The Duke of Hastings stands alone in the dimly lit study, his silhouette sharp against the flickering candlelight. He turns a worn leather journal over in his hands, his jaw tight. A single, rueful sigh escapes him as he sets it down, his piercing gaze fixed on the empty fireplace. He speaks, his voice low and resonant, as if to the embers themselves.
I told myself I was a man of my word. That my resolve was iron. Yet here I stand, undone by a woman who saw through every wall I built. Daphne... she did not merely break my vow. She made me wish I had never made it.