The name hung in the air like poison. "Isabella?" Baron Reginald repeated, his teacup clattering back onto its saucer.
I wasn't there to witness it, but later Alistair would tell me how my father's face had contorted with horror at Duke Alaric's announcement—as though the Duke had suggested marrying a farm animal rather than his firstborn daughter.
"Your Grace," my father stammered, "there must be some misunderstanding. Surely you meant Clara?"
Clara, who had been frozen in shock, immediately revived. She flashed what she must have thought was her most winning smile. "Yes, Your Grace. I'm certain you meant me."
Duke Alaric's jaw tightened. "I did not misspeak, Baron. I wish to marry Isabella."
Lady Beatrix leaned forward, her knuckles white against the table. "But Your Grace... Isabella is... well, she's not suited for society. The rumors about her... her condition..."
"What condition would that be?" Alaric asked, his voice dangerously soft.
"Well, the mask, of course," my father replied, regaining some composure. "People talk. They say she's cursed, brings bad fortune. Why would someone of your standing choose—"
"I fail to see how other people's superstitions should influence my choice of bride," Alaric cut him off. "I've made my decision."
Clara pushed her chair back with such force it nearly toppled. "But she's hideous beneath that mask! I've seen it! And she's odd, temperamental. I would make you a much better wife."
Alaric turned to her, his gaze cold enough to freeze flames. "Lady Clara, let me be perfectly clear: I have no interest in you whatsoever. My choice is Isabella."
My sister's face crumpled, her cheeks flaming red.
Lady Beatrix tried again, her voice honeyed. "Your Grace, Clara is accomplished in music, dancing, and conversation. She's been raised to be the perfect wife to a man of your station."
"And yet," Alaric said, "I find myself unmoved by these supposed virtues."
He rose from his seat, towering over my family. "Now, I wish to see Isabella. Immediately."
My father shifted uncomfortably. "She's... resting. The poor girl gets overwhelmed easily. She prefers to remain in her quarters."
"Is that so?" Alaric's eyebrow arched. "And does she 'prefer' to remain there behind a locked door?"
The Baron paled. "How did you—"
"Word travels," Alaric said dismissively. "I hope, for your sake, that she hasn't been harmed."
"Of course not!" Lady Beatrix interjected. "Isabella is... delicate. She needs structure, discipline. The mask is for her own comfort—"
"Take me to her," Alaric demanded, his patience clearly fading. "Now."
I could imagine Lady Beatrix's hands clenching into fists beneath the table. Clara openly glared at the Duke, her dreams of becoming a duchess crumbling before her eyes.
"This is absurd," Clara spat. "Isabella can barely function in society. She'll embarrass you. Everyone will laugh—"
"Enough!" Alaric's voice cut through the room like a whip. "Baron, either you take me to Isabella, or I'll have my men search every room in this house until I find her."
My father stood, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Very well, Your Grace. Follow me."
The pair left the dining room, my father's footsteps dragging like a condemned man approaching the gallows. Alistair trailed behind them, his expression carefully neutral.
As they climbed the stairs, Baron Reginald tried one last time. "Your Grace, I must insist you reconsider. Clara is the obvious choice for a man of your position. Isabella is... well, she's strange. Keeps to herself. Talks to animals. The rumors about her bringing bad luck—"
"I make my own luck, Baron," Alaric replied coldly. "And I've made my choice."
They reached my door, and my father hesitated, keys jangling in his trembling hand.
"You keep your daughter locked up?" Alaric asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Only when necessary," my father mumbled, avoiding the Duke's gaze. "For her own protection."
"Open it."
My father fumbled with the key, then knocked softly.
"Isabella? Are you decent? You have a... visitor."
Inside my room, I smoothed my simple dress and adjusted my mask. I'd heard the commotion downstairs—it was impossible not to—though I couldn't make out the words. A visitor? Had Duke Alaric finally come? My heart hammered against my ribs as I gently laid Mittens back in her makeshift bed.
I opened the door, and there he stood—Duke Alaric Thorne. Even more imposing than I remembered from our meeting in the woods. His dark eyes swept over me, narrowing when they reached my face.
"Your eyes are red," he stated bluntly. "What happened?"
I blinked, startled by his directness. My father stood beside him, shaking his head slightly in warning. Behind them both, Alaric's butler watched with quiet interest.
"My kitten died," I lied smoothly, though not completely. Mittens wasn't dead yet, but I feared she would be soon. "And I've been... punished for disobedience."
"Punished how?" Alaric asked, his gaze hardening.
"Just confinement to my room," I said quickly, not wanting to appear weak. "It's nothing unusual."
"And food?" he pressed.
I hesitated, which was answer enough. Alaric turned to my father, who wilted under his glare.
"We'll discuss this later," he promised, his tone making it clear the conversation would not be pleasant. Then he turned back to me, his expression softening slightly. "May I come in?"
I stepped aside, stunned by the request. No one ever asked permission to enter my room. They either ordered me out or locked me in.
Alaric stepped inside, and my father started to follow, but the Duke raised his hand. "Alone, if you please."
"But..." my father began to protest.
"Your butler may stand in the doorway as chaperone," Alaric conceded, nodding to Alistair, who took up position at the threshold. My father had no choice but to retreat, his face a mask of confusion and fear.
Once we had a semblance of privacy, Alaric spoke. "I apologize for not coming sooner."
"You came," I replied simply. "That's what matters."
His gaze traveled to Mittens, curled up on the pillow. "Your kitten seems alive, if not well."
I moved to stand protectively in front of her. "She is, but barely. Clara broke her leg yesterday."
Anger flashed across his face. "Deliberately?"
I nodded.
"And for this, you were punished?"
"For disrespecting Lady Beatrix when she suggested Mittens be put down," I clarified. "But why are you here, Your Grace? I didn't expect you to come yourself. I thought perhaps a messenger..."
His lips curved into a small smile. "I prefer to handle important matters personally."
He moved closer, his gaze intense. "Isabella Beaumont, I've come to ask for your hand in marriage, as we discussed. Your family objects, naturally. They believe you're cursed, strange, unsuited for society, and would bring me nothing but embarrassment."
I winced at hearing these familiar criticisms laid bare.
"But," he continued, "I find I don't care for their opinions. I've made my decision." He paused, studying me. "What I want to know is: what do you think, Isabella? Will you say yes?"
The question hung between us. This was the moment that would change everything. Behind Alaric, I could see Alistair watching me curiously from the doorway. Somewhere downstairs, Clara was probably throwing a tantrum while Lady Beatrix plotted ways to stop this marriage.
And here was Duke Alaric Thorne, the most powerful man in the kingdom besides the King himself, standing in my barren room, asking if I would marry him.
I knew what my answer had to be. This was my only escape. My one chance at freedom from my family's cruelty. Yet I found myself hesitating, not out of doubt, but because of the unexpected weight of the moment.
"Before I answer," I said carefully, "I need to know you understand what you're asking. I come with complications."
He glanced at my mask. "I'm aware."
"And you still want this marriage? A contract as we discussed?"
"I do," he replied firmly. "Now answer my question, Isabella. Will you marry me?"