman who has never before looked at you twice. Then a whisper that dies when you turn your head.

It is subtle, but it is unmistakable.

They are looking at you. Not through you. At you.

You keep your expression composed, though your pulse begins to climb. Your sisters walk a little straighter beside you. You see it in the way they adjust their gloves, the way they glance around as though measuring the shift.

Two young ladies you recognise from last season incline their heads as you pass. “Miss L/N.” Their tone has changed. It is not warmer. It is calculating.

You hear it again, just behind you.

“Is that her?”

“They say he has been corresponding privately—”

“Earl Lee Minho—”

The name moves through the air like a spark through dry grass. You should feel dread. Instead, for one dangerous moment, you feel something else. Power.

It is astonishing how quickly society rearranges itself when a titled man is attached to your name. Doors open. Smiles sharpen. Men who once drifted past you now hesitate.As though they are trying to solve a riddle. What is so special about her?

You almost laugh. The only thing that has changed is the lie, and yet the respect feels real. That is what unsettles you because if admiration can be manufactured so easily, then perhaps it was never about worth at all. Perhaps it was always about proximity.

You tell yourself this will fade. The Ton grows bored quickly. There will be another scandal. Another misstep. Another foolish debutante. You will quietly slip back into obscurity.

You almost manage to believe it until the pamphlet arrives.

The footman brings it in with the rest of the post, careless and unaware of the destruction folded neatly within its pages. Your mother reaches for it first, as she always does, and your stomach drops when you recognise the masthead.

The Ton’s Observer.

You do not breathe as she skims. You do not breathe as her brow lifts. Then she lowers it slowly onto the table.

Your name is there.

Not hidden. Not implied. Printed.

The words blur for a moment before your vision sharpens enough to read:

“Among the season’s most intriguing developments, it appears the elusive Earl Lee Minho has finally formed an attachment…”

Your ears begin to ring. It is no longer a drawing-room whisper. It is ink. The lie has outgrown you. 

Your first thought is not embarrassment. It is him. He will see this. He will know. He is the only person who can unravel it entirely.

You swallow. Perhaps he does not read such things. He does not seem the type. He avoids society. Avoids noise. Avoids spectacle. Perhaps he will not care. Perhaps he will ignore it. Perhaps—

Your mind begins building fragile hopes.

Perhaps you will survive this. Perhaps he will never seek you out. Perhaps everything will remain contained.

You fold the pamphlet carefully, as though neatness might restore control. Your hands are shaking.

—-----------------

“Earl Lee Minho!”

Minho does not look up immediately. He already recognises the voice, loud, unfiltered, incapable of subtlety.

Han Jisung.

Minho sets down his glass before turning in his chair. Jisung is already halfway across the room, followed closely by the rest of them, all wearing expressions far too delighted for whatever accusation is about to follow.

“How could you keep this from us?” Jisung demands.

Minho arches a brow. “Keep what?”

“That you have been courting someone.”

The room seems to be still for half a second.

Minho almost laughs. “Impossible,” he says calmly. “I would remember.”

“Do not pretend ignorance,” Jisung replies, thrusting a folded pamphlet into his hand. “It has been published.”

Minho suppresses a sigh. Gossip columns are noise. Irritating, persistent noise. He unfolds it anyway. His name appears within the first paragraph. That does not surprise him. It has happened before. His continued absence from society tends to invite speculation.

He skims, and then he stops. Because your name is printed directly beside his.

“…a private courtship conducted by correspondence…”

Minho’s expression does not change, but something in him tightens. He reads the line again.

Miss L/N.

He tries to place you, but nothing comes immediatel which unsettles him more than it should. You are not someone who cornered him at a ball. Not someone whose mother paraded her toward him with expectation in her eyes.

You are unknown, yet apparently, you have attached yourself to him publicly.

A lie.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Gossip is one thing, speculation is expected, but fabrication is deliberate.

He finishes reading in silence.

“So?” Jisung presses.

Minho folds the pamphlet carefully before handing it back. “What about it?”

Felix leans forward, amused. “We would very much like to hear about the lady who has succeeded where the rest of society has failed.”

Minho ignores the comment. He does not feel anger. He feels something else.

Curiosity.

You must have known what you were doing. You must have known his name carries weight. You must have chosen it intentionally. The thought irritates him.

“I will speak with Miss L/N,” he says evenly. “It would be ungentlemanly to discuss a lady without first addressing her directly.”

A chorus of groans fills the air.

“Does that mean,” Jeongin asks slowly, “you will attend tomorrow’s ball?”

Minho considers this. He has avoided such events deliberately. The noise. The performance. The endless pursuit. But if this rumour is to be corrected, it must be handled publicly.

And there is something else now. He wants to see you. To understand what sort of woman invokes his name so confidently?

“I suppose,” he says at last, rising from his chair, “that it does.”

His friends erupt into noise behind him. Minho barely hears it. His thoughts are elsewhere.

Miss L/N.

He does not know you, but he intends to.

—-----------------

The ballroom is brighter than usual. Or perhaps it is simply that you are no longer permitted to hide in its shadows. You feel it the moment you step inside, the shift. Conversations falter. Glances linger. A ripple of interest follows you like the train of your dress.

You had once blended into this room. Now you are being measured.

You miss the wall.

“Did you see who’s here?” Ester hisses, breathless with excitement.

You barely have time to answer before she and Chloe step aside. At the top of the grand staircase stands the Earl.

Earl Lee Minho.

He is dressed in black, as though the rest of the room is merely a backdrop. He does not smile. He does not preen. He simply stands, and the room accommodates him.

Your stomach drops. He has read it. Of course, he has read it. You take an involuntary step backward.

Ester grips your wrist. “Aren’t you going to greet him?”

“I—” Your throat tightens. “He will come to me.”

You do not wait to see whether this is true. You disappear into the crowd.

Across the ballroom, Minho descends the staircase slowly, aware of the way heads turn in expectation. He braces himself for the usual onslaught. It does not come. No mother advances. No daughter flutters. No calculated interception occurs. He reaches the bottom of the stairs unaccosted.

It is… peaceful.

Changbin notices first. “You look confused.”

“I am accustomed to being ambushed,” Minho replies evenly. “Have women developed restraint in my absence?”

His friends all shrugged, but Hyunjin spoke up, “It’s because you’re taken in their eyes, Minho. There is a limited window in the social season to secure a husband; women aren’t going to waste their time pursuing a man who has clearly made his choice. Why do you think I go unbothered at these events?”

That makes sense Minho thought. Hyunjin had practically been engaged since childhood, and he was almost jealous of the ease with which Hyunjin was able to navigate these events.

Minho exhales softly. So this is what it feels like. Silence. Space. Freedom. The lie has granted him what years of avoidance could not.

Jisung claps him on the shoulder. “Means we finally get you at balls.”

Minho nods absently. He scans the room. “Have any of you seen Miss L/N?” He hoped he played it off enough to seem like he just hadn’t seen you and not that he had absolutely no idea what you looked like.

Hyunjin gestures toward the far side. “Blue dress.”

Minho follows the direction of his gaze and finds you. You are not surrounded. Not commanding attention. You stand slightly apart, posture composed but guarded.

You do not look triumphant. You look… anxious.

That unsettles him. This does not look like the work of a social climber. This looks like someone bracing for impact.

He studies you for a moment longer than necessary. 

Then he moves.

The ballroom notices. Of course it does. He feels it, the collective inhale as he crosses the floor. 

You feel it too. Your throat tightens as he approaches. Ester and Chloe step back, eyes gleaming.

He stops before you. “Miss L/N.” His expression reveals nothing.

You curtsy. “Earl Lee.”

The formality feels like a shield. He leans closer, not touching, but close enough that his words cannot travel.

“Meet me in the garden,” he murmurs. “Ten minutes.”

Your pulse jumps. “That would be improper,” you whisper.

His gaze sharpens slightly. “More improper than attaching my name to yours without consent?”

The words are quiet but not gentle.

You look down, guilt flaring hot in your chest. “Fine,” you say.

He straightens immediately. No smile. No further exchange. He steps away as though nothing has passed between you. The ballroom exhales in disappointment. No confrontation. No declaration. No spectacle.

Ester rushes back to your side. “What did he say?”

You swallow. “Nothing. He wished to greet me.”

But your hands are trembling and across the room, Minho does not look at you again.

Not because he does not want to. But because he is calculating and, for the first time, this situation interests him.

—-----------------

You check behind you twice before reaching the doors. Three times before stepping into the garden. The air is cooler outside. Quieter. Lantern light flickers against trimmed hedges and pale stone. Every rustle sounds like witnesses.

You round the corner, and he is there. Leaning against the estate wall as though he had been waiting without impatience. Without agitation.

Composed as though this is a negotiation.

You do not let him speak. “Please,” you rush out, words tumbling over one another. “I did not intend for this to spread. My sisters were being cruel, and I— I said something I could not take back. I have never been courted, not properly, and they were laughing at me, and your name was there and—” Your breath stutters. “I never meant to involve you. I swear it.”

He says nothing. You keep going. “I know you owe me nothing. I know I have overstepped. But I cannot be humiliated publicly. I cannot go back to being the joke of every drawing room. Please do not expose me.”

Silence. The garden feels smaller now.

Minho studies you carefully. He had expected ambition. Manipulation. A calculated attempt to force his hand.

Instead, he sees something else. Not greed. Not a strategy.

Desperation.

Not for status but for dignity.

It unsettles him. You used his name to be seen. He avoids society to remain unseen.

Opposites.

He thinks of the ballroom. Of walking unbothered. Of speaking with his friends uninterrupted. Of the silence around him. He had not realised how exhausting it was to constantly deflect pursuit.

Tonight, he did not have to because of you.

“You chose well,” he says at last.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“This is the first ball I have attended in years where I was not intercepted within moments.”

You stare at him, uncertain whether this is mockery.

“It was… peaceful.” The word surprises even him.

You frown. “I do not understand.”

He straightens from the wall. He does not move closer yet. “Suppose,” he says carefully, “I wished to attend more balls.”

You stare. “You cannot mean—”

“Without interruption.”

Realisation dawns slowly. “You want to continue the lie?” Your voice rises instinctively.

He moves before you can finish. His hand is over your mouth in a single smooth motion. Not rough but firm.

“You appear determined to create scandal in increasingly creative ways,” he murmurs.

Your breath warms his palm. The contact is brief. He removes his hand as though it burns.

“If I confirm the rumour,” he continues evenly, “society will leave me alone.”

“And I,” you say quietly now, “will no longer be pitied.”

He holds your gaze. “Yes.”

There it is. Mutual benefit. No romance. Just strategy. He tells himself that is all it is.

“So we continue?” you ask carefully.

“For a time.”

“How long?”

“Until it no longer serves us.”

It is a clinical answer. You study him. He does not look like a man asking for affection. He looks like a man negotiating control.

“Do we have an agreement?” he asks. He extends his hand.

You hesitate because you understand something now. If you take it, this is no longer an accident. It is intentional.

You place your hand in his. His grip is steady, but his pulse is not. It betrays him for half a second. A flicker.

The garden feels different suddenly, as though something invisible has shifted into place.

He releases you first.

“Then we are agreed.”

And neither of you says what you are both thinking: this will not remain simple.

—-----------------

The next morning, your house becomes unrecognisable. Calling cards accumulate like fallen leaves. Five gentlemen request an audience.

Five.

Your sisters do not attempt to conceal their astonishment. Your mother nearly drops the tea tray. You endure them politely. The first speaks at length about his investments. The second about his hunting dogs. The third about his aunt’s estate. The fourth compliments your dress but never asks your opinion on anything. The fifth attempts charm and fails spectacularly.

You smile. You nod. You respond. You wait for something to stir. It does not. It is almost cruel, how desperately you had wanted this, and yet now that it is here, it feels hollow. You had imagined a conversation that moved. That deepened. That reached somewhere beyond polite exchange.

Instead, you are interviewed.

When Minho arrives that afternoon, you feel something dangerously close to relief. He is punctual. Controlled. Composed. As though the world has not shifted around you at all.

“Miss L/N,” he greets evenly.

“Earl Lee.”

He inclines his head. “A promenade?” You accept too quickly.

The park is crowded. Eyes follow you both openly now. You expect him to acknowledge it. He does not. He walks beside you with the kind of effortless composure that suggests the scrutiny does not touch him. He adjusts his pace without comment. Not too fast. Not too slow. Matching you exactly.

It is subtle but deliberate.

You walk in silence for several minutes. You should feel compelled to fill it. You do not. The silence is not strained. It is simply shared. You realise you are not performing. Not curating your responses. Not attempting charm.

You are just… walking.

Beside him. You catch him looking at you.

“What?” you ask.

He looks forward again. “Nothing.”

You wait. He exhales softly. “You do not seem to fear silence.”

You consider that. “Should I?”

“Most people do,” he replies. “They speak to avoid it.”

“And you?”

“I prefer it.”

You glance at him. “Then why does it surprise you?”

He hesitates, just briefly. “Because you do not use it as armour.”

The observation is quiet. Too perceptive. You are not sure whether to be flattered or unsettled.

“Is that a flaw?” you ask.

“No.” He looks at you again, slower this time, “It is rare.”

You walk a little further. You are aware of a group of young ladies watching you from across the path. You are aware of two gentlemen pausing mid-conversation to glance in your direction.

Minho notices. He says nothing but he shifts slightly, placing himself just a fraction closer to the outside of the path. Shielding. You do not comment on it. He likely does not realise he has done it, but something inside him has begun to calibrate. Not for strategy.

For you.

The silence resumes. It feels less like performance now and more like ease.

—-----------------

The library has always felt like a sanctuary. It smells of dust and paper and something faintly sweet,  like time itself has settled into the bindings. No one expects you to be charming here. No one expects you to perform.

You choose the window seat instinctively.

Today, you escape into Camelot. Into knights and loyalty and impossible love.

Guinevere and Lancelot.

You linger over the passages where affection is restrained by duty. You tell yourself you enjoy it for the drama. Not for the ache.

The sunlight warms your shoulders. You almost forget the Ton exists until the light disappears and a shadow falls across the page.

You look up. Minho stands before you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. He looks out of place here and yet strangely not.

You straighten instinctively. “My Lord, I did not expect—”

“Do not rise,” he says quietly. The request is soft. Almost gentle.

You hesitate, then remain seated. “What brings you here?” you ask.

“I went to your house,” he replies. The words land differently than they should.

You blink. “You did?”

“Yes.” A small pause. “Your sister suggested the library.”

There is something unspoken in that, something deliberate. He could have left, but he did not

“Oh,” you say, recovering. “Did you wish to promenade?”

“I did,” he admits. “But it appears I have interrupted something far more important.”

You glance at your book. “It is only a book, one I have read before at that.”

He studies the cover briefly before speaking. “May I?”

You shift slightly, making room. He does not sit immediately. He glances around first, at the empty tables, the quiet patrons, the distance between you and the door.

Then he sits beside you. Not too close, but close enough that your sleeves nearly brush.

“What are you reading?” he asks.

“Guinevere and Lancelot.”

“Good choice.”

You turn to him fully now. “You have read it?”

“Yes.” There is no irony in his tone.

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Truly?”

He notices. “What?”

“I would not have guessed it was your preference.”

“And what precisely is my preference?”

You tilt your head. “Strategy. History. Treatises on discipline.”

The corner of his mouth moves. “It contains swords,” he says evenly.

“And love,” you add.

His gaze flickers. “Yes.”

The word is quieter than the others. You study him more closely.

“You like romances,” you say softly.

“I appreciate structure.”

“In Guinevere and Lancelot?”

“Tragic inevitability is a form of structure.”

You stare at him. “That is the most unromantic way to describe longing I have ever heard.”

The tips of his ears betray him. He clears his throat, “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to talk in a library?”

You bite back a smile. He reaches for a book from the nearby shelf without looking too carefully. You attempt to return to your reading. You fail because he has chosen Sense and Sensibility. You see it when he opens it.

You lower your face quickly to hide your grin.

He notices. “What?”

“Nothing,” you murmur.

“You are insufferable.”

“And yet you came looking for me.” The words slip out before you can measure them.

Silence. He does not deny it.

Instead, he says quietly: “I find I prefer quiet in your company.”

It is not a confession, but it is closer than anything he has said before. You do not know how to respond, so you return to your book and for the first time in your life, reading is not an escape. 

It is shared.

—-----------------

You tell yourself you are anticipating the ball for perfectly reasonable reasons. The new gown. The new attention. The novelty of not standing unnoticed against the wall. It has nothing to do with him. Nothing at all.

The ballroom hums as you enter. The whispering has shifted, something about a Duke and an absurd list of requirements, society has found fresh prey.

You should feel relieved, and yet your eyes search anyway. You find him before he finds you. Standing at the base of the staircase. Waiting. He does not look distracted. He does not look impatient. He looks… certain.

When he lifts his gaze and it lands on you, something in your chest tightens. He does not smile but his attention sharpens, and suddenly the staircase feels steeper than usual. You descend slowly. Aware of the way his eyes do not leave you.

It is not admiration. Not exactly. It is an assessment. As though he is confirming something to himself.

You miss the final step. The world tilts. There is a collective intake of breath from the room, and then his hands are on you. Firm and certain. One at your waist. The other steadying your arm.

You are aware of three things at once: The strength beneath his gloves, the way your palm has landed against his chest and the fact that neither of you has moved.

For a second too long, you remain suspended there. Close enough to see the concentration in his expression. Not embarrassment nor amusement but concern.

His fingers tighten slightly before he seems to remember where you are. Who you are. He releases you carefully and offers his hand as though the previous moment never happened.

“Are you injured?” he asks quietly.

“No.” Your voice is thinner than you intended.

He nods once and leads you into the ballroom. You are acutely aware of the warmth lingering at your waist. Of the imprint of his touch.

You force your mind toward something practical. “I told my family we were corresponding,” you say, once you are far enough from the staircase. “It would appear suspicious if there were no letters.”

You focus on the logic. The safety of it.

“They need not be sentimental. Only formal. Arrangements. Appearances.”

You risk a glance at him. His expression is composed again.

“That is sensible,” he says. He pauses. “I will send one tomorrow.”

It sounds like an agreement, a transaction, but there is something beneath it now. Something you cannot name.

Later, when you lie awake in the dark, you tell yourself the evening was uneventful, yet when you close your eyes, you feel the weight of his hands at your waist. The steadiness. The hesitation before he let go, and you wonder why it felt less like rescue and more like recognition.

—-----------------

The first letter arrives exactly when he said it would. The paper is thick. The seal is precise. Your name is written in a hand so controlled it borders on severe.

You hold it longer than necessary before opening it. It should feel like paperwork. It does not.

“Miss L/N,

It has come to my attention that our supposed understanding has already become gossip of the past…”

You read it carefully. Measured sentences. Strategic tone. Gratitude framed as practicality. He speaks of fewer interruptions. Not of you.

You read it twice anyway.

When you fold it, your fingers trace the curve of the L in his name. Controlled. Restrained.

Earl Lee.

The second letter arrives four days later. You tell yourself you were not waiting. You were.

“Miss L/N,

Lady Everleigh has informed me that your sisters were emphatic in describing our “deep mutual understanding.” I commend your commitment to consistency…”

There is something dry in the wording now. Almost amused. He confirms the fiction publicly. He remarks upon society’s willingness to believe. He says he is enjoying his time with his friends.

He signs

“—L.”

You stare at it.

The absence of “Respectfully.” It should mean nothing, but you can’t help but feel it does not.

The third letter arrives on a rain-soaked afternoon. You open it by the window.

“Miss L/N,

You mentioned you prefer novels to poetry. I find myself compelled to ask why.”

No mention of appearances. No mention of events.

Just a question. You smile before you can stop yourself. You answer immediately. You sign with your initial. You do not include your surname. You stare at it for a long moment before sealing it.

The fourth letter is different. You see it before you even open it. The handwriting is less rigid more… personal.

“Y,

I do not believe poetry is evasive. I believe it is precise…”

You stop reading. He has addressed you without formality. He has chosen precision over structure. He has chosen to debate you.

You continue. He calls you optimistic. He says he would like to hear which novel you believe is worthy of faith.

He signs

“—M.”

Not Earl. Not Lee.

Just M.

The familiarity is deliberate. You fold the letter slowly. You tell yourself this is still strategic.

It is not.

The letters begin to change shape. They lengthen. They wander. He begins describing small things. The way a conversation bored him, the way a certain piece of music lingered, the way the park felt quieter than usual.

He asks questions he does not need to ask. You answer. Sometimes, too honestly.

Then one evening, a letter arrives later than it should. The seal is imperfect as though it was pressed in haste.

“Y/N,

Lady Danvers informed me you were uncharacteristically quiet at the promenade.”

You stiffen.

“I trust this was by choice and not by consequence. If the latter, I would prefer to be made aware of it.”

You read the line again. Prefer to be made aware. It is not a strategy. It is concern. You write back before you can second-guess yourself.

“M,

It was by choice. Though I admit I have grown accustomed to fewer interruptions.”

You hesitate. Your hand trembles slightly.

“It is… quieter beside you.”

You consider crossing it out. You do not.

His reply arrives the next morning. Too quickly, as though he did not sleep.

“Y,

Quiet is not always absence. Some things are clearer when not drowned by noise.”

You feel it then. The shift. He is not discussing society. He is discussing you and himself, but neither of you names it, and that makes it dangerous.

Weeks pass. The letters become ritual. He begins writing in the evenings. Later. Longer. There are moments where the ink thickens, as though the pen hesitates. As though he almost wrote something else. He never crosses anything out, but you sense restraint. You sense the boundary he is holding in place and the effort it takes to hold it.

Then one night, long after the house has gone silent, you unfold a letter that makes your breath stop.

“Y/N,

I had intended to inform you that we ought to be seen walking together on Wednesday.”

There is a pause in the handwriting. A shift in pressure.

“Instead, I find myself wondering whether you are sleeping.”

You freeze.

“I suspect you do not.”

And then:

“—Minho.”

Not M. Not Earl Lee.

Minho.

Your candle flickers. Your pulse stutters. He has removed the final layer of distance. There is no strategic value in asking whether you are sleeping. No public benefit. No performance. Only awareness.

You sit very still. Because you understand something now. The lie has rules. The lie has structure, and this is not that.

You fold the letter carefully. You press it flat against your desk. You tell yourself this is still pretend. You tell yourself names do not matter. You tell yourself midnight questions are harmless.

And when you take up your pen, you do not write “My Lord.”

You write:

“Minho,”

You do not correct it, and somewhere across the city, a man who prefers distance realises he has closed it.

—-----------------

At the beginning of the season, you would have laughed at the idea of anticipating a ball. Now, you measure time by them. They are where you see him without excuse. Where you do not need to pretend that coincidence exists. Where you are allowed to stand at his side.

You watch him from across the ballroom. He stands with his friends, but his attention drifts. Not constantly. Not obviously. But it returns to you.

You pretend not to notice. Earlier, when you tried to send him toward his friends, he resisted longer than usual.

“Go,” you had insisted, nudging him gently.

He hesitated. “If anyone bothers you,” he said quietly, “come find me.”

“I can manage,” you laughed.

“I am aware,” he replied. “That does not negate the offer.”

You had brushed it off. You are not brushing it off now because he is watching. Even while speaking to the others. You turn away first. You do not want to examine what that means.

“Excuse me.”

You face a gentleman you vaguely recognise.

He bows properly. Polite. Earnest. “I was hoping to claim the next dance.”

You consider it. You have already danced with Minho once. The rules of the Ton are unforgiving, twice invites speculation, and the man seems harmless enough.

You open your mouth—

“She is otherwise engaged.”

The words land behind you. Cold. Final. You do not need to turn to know it is him, but you do.

Minho stands far closer than he had been moments ago. His expression is controlled. His eyes are not.

The gentleman falters immediately. “I— I beg your pardon—”

Minho does not look at him.

The boy retreats without further encouragement.

You turn back to Minho slowly. “That was unnecessary.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Was it?”

“Yes.” Your voice is sharper than intended. “He seemed kind.”

Minho’s jaw tightens. “He was presumptuous.”

“I was about to accept.”

That does it. Something flickers across his face before he can mask it. You see it, and it unsettles you.

He recovers quickly. “You are free to do as you please,” he says evenly. “But not with him.” 

The contradiction hangs in the air. You fold your hands in front of you. “This arrangement,” you say carefully, “will end eventually.” He does not respond. “I would not mind having prospects prepared when it does.”

It is logical that he knows, and yet it feels like a physical blow. He had told himself this was temporary. He had told himself that was the appeal, but the idea of you turning your attention toward someone else, of you smiling at another man, dancing with another man, writing to another man. He does not feel it is an inconvenience.

It is something sharper.

Replaceable.

The word lodges in his throat.

“Of course,” he says finally. The distance in his voice is immediate.

You study him more closely now. “Are you upset?”

“No.” Too fast. He looks away.

You soften slightly. “I did not mean to wound you.”

“You did not.” Another lie.

Silence stretches. The music resumes around you, oblivious.

You take a breath. “Would you like a refreshment?”

He considers declining. He considers retreating. Instead, he offers you his arm. The contact is formal, but his fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours as he leads you away.

As though reminding himself, you are not yet gone.

—-----------------

“What exactly are you meant to be?” Minho’s voice is low as he looks you over.

You spin slowly beneath the lantern light, the gold fabric catching flame in the glow. Feathers shimmer at your sleeves and neckline, delicate and deliberate.

“A songbird,” you reply.

His eyes linger. “Why the cage?”

You lift your hand to the mask,  fine gold wire framing your face like bars.

You shrug lightly. “It felt appropriate.”

He studies you for a second longer than necessary. You cannot quite read his expression. Approval? Disapproval? Recognition?

You look him over in return. Black velvet. Silver thread-like claw marks at the cuff. A sleek cat mask obscures the top half of his face.

“Subtle,” you remark. “Very… feline.”

“I do not see the resemblance.”

“You avoid noise. You dislike being handled. You watch before you move.”

The corner of his mouth shifts. “And you?” he asks softly. “Do you sing for approval?”

Your breath catches. “I suppose that depends who is listening.”

Silence. The music swells around you.

“Are you going to purr for me later?” you ask lightly, because it is easier to retreat into teasing than to stay in that tension.

His gaze darkens. He steps closer. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him even through layers of costume.

“If you ask nicely,” he murmurs near your ear. The words are playful. The tone is not.

A shiver traces down your spine before you can stop it.

“Shall we?” he asks.

You take his arm. The dance begins. He moves as he always does, precise, fluid, deliberate but tonight there is something looser in him. Something less guarded. You feel it in the way his hand rests at your waist. Not possessive but certain. As though he expects you there.

“You make this easier,” he says quietly as you turn.

You glance up at him. “The dancing?”

His hand tightens almost imperceptibly before guiding you through the next step. “No.” The music softens. “The season.”

You search his face behind the mask. That is not practical. That is not strategic. That is not about uninterrupted evenings with his friends.

“Oh,” you say softly.

You too.

The words do not leave your mouth. But he hears them anyway because something in his expression shifts. Just briefly. Like a door almost opening. And then he pulls it shut.

“You nearly missed that turn,” he says lightly, redirecting you.

You know he is changing the subject. You let him, but the air between you feels different now. The cage on your mask suddenly feels heavier because you understand something.

You are dressed as a bird in a cage, but you do not feel trapped when he is near.

And that is the most dangerous thing of all.

—-----------------

Now that you’ve recognised the change, you understand it is not in what he says. It is in what he avoids saying.

The ballroom is suffocating. Laughter is too loud. Perfume too heavy. The orchestra is too determined.

Once, you would have retreated. Now, you do not because he is beside you. Not touching. Not claiming but positioned, slightly angled toward you, subtly discouraging interruption without appearing territorial.

It is a posture he has mastered. Distance disguised as proximity.

You are speaking with Lady Fairbourne when a gentleman approaches. Polite. Earnest. Harmless. He looks at you first. Then at Minho. Then back at you.

“I had hoped,” he begins carefully, “that perhaps Miss L/N might—”

“She is spoken for,” Minho says evenly as if stating the weather, but there is no hesitation. The gentleman retreats immediately.

Lady Fairbourne raises a brow, amused. “How fortunate.”

You wait until she departs before turning to him. “I asked you not to do that.”

“I had to.”

“For appearance?”

His gaze flickers toward you, then away. “For consistency.”

You hold his gaze. “Of course.”

But neither of you steps back and neither of you pretends the word did not land heavier than it should have.

When the music begins, he does not ask. He simply extends his hand, and you take it. The first measures are precise. Polite. Measured. Then something shifts. He steps closer than required. Not scandalously, but enough that you feel him through layers of fabric. You do not correct it. He does not retreat. Your hands remain linked half a second too long at the turn. Half a second is deniable, but you both notice.

Later, seated on a narrow settee designed for one and a half people, he chooses the space beside you. There are other seats. He does not take them. Your skirts overlap his knee. Your sleeve brushes his. Neither of you adjusts.

“You must visit my house in the country,” he says lightly. “The library would suit you.”

“Will it?”

He considers. “It is quiet.”

“That was not my question.”

His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”

Silence settles. Anyone looking at you now would not see performance. They would see something settled. You should move. You do not.

When he escorts you to the carriage, there is no audience left to convince.

The street is dim. The air cooler.

“You need not walk me this far,” you say.

“I know.” He does not step away.

“You understand,” you say carefully, “that this cannot continue indefinitely.”

“Of course.” The answer is immediate.

“We will have to end it.”

You wait. You wait for him to say “we do not have to” or “I do not want” to or even “not yet.”

He says nothing. Instead, he reaches for your glove. It does not need adjusting. You both know that. His fingers slide along your wrist. The inside where your pulse beats. The touch is brief but not accidental.

Your breath stutters. His eyes lift to yours. You see it clearly now. The restraint. The calculation. The fear of stepping beyond something that has no defined rules.

He releases you first. “As agreed,” he says quietly, “this remains practical.”

The word feels like a blade. “Yes,” you reply but your hand lingers in his.

And when the carriage door closes, he does not move. Not immediately.

Later, you lie awake. There had been no confession. No impropriety. Nothing to name and yet something has undeniably altered. You do not fear the end of the lie because of humiliation anymore.

You fear it because of loss.

Across the city, Minho sits alone at his desk. The house is silent. A letter lies unfinished before him.

He has written:

“Y/N,”

And nothing else. He stares at the page because what he wants to write is not strategic. It is not efficient. It is not contained.

It is:

I do not wish this to end.

His jaw tightens. He folds the paper before the thought can become ink. For the first time since this began, he does not know which outcome unsettles him more: That this is still pretend or that it is not.

—-----------------

You know something is wrong before you see it. It settles in your chest like a weight. The house is too quiet. When you enter the breakfast room, conversation halts. Your mother does not look up from her teacup; your father folds his paper slowly; Ester will not meet your eyes; and Chloe looks as though she might cry.

“What?” you ask. Your voice sounds smaller than you intend it to.

Ester slides the pamphlet across the table. You do not want to touch it. You recognise the masthead immediately.

The Ton’s Observer.

Your pulse begins to pound before you even read.

“On Pretence and Protection

Society has spent weeks whispering that the Earl Lee Minho has at last been claimed, a quiet, private courtship conducted away from prying eyes.

This author regrets to inform the ton that the arrangement was never a courtship at all.

The relationship between the Earl and the lady in question was, by mutual agreement, a pretence, one entered for convenience rather than affection.

And yet, one must ask: if a lie brings peace where truth brings chaos, which is the greater cruelty?

The Earl may soon discover that false attachments offer no shield once exposed, and that the ton is far less gentle when it believes a heart once claimed is suddenly free.

Yours Truly,

A Keen Observer”

You read the words once. Then again. The room begins to tilt. The pamphlet trembles in your hands. The Observer does not name you. It does not need to.

Everyone will know. They always do.

Your ears ring. Someone speaks, perhaps your mother, but the sound does not reach you properly. The only thought that cuts through is him. Did he know? Did he tell someone? Did he decide it was no longer worth preserving?

The possibility claws at you.

You set the pamphlet down carefully because if you grip it any tighter, it will tear. You stand. No one stops you. You leave the room without permission. Without decorum. Without dignity.

You do not remember climbing the stairs. You only remember the door slamming shut behind you and locking it. You press your back against it as though the world might attempt entry. And then the tears come. They spill hot and relentlessly.

You had known the lie would end. You had prepared for that. What you had not prepared for was this. Public exposure. Public ridicule. Public reclassification from “chosen” to “deceived.”

Your mind replays every moment. Was it all calculation? Was it all convenience? Had you imagined the shift?

You press your hands to your face. The worst part is not society. It is not marriage prospects. It is not even humiliation.

It is the possibility that what felt real was never meant to be.

You do not know which hurts more. The idea that Ton believes it was a pretence or that he might agree.

—-----------------

Minho does not go to you immediately. He wants to. The impulse is violent. To see you. To fix it. To undo it.

But instinct wins. He retreats. He tells himself it is strategic. He tells himself appearing too quickly would invite more attention. He tells himself space is sensible. All of it is cowardice.

Jisung tells him what people are saying. The laughter. The speculation. The suggestion that you engineered the entire thing to trap him.

His blood boils. Not because of the insult to his reputation. Because of you. Because you are facing it alone. Because this began with his suggestion. His control. His lie.

When Jisung drags him into the carriage, he does not resist hard enough. Jisung tells him he is going to the gentleman’s club.

When the carriage stops in front of your house, his stomach drops.

“Why are we here?” he demands.

“Because you are going to stop hiding,” Jisung replies.

Minho considers running. Truly He thought about making a run for it, but Jisung was surprisingly fast and would no doubt tackle him to the ground if he tried that, and he didn’t need to be causing gossip anymore right now. And besides, he has already run once. He cannot do it again.

He knocks and the door opens. He steps inside and is led. He feels the weight of your family’s eyes from the hallway. He waits. And then you enter.

He does not recognise you at first. Not because you look different but because something in you has gone still. You have not dressed. Your hair is loose. Your eyes are rimmed red. But there are no tears now. Only exhaustion. Only distance.

He would rather you shout.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It sounds hollow the moment it leaves his mouth.

You look at him as though measuring whether that is all he brought. “Is that it?”

He swallows. “I did not know how to prevent this.”

“That is not what I asked.”

He runs a hand through his hair. He is good with structure. He is not good with this.

“It will pass,” he says finally. “The Ton moves quickly. They will find something else. Chan is likely to propose soon. That will redirect—”

“I do not want it to pass.”

The words are quiet. He blinks. “What?”

You step closer. “I do not want it to pass.” Your composure fractures. “Not because of the embarrassment. Not because of the ridicule.” Your voice trembles. “I want it to go back because I do not want this to end.”

He goes very still.

“I want to dance with you,” you say, the words spilling now. “I want to write to you. I want to sit beside you in silence and not feel alone.”

Your breath catches.

“I want you.”

There it is.

No performance, just truth.

It hits him like an impact because he had told himself he was in control. He had told himself he could step away at any moment. He had told himself this was safe, and now you are asking him to choose, and choice means risk. Choice means permanence. Choice means losing you if he fails. 

He panics. “It was just pretend,” he says. The moment the words leave him, he knows they are wrong. A shield thrown up too late.

You flinch as though struck. “I know,” you say quietly.

That is worse. 

“But it did not feel like that to me.” Your voice breaks. “I suppose that was my mistake.”

He steps forward instinctively.

You step back. The distance between you is no longer inches. It is final.

He wants to say “it was not only you”, “I did not mean it to change”, “I do not know how to keep you without losing myself”, but he does not say any of it because he does not know how.

“Just go,” you whisper, and that is the first time you sound truly tired.

He stands there for a heartbeat longer than he should. Then he leaves. Outside, the air feels colder.

Jisung looks at him expectantly. “How did it go?”

Minho cannot answer. Because the truth is, he chose safety and in doing so, he lost you.

“Please,” he says instead, voice barely audible, “take me home.”

Jisung does not ask another question.

—-----------------

You lose track of the day. Morning blurs into afternoon. Afternoon into dusk. You sleep in fragments. You eat when forced. You exist. That is all.

The house continues around you, muffled and distant. You do not step outside your room. You do not answer knocks. You do not read. Even the letters on your desk remain untouched. It is easier not to think.

The door bursts open. You do not startle. You barely turn your head.

“I truly cannot endure any more humiliation,” you mutter. “If you have come to remind me of it, please do so quickly.”

Chloe crosses the room in three strides and tears the curtains open.

Light floods the room like accusation. You hiss at the brightness.

“Get up,” Ester says. It is not unkind. It is firm.

You close your eyes. “No.”

“We are not allowing you to dissolve into your mattress,” she replies.

You let out a hollow laugh. “What difference does it make?”

Ester sits on the edge of your bed. You notice she does not look triumphant. She looks… remorseful.

“We were cruel,” she says quietly. You blink. “During your debut season,” she continues, “you were radiant.”

You almost scoff.

“You were,” Chloe insists. “And we hated it.”

Ester exhales slowly. “We thought if we dimmed you, we would shine brighter.”

You stare at them. This is not what you expected.

“We were wrong,” Ester says simply.

Silence settles. You do not have the energy to process forgiveness. You barely have the energy to breathe.

“It does not change anything,” you say finally. “He still said it was pretend.”

Chloe exchanges a look with Ester. “The Earl is a fool,” Ester replies.

You stiffen.

“He is terrified,” Chloe corrects gently. “That is different.”

You close your eyes again. “It does not matter.”

“It does,” Ester insists. “Because whatever this began as, it did not end that way.”

You swallow.

“You cannot fake what you had,” Chloe says quietly. “Not unless you are both the most convincing performers in the Ton.”

The words hurt because part of you hopes they are wrong.

“Even if that is true,” you whisper, “it changes nothing.”

“It changes everything,” Ester says. “Because right now, the Ton expects you to hide.”

You look at her.

“The longer you stay unseen,” she continues, “the more they will narrate your grief for you.”

You sit slowly. “What do you suggest?”

“Come to the ball tonight,” Chloe says. “Not to win him back but to show them you are not broken.”

Ester nods. “You will look exquisite. You will smile. You will dance. And the only thing society will have left to discuss is why the Earl has not shown his face.”

That lands. You had not considered that.

“What if he does not come?” you ask quietly.

Ester shrugs. “Then he proves us right.”

“And if he does?”

Chloe’s mouth curves slightly. “Then you will not be the only one with something to lose.”

Silence. Your room feels less suffocating now. You look at yourself in the mirror across the room. You do look like someone abandoned. You hate that.

Slowly, deliberately, you push the covers aside. “Fine,” you say.

Your sisters do not cheer. They simply act because this is not about spectacle. It is about reclamation, and when they pull you to your feet, it is not unceremonious. It is determined.

—-----------------

Minho hated balls. Now more than ever. He hated every mother and daughter who approached him, trying to vie for his attention. He hated anyone who said anything untoward about you, especially to his face. He hated that you weren’t standing beside him. And he hated that it was his own fault.

He stands where he always stood, near the edge of the room, posture immaculate, expression neutral, presence unassailable. He is alone. He had once preferred it that way, but tonight, it feels different.

He does not look for you. Why would he? He doubts you would show up. If he were you, he’d be in hiding too. He has only come tonight to try to do damage control and clear your name. He doesn’t care if his reputation is ruined, only that yours is saved.

Suddenly, he hears gasps and snickers from members of the Ton, and he looks up, and to his utter surprise, he sees you standing at the top of the staircase looking like a vision in emerald green.

You are aware of people watching you and their aversions, so you do your best to hide. You stand in the corner. Back to the wallflower you were always destined to be. Despite your best efforts, you are acutely aware of Minho’s eyes on you. You wish he would look anywhere else. You feel like you are drowning under his gaze.

A group of young ladies approached you. You could hear their snickering. “So Y/N”, one of them says, “how do you feel about becoming a spinster?”

You roll your eyes. You couldn’t care less about being a spinster. You had accepted your fate a while ago, and now you doubt you’d ever find someone you loved as much as Minho, so what was the point?

“Be nice”, another chided, “But tell us, Y/N, what does Earl Lee like, as I imagine he’ll soon be back on the market looking for a courtship. A real one this time, of course.” They all giggled, and you knew you couldn’t do this.

What were you thinking coming back into society? It was too soon. You weren’t ready. You quickly apologise to your sisters who beg you to stay, but your mind is already made up. You make your way to your carriage and leave as fast as possible, unaware that Minho had watched the entire thing.

—-----------------

Back in the safety of your home, you cannot bring yourself to change. The emerald silk still clings to you, heavy and luminous. If this were the last time you would ever dress for a ball, you intend to remember how it felt.

A knock interrupts the silence. Your ladiesmaid enters, hesitant.

“There is someone here for you, miss.”

You glance at the clock. Eleven.

“At this hour?”

She nods. “He said it was urgent. He also paid me an alarming sum not to alert your father.” You do not ask who. You know.

Your pulse betrays you anyway. You smooth your skirt once, for composure, not vanity, and make your way downstairs.

He stands in the drawing room. Not composed. Not untouchable. Just a man who looks as though he has not slept.

“You should not be here,” you say evenly.

“I know.”

He does not move, and neither do you. The silence stretches, thick and aware.

“I owe you an apology,” he says.

“For what?”

“For lying.”

A humourless breath escapes you. “We both lied.”

“No.” The word is quiet but unyielding. “We lied to society. I lied to you.”

The distinction lands.

“You said it was never real.”

He swallows. “I said that because I was afraid.”

Your breath falters not because of the words, but because of the way he says them.

“Afraid of what?”

He hesitates.

“Of needing it,” he says finally. His eyes lift to yours. “Of needing you.”

The room feels smaller. He steps forward slowly as though approaching something fragile.

“I have built my life around distance,” he continues, “Predictable outcomes. Controlled variables.” His voice lowers. “You disrupted that.”

You should step back. You do not.

“It was meant to be efficient,” he says. “A mutual arrangement. I convinced myself that was all it would ever be.”

“You were protecting yourself.”

“Yes.” No defence. No excuse. Just truth.

He is close enough now that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that you can see the exhaustion in his restraint.

“I do not know when it changed,” he says softly. “I do not know which letter did it. Or which evening. Only that at some point I stopped attending events to avoid society…” His gaze drops briefly, then returns. “And began attending them to see you.”

Your heart stumbles.

“And when the column exposed us,” he continues, “I thought I was furious about losing control.” A faint breath escapes him. “I was terrified I had lost you.”

“You did,” you say.

It costs you to say it. His expression shifts, not defensive.

Understanding. “I know.”

It would have been easier if he had argued. If he had insisted. Instead, he accepts it and stays.

“I cannot offer you the safety we constructed,” he says. “I cannot offer convenience. Or structure.” His voice drops lower. “I can only offer you myself.”

The simplicity of it makes your throat tighten. “And what does that mean?”

“It means I would rather risk humiliation, uncertainty, and the very real possibility that you will reject me…” His hand flexes at his side. “…than return to a life in which I never risked you at all.”

You do not realise you have stepped closer until there is almost no space left between you.

“You made it look easy,” you whisper. “Walking away.”

“It was not.”

“You did not come after me.”

His jaw tightens. “Because for the first time, I understood that choosing you meant surrendering control.”

He lifts a hand, slowly giving you every chance to refuse.

His fingers brush your wrist. The same place he touched you before. Your pulse jumps beneath his skin.

“I did not want to trap you,” he says. “The way I felt trapped by my own fear.”

Your breath trembles. “Are you asking to court me properly?”

“I am.”

“And if I refuse?”

The words cost him something. “If you choose another, I will not stand in your way.”

You search his face. There is no arrogance left. Only vulnerability.

“You are insufferable,” you murmur.

“I am aware.”

“But you are no longer safe.”

“No.”

“You are no longer practical.”

“No.”

You step into him. Not timidly. Deliberately.

“What if this fails?”

He does not hesitate. “Then it fails honestly.”

That does it. That is what undoes you. Because the lie was safe. This is not. You reach for him. Your fingers lace with his.

He inhales sharply, as though he had not dared hope for that.

“I do not want the lie either,” you say.

His forehead rests briefly against yours. The contact is gentle.

“Then we will not pretend,” he whispers.

“No.”

His other hand slides to your waist, not to claim but to hold. And when he kisses you, it is not hurried. Not desperate. Not consuming.

It is careful. Intentional.

A promise rather than a demand.

And when he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek as though committing the moment to memory.

“For the record,” he murmurs softly against your temple, “I would have come after you eventually.”

You smile faintly. “I know.”

And for the first time since this began, there is no lie between you.

—-----------------

Minho’s hands cover your eyes as he guides you down the corridors of his home.

“Minho,” you warn, fingers curling around his wrist, “if I collide with something, I shall return to London and leave you to your chaos.”

He gasps dramatically. “It deeply wounds me that my own darling wife, whom I love with reckless devotion, possesses so little faith.”

“I can feel you smiling.”

“Because I am.”

A door creaks open. The scent reaches you first. Paper. Polish. Dust warmed by sunlight.

Your breath stills.

“Ready?” he murmurs near your ear. “Open.”

His hands fall away. You blink, and then you do not move.

Before you stretch an entire wall of shelves. Then another. And another.

Books climb toward the ceiling, their spines catching the light from tall windows you do not remember being so bright. It is not simply stocked. It is curated.

You step forward slowly, fingers brushing familiar titles. Arthurian legends. A first edition of the novel you argued about in your letters. New releases from London presses. Margins marked discreetly.

You turn. “Minho.”

He stands a little apart, watching you the way he used to at balls, observant, quiet, unreadable to anyone but you. “I may have reorganised a few sections,” he says lightly. “The previous arrangement was… distressing.”

You laugh softly, still stunned. “You did this?”

“I supervised,” he replies modestly. “I am told I was insufferable about categorisation.”

You look back at the shelves. There are small, deliberate touches. A reading chair near the window. A writing desk.

“You said once,” he continues more quietly, “that novels demand endurance.” Your heart softens. “I thought if this is to be your home, it should hold the things that shaped you.” He steps closer now. “And the things you have yet to discover.”

You turn fully toward him. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything you have ever written to me.” The words are not dramatic. They are matter-of-fact. And that makes them devastating.

He reaches out, brushing his thumb over the spine of Sense and Sensibility where it rests deliberately on a shelf at eye level. “I suppose,” he adds lightly, “this makes us even.”

“For what?”

“You made the season bearable.”

You smile. “You made quiet less lonely.” You close the distance between you. “Have I told you how much I love you?” you ask softly.

He studies you, not teasing now. Serious. “Not as often as I deserve.”

You laugh. He reaches for you slowly. His hand rests at your waist, the same place he steadied you that night on the staircase. A memory now.

“I loved you long before I admitted it,” he says quietly.

“Minho.”

“I did not know how to live with it.” His forehead rests against yours. “But I could not live without it.”

You breathe him in. Paper. Ink. Home.

“I love you,” you say, and this time, there is no restraint left.

His kiss is slow. Not the kind that steals breath. The kind that steadies it.

When he pulls back, he brushes a strand of hair from your face.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I built you a library.” You laugh against him. “And I would rather not have to fill it alone.”

You lace your fingers with his. “Then we shall endure together.”

He smiles at that, and in the quiet of the room, surrounded by stories of risk and devotion and improbable love, there is no lie. No performance. No structure to maintain.

Only the life you chose.

—-----------------

The paper had still been warm from the press when it was delivered that morning, its edges crisp, its ink not yet fully settled into the page. You had unfolded it without much thought, the Ton’s Observer was, if nothing else, consistent in its predictability, prepared to skim its usual catalogue of whispered alliances and barely concealed insults.

You had not expected to see your own name nor his. Side by side, no less. You could have laughed.

In truth, you nearly had. The notion that you and the Duke of Chan might exist within the same sphere of consideration was absurd enough to border on parody. You shared nothing of substance. Where he was rigid, you were fluid. Where he was calculating, you were instinctive. Where he treated society as something to be managed, you had always understood it as something to be navigated.

He was, quite simply, insufferable.

Even now, standing at the edge of the ballroom, you found your attention drawn toward him against your better judgment. The room itself shimmered with light, chandeliers casting fractured gold across polished floors, silk and satin catching in motion as bodies moved through carefully choreographed patterns of politeness. Conversation rose and fell in gentle waves, punctuated by laughter that was just a touch too loud to be entirely sincere.

And at its centre, as though gravity itself had bent to accommodate him, stood the Duke.

He was surrounded, as he always was. Mothers angled their daughters toward him with subtle desperation, hands resting lightly at their backs, guiding them forward with rehearsed encouragement. The young women curtsied gracefully, their smiles bright and hopeful, their eyes searching his face for some sign, any sign, that they had distinguished themselves from the rest.

He received each of them with perfect composure. He bowed when required. He smiled when appropriate. He spoke with a measured calm that, on its surface, was entirely beyond reproach.

And yet you could see it.

The way his gaze did not soften, but sharpened. The way his questions were not invitations, but examinations. You watched as one particularly nervous debutante clasped her hands tightly before her, answering him with careful precision.

He inclined his head slightly. “How many languages do you speak?”

The question itself was not offensive. It was the tone, polite, neutral, entirely devoid of warmth, that rendered it something else entirely.

“Two, Your Grace,” she replied, her voice hopeful.

He nodded, as though confirming a detail already suspected. “I expect my future wife to speak at least three.”

He did not say it cruelly. He did not say it kindly, either. He simply said it as fact.

The girl’s smile faltered, only slightly, only for a moment, before she recovered herself. He had already moved on. You exhaled slowly, only then realising you had been holding your breath. It was not that he was rude. Not overtly. He never humiliated anyone outright, never allowed himself the impropriety of open dismissal. But he reduced them all the same. Piece by piece. Until they became little more than answers to questions they had not realised they were being asked.

You should have looked away. Instead, you found yourself watching as he completed his circuit of the room, offering his parting courtesies with the same effortless precision with which he had begun them. The mothers inclined their heads, their daughters curtsied, and he departed with his dignity intact, and their hopes quietly unravelled behind him.

He turned then, angling toward the far side of the ballroom, where his friends had gathered.

Toward you. You did not move. You told yourself there was no reason to. The ballroom was crowded. His path meant nothing. And yet, as he drew closer, you became acutely aware of your stillness. Of the way your fingers rested too carefully against your fan. Of the way your attention, traitorous, uninvited, remained fixed upon him.

He passed within arm’s reach.

And then, impossibly, he slowed.

Not enough to attract notice. Not enough to break the illusion of his effortless composure. But enough.

His gaze shifted, finding yours with unerring certainty.

There was no surprise in it, only recognition and something dangerously close to amusement. The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly, as though he had known all along exactly where to find you. He nodded his head in the smallest of acknowledgements, a gesture so brief it might have been imagined. And then he was gone, continuing on without pause, leaving you standing exactly where you had been.

You stared after him, your grip tightening imperceptibly around your fan.

God, he was insufferable.

And worse still, he knew it.

—-------------------

Chan does not allow himself to look back. It would serve no purpose. He has conducted himself properly. He has offered the expected courtesies, endured the expected conversations, and asked the expected questions. There is nothing more to be gained from revisiting them. And yet, as he crosses the ballroom toward the far side of the room, he cannot quite shake the sense that something has been unsettled.

He ignores it.

His friends stand gathered near one of the tall windows, half-shadowed by heavy velvet drapery, their expressions brightening with varying degrees of amusement as he approaches. It is a familiar sight.

Felix, radiant as always, notices him first, lifting his glass in greeting. Seungmin’s mouth curves into something sharper, not unkind, but knowing. Hyunjin leans lazily against the wall, observing everything and nothing all at once. Jeongin stands slightly apart, still new enough to the season to regard it with careful curiosity. Jisung and Changbin are eagerly chatting amongst themselves.

And Minho, of course, is nowhere to be found.

Chan exhales quietly. A small mercy.

“So,” Seungmin says, his tone already threaded with mockery, “how goes another year on the marriage mart?”

Chan does not bother disguising his irritation. He loosens his gloves with deliberate precision, drawing them free one finger at a time. “Precisely as it always does.”

Felix laughs softly. Hyunjin tilts his head.

Jisung, predictably, does not let the matter rest. “I just don’t understand,” he says, frowning slightly. “What is it you’re actually looking for?”

Chan glances at him. The question itself is not offensive. It is the implication behind it. That what he is doing is arbitrary. Emotional. Improvised. He does not improvise.

“Compatibility,” he replies evenly, “must be evaluated sensibly.”

Jisung snorts. “You say that as though it were a business arrangement.”

Chan meets his gaze without hesitation. “It is.”

Felix shifts uncomfortably, but Jisung presses on. “Why?” he asks. “Why not simply find someone you enjoy being around? Someone you—”

He stops himself, but the word lingers anyway.

Love.

Chan resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“I am aware,” he says, his tone sharpening almost imperceptibly, “that you are more than content to become attached to the first pretty face you encounter without so much as a conversation. I prefer a more deliberate approach.”

Jisung absorbs the remark with surprising grace. He does not argue; he simply studies him.

“So what,” he says after a moment, “you’re waiting for someone to meet every requirement?”

Chan does not answer immediately. Hyunjin’s attention sharpens. 

Jisung’s expression shifts, curiosity overtaking amusement. “You do keep a list,” he realises.

Felix laughs outright. “No,” he says. “You cannot.”

Chan says nothing. And that, it seems, is answer enough.

The laughter fades. Hyunjin straightens slightly.

“No,” he says again, quieter this time. “You actually do.”

Chan feels irritation rise, hot and immediate. “Do not look at me as though I have committed some great offence,” he says. “I simply know what I require. Is that so unreasonable?”

Felix steps forward, eyes bright with interest. “What does it say?”

“I am not telling you.”

A chorus of protest erupts instantly.

“Chan—”

“You have to.”

“Please.”

He closes his eyes briefly. They will not relent. They never do.

“Fine,” he says at last. “But you will not judge me.”

They agree far too quickly.

Chan draws a slow breath. He has never spoken it aloud before, not fully.

“Composure in public society,” he begins. “She must conduct herself with dignity. Without spectacle.”

They fall silent.

“Sound education. She must be able to manage correspondence. Accounts.”

Felix’s smile fades.

“Temperance of disposition,” he continues. “She must be steady. Predictable.”

He hears it now, as he speaks. The weight of it. The structure.

“Household competence. Social adaptability. Family reputation. Discretion.”

He hesitates only briefly before finishing.

“And an understanding that marriage requires duty above inclination.”

When he is finished, the silence that follows is no longer amused. It is something else. Jisung stares at him, Felix looks almost wounded, and Seungmin says nothing at all.

Chan lifts his chin slightly. “I fail to see the issue.”

And then, “And what makes you think this perfect woman would want you?”

The voice is unmistakable.

Clear, unyielding and behind him. Chan slowly turns and finds you standing there. And for the first time that evening, Chan finds himself without an immediate answer.

—-------------------

You truly had not meant to overhear him. You tell yourself this, even now, even as the words continue to echo in your mind with an infuriating clarity you cannot seem to escape. It had not been intentional. The refreshments table had simply been the nearest refuge from the suffocating politeness of the ballroom, its arrangement of crystal glasses and delicate pastries offering the illusion of occupation.

You had needed the moment. Needed distance. You had not expected to find him there, nor had you expected him to be speaking so loudly. His voice carried easily above the low hum of conversation, calm and assured, as though there existed no possibility that his words might be unwelcome.

Compatibility must be evaluated sensibly.

You had stilled. At first, you told yourself to ignore it. It was not your concern. It was not your place. The Duke of Chan had always conducted himself with a particular brand of arrogance that society had chosen, inexplicably, to interpret as virtue.

But then he continued.

Composure. Education. Temperance. Duty.

He spoke of a wife as though she were a position to be filled. As though she were an acquisition. As though she were not a person at all.

Something hot and immediate flared in your chest, and you should have walked away. You did not.

Instead, you found yourself moving forward almost without conscious instruction, drawn by something far more dangerous than curiosity.

Indignation.

“And what makes you think this perfect woman would want you?”

The words left you before you could reconsider them. The effect was immediate as seven heads turned toward you in unison. Conversation around you did not stop entirely, but it softened, warped, and bent itself around the disturbance you had created. The space between you seemed to sharpen, the air suddenly thinner, more fragile.

Chan turned last. “I beg your pardon?”

His voice was quieter now. Far quieter than it had been moments before and infinitely more dangerous. His gaze found yours with unerring precision. It was not loud. It did not need to be. There was a weight to it, an expectation, as though he believed the force of it alone would compel you to retreat.

For a moment, your body threatened to obey. You felt it instinctively. The sudden awareness of your own position. The impropriety. The attention. You felt small beneath his scrutiny, and then, just as quickly, you refused to remain so.

You lifted your chin. “You describe qualifications,” you said evenly, though you could feel your pulse betraying you, “not a person.”

A flicker crossed his expression. It was gone too quickly to name.

He scoffed softly. “Well,” he said, “I would not expect you to understand.”

You blinked. “Do you mean me specifically,” you asked, your voice sharpening despite yourself, “or women in general?”

“Women in general,” he replied smoothly. His gaze did not leave yours. “Though you appear to be a particularly irate example.”

Heat rose in your chest.

He continued, “Marriage is a responsibility—”

“Marriage,” you interrupted, before you could stop yourself, “is supposed to be a partnership.”

The word hung between you.

His jaw tightened. “No,” he said. “That is a notion sustained by fairytales and love stories.”

Your brows lifted. “Are you suggesting women should read less?”

His composure cracked, not visibly, not to anyone else. But you saw it. In the tightening of his mouth. In the stillness that followed.

“You twist my words.”

“No,” you said quietly. “I listen to them.”

He took a step closer. It was subtle, barely perceptible even and yet the distance between you changed entirely.

His gaze hardened. “It is not my fault,” he said, his voice lower now, more controlled, “that I possess expectations and have yet to meet a woman who satisfies them.”

Something inside you snapped. “A great joy to women,” you said, the words leaving you before restraint could catch them. “Otherwise, they might have spent the rest of their lives married to you.”

Silence.

Real silence.

Not the polite murmur of society, but the absence of sound itself.

“You are—”

A sharp cough cut him off. Both of you turned. Changbin stood just behind him, his expression carefully neutral as he gestured subtly outward.

Chan followed the motion. You did too, and only then did you realise the ballroom had noticed. Not entirely, but enough. Enough faces turned in your direction. Enough attention drawn. Enough awareness to make the proximity between you suddenly feel indecent. Because he was close, far closer than propriety allowed, and you had not noticed him moving. You had not noticed yourself failing to retreat.

Your breath caught. Without another word, you stepped back.

“Good evening, Your Grace.”

You did not wait for his response.

You turned, moving swiftly through the crowd, your composure intact only by force of will. You did not allow yourself to look behind you. You did not allow yourself to falter. Only when the cool air of the corridor touched your skin did you realise how tightly your hands were trembling.

Behind you, in the ballroom, Chan did not move. He remained where you had left him, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable, but his eyes followed you long after you were gone.

Beside him, Jeongin leaned slightly toward Felix, his voice low with poorly concealed fascination. “Are all balls this entertaining?”

Felix watched the space you had vacated, something thoughtful in his expression.

“No,” he said quietly. “They are not.”

—-------------------

The following morning, the ballroom feels like something that happened to someone else.

You tell yourself this as you move through the rituals of the day, as though distance alone might diminish the memory. And yet, somewhere across the city, in a study lined with dark wood and order, Chan is attempting to do precisely the same.

His study has always been his sanctuary. Everything within it exists according to intention. The desk is cleared at the end of each evening. Correspondence is answered promptly. Papers are arranged in neat, deliberate stacks. Nothing lingers where it does not belong. It is a room built on certainty.

He sits there now, a document open before him, his eyes moving across the page without comprehension. He has read the same line three times. He does not remember a word of it.

His mind betrays him. Unbidden, it returns to the ballroom. To the precise shape of your voice. To the way you had stood before him, unmoved by his title, unimpressed by his certainty.

Unafraid.

He closes the document. He had asked Felix, later, with what he had hoped was sufficient casualness for your name. Felix had supplied it easily and with it, something else. Recognition.

He had called on you once before. Years ago. You were younger then. Quieter. Still possessed of that same unsettling steadiness in your gaze. He had asked his questions, you had answered them, and he had dismissed you.

Efficiently. Appropriately. Correctly.

At least, he had believed so. He opens the drawer of his desk. The paper rests exactly where he had left it. He removes it with care, smoothing it flat against the desk, though it requires no correction. He does not need to read it. He knows every line by heart.

Still, he looks.

Composure. Education. Temperance. Duty.

There is nothing unreasonable here. Nothing careless. Nothing indulgent. Each requirement exists for a purpose. Each serves stability. He had spent his life building stability, and he will not apologise for protecting it.

“She is jealous,” he says aloud, the words sounding weaker outside his thoughts than within them. It is the only explanation that makes sense.

A disturbance breaks the silence. Voices, hushed but urgent, filter through the door. Footsteps. Hesitation. Chan frowns. His household is not prone to disorder. The door opens without a proper announcement. A manservant appears, pale and uncertain, holding something in trembling hands.

Chan does not rise. “Yes?”

The servant steps forward quickly, placing the object on the desk as though eager to be rid of it. “This arrived, Your Grace.”

Chan glances down.

The Ton’s Observer.

Of course.

He has never understood the fascination with it. Idle speculation, anonymous cruelty, packaged as entertainment. He reaches for it anyway. His name appears immediately. He reads.

“On Perfection and Its Price

It has come to this author’s attention that His Grace, the Duke of Chan, has approached this season with a document rather than an open heart.

A written list, no less, enumerating the qualities he believes necessary in a wife, as though affection might be audited into existence.

More curious still is that this list was not only overheard but publicly challenged by a lady bold enough to ask why such a paragon would wish for him at all.

One might argue that the Duke has been unfairly embarrassed. Another might suggest that perfection, when spoken aloud, invites correction.

A list may choose a wife, but it will never teach a man how to love her.”

The column then went on to write his list in full, and the words linger. He does not believe them. He cannot afford to believe them and yet something beneath his certainty shifts. Not doubt but the awareness of it.

He folds the paper carefully, places it down and stands. The movement is abrupt enough that the chair scrapes faintly against the floor.

“Prepare my carriage,” he says. His voice is perfectly steady. He does not pause to explain. He leaves the study with the list still lying open behind him. For the first time since he had written it, he has not returned it to the drawer.

—-------------------

The afternoon settles over the house with the familiar stillness of routine. Light filters through the tall windows of the drawing room, softened by gauze curtains that move only when stirred by the faintest breeze. Dust motes drift lazily through the air, suspended in golden suspension, as though even time itself has grown reluctant to move too quickly here.

You sit in your usual place near the window, a book open in your lap. You have not turned the page in several minutes. Your mother sits opposite you, her embroidery resting idle in her hands, her attention divided between her work and the door.

She does not watch it directly. She never does, but you have learned to recognise the particular stillness that accompanies her hope. It has been years since anyone called with a genuine intention. Years since expectation had brought anything other than disappointment.

Still, she waits. You admire her for it. 

The knock, when it comes, is firm. Both of you freeze.

A moment later, the housekeeper appears in the doorway, her expression caught somewhere between alarm and disbelief. “Miss L/N,” she says carefully, “you have a caller.”

Your heart stumbles. You cannot imagine who it could be. You had not encouraged anyone at the ball. Had not offered anyone a reason. If anything, you had done precisely the opposite.

Your mother rises instantly. “Who is it?” she asks.

The housekeeper hesitates. “His Grace,” she says.

Your stomach drops. Of course.

Before you can protest, your mother is already moving toward you, her hands adjusting your posture, smoothing your hair, straightening what does not require straightening.

You brush her off gently. “There is no need,” you murmur.

She ignores you.

Footsteps approach, and then he appears in the doorway. The Duke of Chan fills the space as though it had been constructed to contain him.

Your mother curtsies immediately. “Your Grace.”

You do not rise, nor do you curtsy. You do not offer him the courtesy he has come to expect from every other woman in society.

Instead, you lower your gaze deliberately back to your book. “What do you want?”

“Y/N,” your mother breathes, horrified.

You ignore her. Chan’s presence shifts the air itself. You can feel his attention on you.

“I trust,” he says evenly, “you have read the latest edition of The Ton’s Observer.”

You allow yourself a small smile. “I have.”

Silence stretches between you. You can feel his expectation, the assumption that you will apologise. That you will soften.

You do neither.

“And?” he asks.

You look up, then, meeting his gaze directly. “What would you have me say? That it was entirely truthful in its account, was it not?”

Something flashes in his expression. “You cannot possibly believe it reasonable,” he says, his voice lowering, “to conduct such matters publicly.”

You rise slowly now, setting your book aside with deliberate care. “You chose a public opinion,” you reply.

His eyes narrow. “You misrepresented me.”

“Then represent yourself better.”

The words land between you with quiet precision.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

He stands too close. Close enough that you can see the tension in his shoulders. Close enough that you can hear the subtle shift in his breathing. He had come here expecting compliance and has found resistance instead.

He does not know what to do with it.

He exhales sharply. “There is no reasoning with you,” he says.

It is not said cruelly; it is said as fact. 

He turns abruptly, the motion precise and controlled, betraying how little control he truly possesses.

He does not look back. The door closes behind him with quiet finality.

Silence settles once more.

You remain standing, your pulse still unsteady, though you would never allow it to show. A small, private satisfaction unfurls in your chest. He had come here. He had sought you out, and he had left without victory. You allow yourself the smallest smile.

Only then do you notice your mother. She has sunk back into her chair, her hands pressed to her temples as though attempting to ward off an approaching headache.

“Where did I go wrong?” she murmurs.

—-------------------

In the days following the Duke’s abrupt departure, you discover that anger, once witnessed, is far more difficult to forget than indifference ever was. You do not see him immediately. That, perhaps, is the strangest part. Society continues as it always does, invitations arrive, promenades fill, conversations resume, but where you might once have expected his presence, there is now only absence. No deliberate avoidance. No pointed snub. Simply nothing.

It should have been a relief.

Instead, it leaves you with the deeply irritating awareness that you have unsettled him. Not enough to provoke retaliation, but enough to provoke thought. And that, you suspect, is far more dangerous.

You hear of him, of course. His Grace attended the Cavendish musicale. His Grace declined Lady Norbury’s dinner. His Grace has been seen riding alone in the early mornings.

His Grace has not spoken of you. Which, in its own way, is a statement.

It is not until nearly a week later, beneath the pale warmth of an unseasonably generous afternoon, that you encounter him again.

Hyde Park is alive with the quiet industry of the season, measured footsteps along gravel paths, the murmur of polite conversation, the careful choreography of seeing and being seen. You walk without urgency, your gloves loose in your hands, only half-attentive to the company around you.

You are thinking of nothing in particular. Which is why his voice, when it comes, feels less like an interruption and more like the inevitable conclusion of a thought you had not realised you were having.

“Miss L/N.”

You do not turn immediately.

Not out of fear. Nor even defiance. But because you recognise, instinctively, that whatever passes between you now will not resemble your last conversation, and you are unwilling to grant him the advantage of believing you have been waiting for it.

When you do turn, he is already beside you. He does not block your path. He does not force you to stop. Instead, he matches your pace with quiet precision, as though this, too, is a negotiation he intends to conduct properly. His expression is composed, but there is something beneath it, not quite uncertainty, but something adjacent to it. Something less certain than you remember.

“I had hoped,” he says, after a moment, “to speak with you.”

His tone is even. Controlled. Entirely appropriate. It irritates you immediately.

“I was not aware you required permission,” you reply.

You expect the remark to provoke him. Expect the familiar tightening of his posture, the polite withdrawal behind which he conceals his displeasure. Instead, he only inclines his head slightly, as though acknowledging the accuracy of the observation.

“Our last conversation,” he says, “ended inelegantly.”

You glance at him then. “I thought it ended honestly.”

He does not answer at once. For a man so evidently accustomed to certainty, he seems, in this moment, to find himself without it.

“You seem remarkably comfortable,” he says eventually, “disagreeing with me.”

You allow yourself the smallest tilt of your head. “You seem remarkably unaccustomed to it.”

There is the faintest shift in his expression, not offence, but something far more disarming.

Recognition.

It unsettles him. You can see that much.

He studies you openly now, with none of the polite disinterest he had shown at the ball, and you find yourself acutely aware of the weight of his attention, not dismissive, as it had been before, but deliberate.

“You believe,” he says slowly, “that marriage ought to be governed by feeling.”

It is not quite a question.

“No,” you say. “I believe it ought to involve it.”

He considers this. Not dismissively. Not critically. Seriously.

A passing couple greets him then, a gentleman nodding respectfully, a lady lowering her gaze with quiet admiration.

“Your Grace.” He acknowledges them with effortless precision, the movement so practised it requires no thought at all. And yet, when his attention returns to you, there is something in it that feels entirely unpractised.

“You are unlike most people I meet,” he says.

It is spoken without irony and without calculation, simply as a fact.

“That,” you reply lightly, “has not always been considered a compliment.”

“It was intended as one.”

The words seem to surprise him even as he says them.

You see it in the brief stillness that follows, the moment in which he becomes aware that he has said something he had not planned to say. It is, you realise, the first unscripted thing you have ever heard from him.

“You are not as certain as you pretend,” you say quietly.

This time, he does not attempt to answer; he only looks at you. And in that look, you see it, not weakness, but something far more compelling.

Doubt.

Not in you. In himself.

It is gone almost as quickly as it appears.

“I hope,” he says, his voice restored to its usual composure, “the remainder of your walk is agreeable, Miss L/N.”

He bows. Properly. Formally. And then he leaves you.

You watch him go, his stride measured, his posture unyielding, every inch the man society believes him to be. And yet, for the first time since you have known him, you are no longer entirely convinced that society is correct.

—-------------------

If your mother interfered in your life one more time, you were quite certain you would abandon society altogether and join the circus. It was the only logical explanation for your current circumstances.

The Arts Society’s annual charity gala had long been considered one of the season’s more respectable obligations, attended faithfully, discussed politely, and forgotten almost immediately afterwards. It was not, under any reasonable interpretation, an event requiring your personal involvement. And yet your mother, in a moment of optimism you suspected bordered on delusion, had graciously volunteered you as one of its hosts.

You sat now in the Society’s drawing room, your spine straight, your hands folded neatly in your lap, pretending patience. 

The room itself was intolerably warm. Sunlight spilled across polished floors, illuminating shelves of sheet music and paintings that watched you with quiet indifference. It was a perfectly lovely afternoon.

You could have been reading. Or walking. Or doing literally anything else. Instead, you were waiting to discover which unfortunate soul had been conscripted alongside you.

The doors opened. You did not need to look to know you felt it first,  that familiar shift in the air, that quiet rearrangement of attention.

And then he stepped inside. Of course.

Your mother rose instantly. “Your Grace!” she exclaimed, her voice bright with the sort of unrestrained joy she usually reserved for holidays and miracles.

You did not rise. Instead, you stared at him, your disbelief unrestrained. “Are you the other host?”

“I am,” he replied.

You closed your eyes briefly. “Don’t you have more important matters to attend to?”

There was something dangerously close to amusement in his expression. “I am a patron of the Arts Society,” he said. “And when I learned you would be hosting, I thought it appropriate to offer my assistance.”

Assistance. You resisted the urge to laugh. Did he truly believe you were incapable? Or worse, did he believe himself necessary?

You scowled. He noticed. He noticed everything.“Shall we begin?” he asked calmly. “I was considering a masquerade ball.”

You hesitated. The idea was… unexpected. Creative. Not at all what you would have anticipated from him, and you hated that it intrigued you.

This, you realised grimly, was going to be a very long several weeks.

—-------------------

If you were being entirely honest with yourself, working with the Duke had not been as unbearable as you had expected.

Infuriating, yes.

Demanding, certainly.

But not unbearable.

He approached the planning with the same meticulous precision he applied to everything else. Nothing escaped his notice. Nothing was left incomplete. Where you preferred instinct, he relied on structure and, irritatingly, it worked.

You sat now at the long table in your drawing room, papers spread neatly between you.

“Guest list confirmed?” he asked.

“Yes.” You handed him the documents. “Every invitation accounted for.”

He accepted them without comment.

“And the seating arrangement?”

You passed him the diagram. “Finalised.”

“And the decorations?”

You slid the final stack toward him. “Approved, budget maintained, and awaiting your signature.”

He studied the papers carefully. You watched his expression, waiting for criticism. Instead, his brows lifted slightly. “You are… remarkably organised.”

You allowed yourself a small smile. “I managed without a list.”

You had not meant to say it. He did not respond immediately, but you saw it. The faintest shift at the corner of his mouth. Amusement. You pretended not to notice.

“You know,” you said, “I would not have taken you for a patron of the arts.”

His head lifted. “I assure you, I am.”

You raised a sceptical brow. 

“I am quite accomplished at the pianoforte.”

You stared at him. There was simply no possibility that the man who evaluated women like estate acquisitions could produce anything resembling music.

“No,” you said flatly. “You are lying.”

He laughed, actually laughed. It startled you more than anything else.

“I am not.”

“Prove it.” The words left you before you could reconsider them.

He stood without hesitation. You followed him instinctively as he crossed to the pianoforte in the corner of the room.

He sat, paused, flexed his fingers and then he began to play. The sound filled the room immediately. His hands moved with effortless certainty, the melody unfolding beneath his touch with a fluency that stole the breath from your lungs. It was not the technical precision that stunned you, though it was undeniable; it was the feeling.

The quiet intensity of it. He was not performing; he was elsewhere. His eyes had fallen half-closed, his expression unguarded, his posture no longer rigid with expectation but softened by something far more vulnerable.

This was not the Duke. This was simply a man.

And for the first time since you had known him, he was not hiding behind anything at all. Something shifted inside you.

The song ended, and silence followed. You realised, belatedly, that you had stopped breathing. He looked at you then, and whatever he saw in your expression seemed to unsettle him just as deeply.

You recovered first. You had to. “Has anyone ever told you,” you said lightly, “that you would make an excellent debutante?”

His lips curved faintly. “Perhaps then,” he said quietly, “I would finally meet someone who satisfies my list.”

—-------------------

The estate reveals itself slowly as your carriage approaches, its silhouette rising from the darkness like something out of myth. Lanterns line the curved drive, their golden light flickering against white stone and ivy, illuminating the careful illusion of enchantment you and Chan had spent weeks constructing. Music drifts faintly through the open windows, carried by the cool evening air. Even from a distance, it feels alive.

You arrive earlier than necessary. You tell yourself it is responsibility that brings you here ahead of the guests. That it is diligence, nothing more and yet, as you step from the carriage and ascend the stone steps, you cannot deny the quiet anticipation thrumming beneath your composure.

Inside, everything gleams. Silk drapery falls in careful folds from the high ceilings. Candles burn steadily in their holders, casting warm, steady light across polished floors. Masks, discarded briefly in preparation, rest like promises on side tables.

You move through the ballroom slowly, your gaze tracing every detail. This, all of this, exists because you made it so. A quiet pride rises in your chest before you can suppress it. You had not expected to enjoy this, nor to feel capable, nor to care.

“I trust everything is in order?” His voice, low and familiar, breaks the silence behind you.

You turn, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe. 

He stands just inside the doorway, the candlelight catching against gold embroidery that frames his shoulders like the suggestion of a mane. The lion mask obscures part of his face, but it does nothing to conceal the certainty of his presence. It suits him too well.

You recover quickly. “Yes,” you reply. “Everything is prepared.”

His gaze lingers on you. Longer than necessary. “You look nice,” he says.

The compliment lands awkwardly between you, as though it has travelled a great distance to reach you. You almost dismiss it. Your gown falls in soft silver lines, structured enough to maintain dignity, fluid enough to allow freedom of movement. You lift your crescent mask into place, securing it with deliberate care.

“I am Artemis,” you inform him calmly. “Goddess of the hunt.”

He stares at you for a moment, and then he laughs. Not the polite, restrained sound you have come to expect. A real laugh.

“Of course you are,” he says and for reasons you cannot explain, the approval in his voice feels more dangerous than any insult.

He gestures toward the entrance. “Our guests will arrive shortly.”

You nod. Together, you step forward not quite side by side but no longer entirely apart.

—-------------------

The evening unfolds flawlessly. Dinner passes without incident. Conversation flows easily. Guests admire the decorations, their approval spoken openly, their enjoyment unmistakable.

You should feel relieved. Instead, you feel something sharper. Pride. You stand at the edge of the ballroom, observing, ensuring, existing within the world you have created.

“You have done well.” His voice again, closer this time.

You turn to find him beside you. “Do you need something?” you ask.

He hesitates. “It is customary,” he says carefully, “for the hosts to open the first dance.”

You blink, you had forgotten.

He extends his hand. The gesture is simple, and yet it feels like something else entirely.

“Shall we?”

You place your hand in his. His fingers close around yours with careful precision, warm and steady. He leads you to the centre of the ballroom. You are aware of everything. The watching eyes. The music beginning. The subtle tightening of his hand at your back as he draws you into position. Closer. Not improperly but undeniably closer.

The music swells. He moves, and you follow. It is effortless. Infuriatingly so. He anticipates your movements before you make them, guiding without forcing, adjusting without hesitation. His touch is firm, but never controlling. Supportive, not possessive. You test him. Just slightly. A subtle misstep and a deliberate disruption of rhythm.

He corrects instantly. He leans closer. “You enjoy challenging me,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear it.

The warmth of his breath sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

“You make it very easy,” you reply.

His hand tightens briefly at your back. Not enough to be improper, but enough to be felt. Your eyes meet and hold, and the world fades. The music becomes distant, time slows, stretching thin between each step, each breath, each impossible second in which you remain suspended between resistance and something far more dangerous.

You forget yourself. Just for a moment. Just long enough to wonder what it would be like to stop resisting entirely.

The music ends. Neither of you moves; his hand remains at your back, and yours remains in his.

He is looking at you as though he has never seen you before, as though he does not know how to look away. The next song begins, and reality returns.

He releases you. Too quickly, as though he had touched something he should not have.

He steps back, and his composure rebuilds itself piece by piece. “Have a pleasant evening, Miss Y/N,” he says, his voice controlled. He bows and disappears into the crowd.

You remain where he left you. Your hand still remembers the shape of his, and for the first time, you realise with quiet horror you are not certain you want to forget it.

—-------------------

The days that follow the masquerade do not feel entirely real. You move through them as though observing yourself from a distance, each hour unfolding with the quiet detachment of something already remembered rather than lived. Conversations occur around you. Meals are eaten. Letters arrive and are answered. You perform each task exactly as expected. You simply do not inhabit them.

Sleep becomes elusive. At night, you lie awake long after the house has settled into silence, staring at the ceiling as though it might offer an explanation. You close your eyes, willing your thoughts to quiet. They refuse. Instead, they betray you.

The dance returns to you again and again, unbidden. The precise pressure of his hand on your back. The steady warmth of his fingers around yours. The way he had looked at you, not as the Duke, not as something distant and untouchable, but as though you were something he did not yet understand and wished to.

You tell yourself it meant nothing. You repeat it until the words lose meaning entirely, and still, if you close your eyes tightly enough, you can almost feel him there.

During the day, it is no easier. Your thoughts circle him endlessly, without permission and without relief. You wonder where he is, what he is doing, and whether he remembers it at all. Whether it mattered to him. You despise yourself for the question.

You sit now in the drawing room beside your mother, her guest chattering brightly as tea cools untouched before you. The conversation drifts between you like smoke, present, but impossible to grasp.

You are not listening. You are watching the window. Watching nothing.

“…and a Baron, no less,” your mother’s friend is saying, her voice animated. “Searching for some mysterious woman he encountered at the masquerade. Imagine the romance of it.”

You feel nothing. Romance belongs to stories.

“Did you hear about Duke Chan?”

Your attention sharpens instantly, and you hate that it does.

“No,” your mother replies. “What news is there?”

You do not turn. You do not breathe.

“Apparently, he has begun courting Miss Elsie Young.”

The words settle into the room with quiet finality. You feel it physically, and the room seems to tilt.

“…it was only a matter of time,” the woman continues. “She is everything he requires, from what I understand. Graceful. Proper. Entirely suitable.”

Suitable. The word echoes.

Of course she is.

Of course, he has chosen someone who meets his requirements.

Of course, he has returned to certainty.

Your mother responds, but her voice is distant now, muffled beneath the sudden rush of your own heartbeat. You cannot remain here.

You stand. “I must excuse myself,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “I am not feeling well.”

Your mother’s concern is immediate. “Oh, darling. Of course.” She rises slightly, her hand reaching for yours. “You have not been sleeping. I feared the strain of the gala had exhausted you.”

You nod. “Yes.” It is easier than telling the truth.

You leave the room quickly, your composure intact only by force of habit. The staircase feels longer than usual. The air thinner. You reach your room and close the door behind you with careful precision. Only then do you allow yourself to breathe. You lean back against the wood, your hands trembling faintly at your sides.

Of course, he is courting someone else.

What had you expected? He had never promised you anything. Never suggested anything. Never done anything at all.

Except- 

You stop yourself.

Except nothing.

You close your eyes. You refuse to cry and to grant him that power. He is exactly who he has always been, and you had been a fool to believe, even briefly, that you had seen something else.

—-------------------

The days do, eventually, become easier. Not better but easier. You learn how to live around the absence. You teach yourself new habits, new routes, new patterns of avoidance. You decline invitations with polite excuses. You remain indoors on afternoons when the promenade is most crowded. You construct your life carefully, deliberately, ensuring that your path and his never intersect.

It is not difficult. It is, perhaps, too easy. You do not allow yourself to question what that means.

Today, you have come to the library. It is quiet here. Safe. The air smells faintly of dust and paper, untouched by the suffocating expectations of society. No one watches you here. No one waits for you to perform. You move slowly between the shelves, trailing your fingers along the spines without truly seeing them. 

Romance. 

You pass it without hesitation. You have no patience for fiction.

Poetry, then.

There is something honest about poetry. Something unguarded. It says what it means without apology, without structure, without the careful containment that governs everything else. You scan the titles absently. Shakespeare. Byron. Words written by men who had allowed themselves to feel too much. You reach for one.

“Hello.”

The voice is unmistakable.

Your body reacts before your mind does. Your fingers freeze mid-motion. Your breath catches. Something cold and electric spreads through your chest.

You do not turn immediately. You tell yourself it cannot be him, that it is a coincidence. That it is memory. However, when you turn, it is him. 

He stands only a few steps away, closer than propriety allows, closer than you had prepared yourself for. He is not masked now. Not protected by ceremony or expectation.

He looks… uncertain, and you hate that you notice.

“Hello,” you reply, your voice carefully empty.

He hesitates. It is such an unfamiliar sight that it unsettles you more than his certainty ever had.

“I haven’t seen you,” he says, “around.”

He does not finish the thought. Around society. Around him.

“I have been unwell.” The lie comes easily.

His expression shifts to concern. “I am sorry,” he says quietly. “Are you feeling better?”

You wish he would not ask. “Much.”

He nods. “Good.”

Silence stretches between you. He does not move, and neither do you.

“Did you want something?” you ask.

You need this to end, you need distance.

“No,” he says.

The simplicity of the answer catches you off guard.

“I only wished to say hello.”

You swallow. That is worse.

“Well,” you say, forcing steadiness into your voice, “you have said it.”

You move to pass him, and you almost succeed.

His hand closes around your wrist. The contact is brief. Instant and catastrophic. Heat spreads through you, violent and immediate, your entire body reacting to something you do not understand and cannot control.

You pull away sharply. Not just because of the sensation but because of what it might mean.

“What is wrong with you?” you whisper, your voice sharp with panic.

He releases you immediately. “I am sorry,” he says. “I did not—”

He stops and starts again. “Are you upset with me?”

The question disarms you completely. “What?”

“You seem…” He hesitates. “Cold.”

He does not accuse. He does not demand. He simply observes, and that is far worse.

“I do not wish to have offended you.”

Offended you. As though that were all it was. As though he had not stood beneath candlelight and looked at you like something fragile and irreplaceable. As though he had not made you believe- 

You stop yourself.

“We hosted a ball together,” you say carefully. “That is all.”

He says nothing.

“My mother is expecting me.”

Another lie. You turn, and this time, he does not stop you.

You leave the library quickly, your composure intact only by force of will, your pulse refusing to settle.

Behind you, he remains standing exactly where you left him. Alone. Uncertain. And for the first time in his life, entirely without control.

—-------------------

Your chance encounter with Chan at the library had, in an unexpected and deeply irritating way, clarified something for you. You realised, with humiliating certainty, that sitting alone in your room, avoiding society, avoiding him, and avoiding your own thoughts, accomplished nothing except to leave you trapped inside them. It did not protect you. It did not restore your pride. If anything, it only confirmed what you most feared: that he still had influence over you, even in his absence.

You refused to grant him that victory. So when the next ball arrived, you prepared yourself with unusual care, not for his sake, you told yourself firmly, but for your own. You selected your gown with deliberation, allowed your hair to be styled in a way you might once have considered excessive, and when you stepped from the carriage and into the ballroom, you did so with your head held high.

The effect was immediate.

You could feel it in the subtle shifts of attention, in the way conversations faltered just slightly as you passed, in the curious glances that lingered a moment longer than usual. You accepted their attention calmly, offering polite greetings, allowing yourself to exist within society without shrinking from it.

You were fine. You would continue to be fine.

You stood among a small group of women, listening with half-hearted interest as they spoke of trivial matters, your composure intact, your thoughts mercifully quiet for the first time in days. And then one of them nudged you gently. You followed the direction of her gaze.

And there he was. Chan stood on the dance floor beside Miss Elsie Young.

For a moment, your mind refused to understand what you were seeing. They moved together easily, their steps aligned, their bodies positioned in that familiar, intimate proximity you knew all too well. His hand rested at the small of her back, steady and assured, guiding her with the same quiet confidence he had once used with you.

One of the women beside you laughed softly.

“Can you believe he has finally chosen someone?”

Her voice sounded distant. Distorted. You did not respond. You could not. Your body remained perfectly still, but something inside you began to fracture with quiet, devastating precision. You watched as he leaned closer to Elsie, his lips moving near her ear, and she laughed in response, her expression bright and pleased by his attention.

Just as you had been.

The realisation settled slowly, cruelly, with undeniable clarity. There had been nothing singular about you. Nothing exceptional. Nothing irreplaceable. He had not looked at you differently; he had simply looked at you the same way he looked at everyone else.

You had mistaken proximity for meaning, mistaken attention for affection and mistaken yourself for something you had never been. The humiliation of it was unbearable.

You excused yourself quickly, though you did not remember what words you used, and moved through the crowd without direction, driven only by the desperate need to escape. You found yourself on the terrace before you had fully realised you had left the ballroom.

The night air struck your skin immediately, cool and unforgiving, but it did nothing to calm the storm raging within you. You retreated further into the shadows, seeking refuge from the golden light spilling through the open doors behind you, until you reached the far corner, where darkness provided what little privacy society ever allowed.

Only then did you allow yourself to stop. Your hands found the cold stone railing, gripping it tightly as though it were the only thing anchoring you to the present. You had known, of course. You had always known. He had never promised you anything. Never offered you a reason to hope. The dance, the laughter, the music, none of it had meant what you had allowed yourself to believe.

And yet knowing it had not made it easier.

The tears came before you could stop them. The restraint you had maintained for days, for weeks, collapsed entirely, leaving you exposed to the full weight of your own foolishness. Your shoulders trembled as sobs overtook you, each breath sharp and unsteady, your composure dissolving in the safety of the darkness.

“Are you alright?”

You froze. You did not turn immediately, though every part of you recognised him instinctively. Instead, you stood there in silence, hastily wiping at your tears, desperate to erase evidence of your weakness before he could see it.

Of course, he was here. He was always there.

You let out a hollow, bitter laugh. “Of course.”

He hesitated. “What does that mean?”

You turned then, unable to contain it any longer. “It means that no matter how far I try to remove myself from you, you always manage to appear.”

He frowned, confusion and something dangerously close to concern flickering across his expression. “Has someone upset you?”

The question shattered what remained of your restraint. “Yes,” you said, your voice breaking despite your efforts to control it. “You have.”

He stiffened.

“You and your list,” you continued, the words spilling from you now, unstoppable. “You and your careful, measured courtship, as though people were nothing more than requirements to be satisfied.”

“I do not—”

“I believed,” you interrupted, your voice trembling, “foolishly, that perhaps I had changed something in you. Perhaps you might choose something different. That you might choose someone not because she fulfilled your expectations, but because you cared for her.”

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. “I thought there was a chance,” you said quietly, “that it might be me.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

“I do—” he began. He stopped.

The hesitation was enough. You shook your head. “If you wish for perfection, then choose it,” you said. “But do not pretend you ever wanted anything real.”

“I want stability,” he said, his voice quieter now.

“You want control.”

The words struck him with visible force.

For the first time since you had known him, he did not defend himself. He simply stood there, motionless, as though you had stripped away something he had not realised he depended upon.

You could not bear to remain there any longer. You moved past him quickly, your shoulder brushing his as you did so, and left him standing alone in the darkness, just as he had once left you.

—-------------------

Chan does not remember the journey home. He recalls apologising to Miss Young, though he cannot remember what words he used. He recalls her polite smile, her graceful acceptance, the complete absence of complication in her expression. She had not questioned him. Had not demanded an explanation. Had simply allowed him to leave.

It should have reassured him. Instead, it unsettled him more.

By the time he reaches his study, the familiar space offers no comfort. The room, once a sanctuary of order and certainty, feels strangely unfamiliar, as though something fundamental within it has shifted. He moves immediately to his desk, opening the drawer with more force than necessary, and removes the paper he has consulted so many times before.

His list. 

The edges are slightly worn now, softened by repetition, by years of quiet reliance. He smooths it flat against the desk, his fingers lingering at the corners, as though physical contact alone might restore the certainty it once provided.

He reads the first line.

Composure in public society.

His jaw tightens. By that measure, you have failed spectacularly. Your voice on the terrace had not been composed. Your tears had not been controlled. Your anger had not been hidden behind polite indifference. And yet you had not lied. You had allowed yourself to be seen, fully and without protection, in a way no one else ever had.

He moves to the next line.

Sound education.

A faint, reluctant warmth rises in his chest. Your mind had never been something he could predict or contain. You challenged him effortlessly, your wit precise and immediate, your observations cutting through his carefully constructed certainty with unsettling ease.

Temperance of disposition.

He exhales slowly.

You had not been temperate. You had been honest. He remembers your face, tear-streaked and unguarded, your voice trembling as you accused him of valuing perfection over truth. The memory settles heavily within him.

Household competence. Social adaptability.

He glances toward the window, his reflection staring back at him in the glass. The gala had been flawless. Not because of him, because of you. You had organised it with a precision that rivalled his own, anticipating problems before they arose, resolving complications without hesitation. You had proven yourself capable of managing everything he had once believed only he could control.

Family reputation.

He pauses only briefly.

Your mother is… enthusiastic, but your family stands without scandal, without instability.

Discretion.

He lets out a quiet, humourless breath. You had challenged him publicly. You had refused to be intimidated. At the time, he had resented it; now, he realises he had simply been unprepared for it. You had not been reckless, you had been brave. More brave, he suspects, than he has ever allowed himself to be.

He reaches the final line.

Respect for duty.

This had always been the most important requirement. The foundation upon which everything else rested. Marriage was not a matter of indulgence. It was a responsibility. He would marry Miss Young. He had already begun the process. She was suitable, agreeable. She did not disrupt him. She did not challenge him. She did not make him question himself.

She did not make him feel- 

He stops. The thought lingers, unfinished.

He recalls dancing with her earlier that evening. The movements had been correct. The conversation had been pleasant. The outcome had been exactly as expected.

And yet he had felt nothing. Not the way he had felt with you. His breath hadn’t caught the way it did with you when she stepped closer.  His chest hadn’t tightened the way it had when you had pulled away from him in the library. It didn’t ache like it had when he had seen you crying, knowing he was the cause.

He stares at the paper. At the careful, deliberate structure he has trusted for so long.

He sees it now for what it is. Not a guide but a shield. A way to avoid uncertainty. A way to avoid risk.

A way to avoid love.

The realisation settles over him slowly. He had not created the list to find the right woman. He had created it to avoid choosing the wrong one. And in doing so, he had almost lost the only woman he had ever truly wanted. 

His hand trembles slightly as he reaches the end of the page. There is nothing written there. Nothing accounts for the way you make him feel. Nothing accounts for the way his certainty dissolves in your presence. Nothing that accounts for love.

For the first time since he had written it, the list no longer feels complete. It feels insufficient, and for the first time in his life, Chan realises he has been wrong.

—-------------------

Chan does not notice Hyunjin’s approach until his hands close firmly around his shoulders from behind.

“Congratulations,” Hyunjin says brightly, the words delivered with unmistakable enthusiasm.

Chan turns slightly, his brow furrowing. “For what?”

Hyunjin blinks at him, surprised by the question. “For Miss Young,” he says, as though the answer should be obvious. “You have been courting her for weeks now. Surely a proposal cannot be far off.”

The words land heavily, though Chan makes no outward sign of it. “Oh,” he says after a moment, lowering his gaze to the amber liquid in his glass. “Right.”

The ballroom hums around them, filled with music and conversation, with expectation and certainty. Everything unfolds exactly as it should. Everything except him.

Minho, standing nearby, lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “I do my best to avoid society whenever possible,” he says, “but I was under the impression that most men display at least some enthusiasm at the prospect of their own engagement.”

Chan forces himself to straighten slightly. “I am enthusiastic,” he replies evenly. “It is simply a practical arrangement.”

The words sound correct.

Seungmin hums softly beside him, unconvinced. “Of course,” he says mildly. “And I assume that has nothing to do with the woman over there.”

Chan follows his gaze instinctively. He should not have.

You stand across the ballroom, bathed in warm candlelight, your expression relaxed in a way he has not seen in weeks. You are speaking with a gentleman Chan does not recognise, your posture open, your laughter unrestrained.

The sight of it unsettles him immediately. “No,” Chan says, his voice firmer than he feels, but he cannot look away. He has spent weeks deliberately avoiding you, convincing himself it was necessary, that distance would restore order, would quiet the relentless uncertainty you had introduced into his life.

It has not. If anything, the absence has only made his awareness of you sharper, more persistent, more impossible to ignore.

The gentleman says something that makes you laugh again. The sound carries across the distance between you, quiet but unmistakable. Chan’s grip tightens imperceptibly around his glass. What could he possibly have said to earn that expression? What could he possibly offer you?

The gentleman reaches for your hand. Chan’s breath catches. He watches, unable to stop himself, as the man lifts your gloved fingers and presses a kiss against them, his posture confident, assured, entirely unaware of the quiet devastation unfolding across the room.

Something ugly and unfamiliar rises within Chan’s chest. Jealousy. He recognises it immediately, and he despises it. You do not belong to him. You have never belonged to him. He had forfeited that possibility the moment he chose certainty over courage.

“Of course not,” Seungmin says dryly beside him.

Chan tears his gaze away, turning sharply toward his friend.

His composure fractures, if only slightly. “Did you not punch someone recently?” he asks coolly.

It is a deliberate strike. A deflection.

Seungmin does not react. “Yes,” he replies calmly.

He does not elaborate. He does not need to.

Changbin exhales loudly, folding his arms across his chest. “It seems cowardice in matters of love is an epidemic within this group,” he says. “Except, of course, for me.”

Seven pairs of eyes turn toward him. Changbin blinks, startled by their collective attention. “What?”

“You will understand eventually,” Seungmin says.

His attention shifts back to Chan. His expression softens slightly, though his words do not. “Tell me honestly,” he says quietly. “Are you prepared to marry someone you do not love and spend the rest of your life watching the woman you do love belong to someone else?”

The question settles into Chan’s chest like a blade. He does not answer immediately. He cannot because, for the first time, the future Seungmin describes feels entirely possible and entirely unbearable.

“Pot,” Chan says finally, his voice quieter now, “kettle.”

It is a weak defence. They all know it, including him.

Across the room, you laugh again, and for the first time in his life, Chan realises that his greatest fear is no longer choosing incorrectly.

It is choosing too late.

—-------------------

The past few days have been unbearable. Chan has lived inside his own mind, turning the decision over and over until it has lost all shape, until certainty itself has begun to feel like something fragile and unreliable. He has tried, repeatedly, to convince himself that he could proceed as planned, that stability was enough, that affection could be cultivated where it did not yet exist. He has tried to be the man he has always been. It has failed him.

And so now he stands in Miss Young’s drawing room, the air thick with expectation, with consequence, with the quiet understanding that something irreversible is about to occur. She sits across from him, her posture composed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She is exactly as she has always been, graceful, dignified, entirely suitable.

She deserves certainty, and he cannot give it to her.

He realises, with uncomfortable clarity, that he has been staring at her for far too long without speaking.

“Your Grace?” she prompts gently.

He exhales slowly, forcing himself back into motion. “Yes,” he says. “Forgive me.”

His voice feels unfamiliar to his own ears. He has delivered countless formal addresses in his lifetime, negotiated estates, resolved disputes, and conducted himself with flawless composure in situations far more complex than this.

And yet this feels infinitely more difficult.

“Miss Young,” he begins carefully, “you are an extraordinary woman. You are intelligent, kind, and conduct yourself with a grace that any man would be fortunate to admire. It is precisely because of these qualities that I must speak honestly.”

The words grow heavier as he speaks them, each one dismantling the future he had so carefully arranged. “You deserve someone who stands before you without hesitation,” he says quietly. “Someone whose certainty is complete. And I find that mine is not.”

He sees it then. The moment the meaning reaches her. The moment hope gives way to understanding. “You deserve someone who loves you,” he continues, forcing himself not to look away, “not out of obligation, nor out of convenience, but because their heart has already chosen you without question.”

His throat tightens slightly. “I regret that I allowed you to believe I could be that man.”

The silence that follows feels immense. He watches as she absorbs his words, watches as disappointment settles into her expression with quiet dignity. She does not cry. She does not accuse him. She does not demand an explanation.

She simply accepts the truth he has given her. “Thank you,” she says finally, her voice steady despite the devastation he can see she is carefully concealing, “for your honesty.”

Her composure humbles him. He had expected anger; he had deserved it.

Instead, she offers him grace. “I hope,” she continues softly, “that the lady you have chosen understands how fortunate she is.”

He lets out a small, humourless breath. “I suspect,” he says, “she would disagree with you.”

A faint, sad smile touches her lips. “Then you should not remain here.”

The simplicity of her statement strikes him harder than anything else she might have said. She is right. Every moment he delays is another moment he risks losing you entirely.

He rises slowly. “Miss Young,” he says sincerely, “you are far kinder than I deserve.”

He turns to leave. He has nearly reached the door when her voice stops him.

“Your Grace.”

He looks back.

She meets his gaze without resentment. “Good luck.”

The words are both farewell and forgiveness. 

He nods his head. “You as well.”

And then he leaves, stepping out into a future he has no control over, guided only by something he has spent his entire life trying to avoid.

Hope.

—-------------------

Chan arrives at the ball long before it is socially acceptable to do so. He tells himself it is practicality that he wishes to avoid the press of the crowd, that he prefers order to chaos.

The truth is far less dignified. He cannot bear the possibility of missing you.

He positions himself where he has an unobstructed view of the entrance staircase, his posture composed, his hands clasped carefully behind his back, every inch the Duke society expects him to be. Guests arrive in steady succession, their laughter filling the ballroom, their presence blurring together into meaningless motion.

None of them are you.

With each passing minute, doubt begins to take root. Perhaps you will not come. Perhaps you have decided, wisely, to remain beyond his reach. Perhaps he has already lost the only thing he has ever truly wanted.

And then you appear. You descend the staircase slowly, candlelight catching against you as though conspiring to make you impossible to ignore. The sight of you strikes him with such force that, for a moment, he forgets entirely how to breathe.

Relief follows swiftly behind it. Relief so profound it borders on pain.

He moves before he can reconsider, crossing the ballroom with single-minded determination, barely aware of the people he passes, of the conversations he interrupts, of the careful order he has abandoned entirely.

He stops in front of you, blocking your path. You look up at him, your expression shifting immediately from surprise to disbelief, and beneath it, unmistakably, anger.

“What could you possibly want—”

He leans closer, his voice low enough that only you can hear it. “Meet me in the garden maze,” he says. “In ten minutes.”

Your eyes widen. “Have you lost your mind?” you whisper. “In what possible world would that be appropriate?”

“Please.”

The word escapes him before he can restrain it. He does not beg. He has never begged, and yet here he is.

“Just one moment,” he says quietly. “And I swear I will never trouble you again.”

You hesitate. “I will consider it,” you say finally.

It is enough. It has to be. He leaves you there, retreating into the maze long before the appointed time, his pulse unsteady, his certainty gone entirely.

He waits. Each passing second stretches endlessly, doubt creeping in with cruel persistence. He had asked too much. Expected too much. He has spent his entire life controlling outcomes, ensuring success through preparation and precision.

This is different. This requires hope, and hope, he realises, is far more terrifying than failure.

Footsteps approach, and he turns. You stand at the entrance, your expression cautious, your presence alone enough to undo him completely.

“You came,” he says, unable to conceal his astonishment.

“Yes,” you reply carefully. “Though if we are discovered, the consequences will be significant. Particularly for you and your courtship with Miss Young.”

“I am not courting Miss Young.” The words leave him without hesitation.

You blink. “Oh.”

He takes a step closer. “She is not you.”

The silence that follows feels fragile, as though even the air itself is waiting.

You stare at him. “What?”

He forces himself to continue. “I believed,” he says slowly, “that I required perfection. That suitability would ensure stability. That if I controlled every variable, I could guarantee happiness.”

He exhales. “I was wrong.”

You do not interrupt him.

“You showed me that love cannot be evaluated,” he continues. “It cannot be predicted. It cannot be contained.”

His voice falters slightly. “And yet, despite every effort to deny it, I find that I love you.”

The words settle between you, fragile and irreversible. “I love that you challenge me,” he says quietly. “That you refuse to yield when others would submit. That you see me not as the Duke, but as a man who is capable of being wrong.”

He pauses, forcing himself to confront the possibility of rejection. “I do not expect forgiveness,” he says. “Nor do I expect you to feel as I do.”

“Your Grace—”

“But if you would allow it,” he continues, unable to stop now that he has begun, “I will spend the rest of my life proving that I am worthy of you.”

“Chan.”

The sound of his name on your lips silences him instantly. He has never heard anything more beautiful.

You step closer. “Will you please,” you say softly, “stop negotiating and ask me properly?”

Hope surges through him, terrifying and bright.

He lowers himself to one knee, and for the first time in his life, he relinquishes control entirely.

“Will you marry me,” he asks, “not because you satisfy my requirements, but because I cannot imagine choosing anyone else?”

You smile, and in that moment, the world rearranges itself entirely.

“Yes.”

—-------------------

The following week, society erupts with speculation. The Ton debates, theorises, and dissects every detail of your engagement with relentless enthusiasm. It is precisely the sort of attention Chan once valued. Now, it is meaningless. Only you matter.

Which is why he has once again lured you somewhere entirely inappropriate.

“You are asking for trouble,” you laugh as you close the library door behind you.

“What does it matter?” he replies, drawing you closer. “You have already agreed to marry me.”

His voice softens. “I have something for you.”

He retrieves the folded paper carefully and places it in your hands. You recognise it immediately.

His list.

You look up at him.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I thought you should have the honour of destroying it.”

You smile, and without hesitation, you tear it cleanly in half.

Then again.

And again.

You drop the pieces into the fire, and he watches as the last remnants of his certainty disappear into ash.

“I feel I should have brought you something in return,” you say lightly.

He reaches for you, his hand settling at your waist with quiet certainty.

“You already have.”

You kiss him.

This time, he does not hesitate. This time, he does not retreat. This time, he chooses you without fear and for the first time in his life, Chan is exactly where he belongs.