Chapter 2 — Dressed for Winter
The morning of the engagement dawned far too bright—almost cruelly luminous. Light filtered through the bedroom windows as if determined to expose every thought, every anxiety I carried within me.
The maids rushed from one side to the other, bringing jewels, fabrics, and hair ornaments as though preparing for a ceremony that celebrated not love, but power. At the center of the bed, folded with meticulous precision, lay my flame-red gown. Every thread seemed to capture the light and turn it into fire.
A fire that did not warm.
A fire that demanded attention.
I touched the fabric. Heavy, luxurious, magnificent… and suffocating.
It was not merely a dress. It was a symbol. A silent warning to the world: She is here, and she must be noticed.
"Miss Arianna…" one of the maids murmured as she delicately tightened my corset. "Your hands are trembling."
I was not nervous.
I trembled because I knew exactly where I was being led.
The mirror reflected a young woman who appeared far older than her years. My brown hair was partially pinned up, soft strands cascading over my shoulders, fine braids woven like glowing embers to match the dress. My green eyes burned behind the mask of serenity I had long perfected.
"Perfect, my lady," the maid whispered, almost reverently.
Perfect.
That word again—heavy with silent expectations. It did not celebrate beauty or kindness. It celebrated alliance, power, dominion.
Count Edwin entered without announcement. There was no smile, only the silent appraisal he gave to everything and everyone around him.
"You are presentable," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. It was not praise. It was judgment.
I nodded. Words were unnecessary.
When we walked toward the carriage, I felt the servants' eyes upon me—the same look that seemed to say: She is not one of us. She does not belong here.
Montclair slowly disappeared behind us. I felt no sorrow in leaving it—only a strange sense of inevitability. Each mile carried me closer to what had always been decided for me.
The North arrived in the form of icy winds and gray landscapes. Trees stood like frozen towers, and fields of snow stretched as far as the eye could see.
My father broke the silence.
"The North is different."
"I know," I replied, carefully controlling every inflection of my voice.
"There is no room for fragility there."
I kept my gaze forward, my expression calm. "Then it is convenient that I possess none."
He studied me longer than usual.
"Remember what is at stake: power, territory, influence." His words weighed more than any gesture.
"I always do."
Blackmoor Castle rose in the distance, emerging from the mist like a living fortress. Black stone. Towering spires. Massive gates. No delicate ornamentation, no detail to soften its severity.
Blackmoor did not seek to impress.
It sought to intimidate.
The carriage stopped, and the cold at the entrance cut straight through to my bones. Snow crunched sharply beneath my shoes. I crossed the grand hall at my father's side—dark tapestries, severe crests, fireplaces burning with steady intensity.
And then I felt him.
Before I saw him. Before his name even crossed my mind.
A presence that imposed itself. A gaze that did not need to search for anything.
When I finally lifted my eyes, there he stood—motionless at the top of the staircase. Watching me without moving. Without haste. Without emotion.
The Duke of the North.
Even at a distance, he was impossible to ignore. Not merely because of his appearance—though that was undeniable—but because of the force emanating from his posture, the silent certainty that he needed to prove nothing to anyone.
Our eyes met for seconds that felt eternal.
There were no comments about my dress, my hair, or the world surrounding us. Only recognition.
A recognition that stole my breath.
The cold I had always felt—the one I never understood—finally made sense. It was not about winter. Not about Montclair. Not about my father's expectations.
It was about him.
Snow began to fall again—slow, steady, inevitable—covering the world in silence.
And for the first time since leaving Montclair, I understood:
If the North is winter…
then I have been prepared for it since the very beginning.