4. A Deal For The Duke

Cessalie sat on the floor beneath her window, back straight despite the stillness.

The door creaked open. It wasn’t time for food or for a bath.

Her body reacted before her thoughts did. Her spine stiffened, senses sharpening. For a fleeting second, her eyes flicked to the rope hanging on the wall. Then they snapped back to the door, confusion settling in.

She pushed herself more to the wall as if she could dig into the wall and hide, her eyes narrowed.

Her mother stood there.

Elysande's silhouette filled the doorway. Her soft blush toned hair was braided neatly over one shoulder, eyes too bright for the dim room. She looked… exhausted, older than she was supposed to be. life in this house had leeched ten years from her in one.

Cessalie frowned, What does she want?

Elysande stepped inside quietly, heels barely tapping against the cold floor. In her arms was a bundle of rich silk, pastel blue with delicate gold embroidery. One of those dainty dresses Cessalie had always liked.

But not like this.

Not when it was forced onto her, tightened until it felt less like clothing and more like restraint. Dresses like these were not meant to be worn. They were meant to quiet girls, to keep them sitting still, smiling, and nothing more.

Her mother laid them down at the foot of the bed like she had every right to be here.

"You should get ready," she said. Her voice wasn't cold but it wasn't warm, either. It was distant and detached like they were strangers sharing a room.

Cessalie's hands curled into fists in her lap, but she stayed quiet.

Elysande's eyes drifted to the bandages wrapping her arms. Her lips tightened for half a second.

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

Cessalie didn't ask why she needed to get ready and why even healers were here in the first place. They always left her to rot and would call healer only when her wounds turned into an infection.

She didn't question anythiny but Elysande told her anyway.

"Duke Davian is coming to discuss your marriage."

Her stomach sank. Her mother threw the brick at her without any warning and care.

No Are you alright? or Do you want to do this?

Only, here's the man you're being sold to, darling. Smile pretty.

She shot to her feet, walking over to Elysande, anger lighting every nerve like fire. "Are you serious?"

Elysande flinched. It was a reflex built from years of bracing for shouts but still her expression stayed the same.

"Your father wants no indiscipline."

Cessalie let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Oh, certainly not. We would not wish the Duke’s flawless reputation to be marred by his wayward, entirely unworthy daughter."

Her mother's gaze dropped to the floor.

And then, softer than Cessalie expected, almost fragile, "Be obedient, Cessalie. Keep your wounds covered."

She turned to leave.

Cessalie's control snapped. She gritted her teeth and took a step closer to Elysande.

"W-why did you even come here?" Her voice cracked with fury. "To play mother, is it? Or merely to ensure I don’t disgrace your husband when the man I never asked for arrives?"

Elysande stopped in the doorway. She neither turned nor argued, nor did she bother to pretend Cessalie was wrong.

She just stood there.

And for one second, Cessalie saw the pain buried under that tired, composed blank face. But Cessalie was very angry and agitated that she was not able to comprehend her mother's pain because, according to her, Elysande had trapped herself in that trap.

But for a brief second, Cessalie almost felt a flicker of guilt. She shook her head, no. Silence had never been love to her. It was only ever surrender.

Her mother left the door open behind her. Cessalie understood it was a message.

Dress up.

Obey.

Hide the bruises.

And step out of the room to be thrown into another prison.

Cessalie stared at the pile of dresses. They were chains, not fabric.

She wanted to tear them apart, rip the delicate silk into ribbons with her bare hands. But what would that change? They'd just send more. Hell, they'd send someone to dress her if she refused. They would just make her a doll, which was too broken to move on her own.

She picked the least revolting dress A muted gray blue gown with tight long sleeves and soft gold embroidery, fitted at the waist and fflowing at the bottom. The kind that made you look elegant and harmless, exactly where you didn't want to belong.

The fabric felt soft against her skin. It clung to the healing lashes beneath and dragged over the tender marks on her back, catching just enough to make her flinch.

Cessalie moved to the mirror above the dresser, the same one with a faint crack splintering the top corner from the last time Cyrion hit her head against it.

The scar on her cheek stared back at her, reminding her not to speak up again.

She reached for the small jars on her table, dabbing a pale cream over her skin until the pink marks on her skin dulled. Then, a fine dusting of powder followed. Next, she picked up the brush and worked a faint tint into her cheeks, just enough to soften the marks. If she used too much, they would think she was trying to please him.

Her hair came down next. It fell past her shoulders, falling around hips, like a sheet of silk. She put no pins or jewels and styled her hair swept back from forehead to back in waves.

Cessalie stared at her reflection for a long second. The hollowed eyed unfamiliar girl in the mirror stared back.

Maybe he won't recognize me, she thought.

Cessalie sat there for a long time, waiting for someone to come take her.

After sometime, the door creaked open again. It wasn't her mother. It was Gini, head bowed, voice soft as ever.

"It's time, my lady."

There was nothing else to say. Cessalie stood without a word, the silk of her gown shifting softly as she moved. Two guards hovered outside the door. They had been set outside her door to keep her in line, in case she tried to run.

And honestly, if the windows in this wing weren't locked, maybe she would've tried.

They didn't speak, just flanked her as she walked as a prisoner being marched to her trial.

Corridor after corridor slipped past. Cold stone pressed in around her, the arches stretching high above. The air carried a faint stale sweetness that made her chest feel tight.

The tapestries, carved doors, and chandeliers passed without a second look.

Whenever she was allowed out, she used to stare at everything as if she was seeing it for the first time. The walls, the portraits, the pillars, even the stretch if green grass and blue sky outside the window.

Most of it still felt distant to her. It was something she could see, but never reach.

But today, even these were just walls leading to another cage, to Davian. Duke Davian Aurelthorn was twenty-seven and also a widower. His wife had been dead for barely four months now. Before her death, they were married for four years.

Everyone had called it illness she suffered from, which was too severe to be treated and took her life. Cessalie did not believe this because she had met the late Dravein Duchess only a month before her death. And then she was sad, but not sick. There was a dullness on her face that clearly indicated she was suffering from some trouble.

Delicate? Preposterous. She scoffed internally.

She knew what delicate women looked like in this house and when they broke under the pressure, they were simply called tragic and ill.

Cessalie didn't know Davian beyond whispers. He was a Duke, member of the Royal Court and one of those elites who stood beside the Crown and had say in Valkathra's decisions.

Peoe said he wasn't cruel, he was composed, honorable and a man who never raised his voice, even with the power to destroy.

But even quiet men carries knives, they just hide them better, Cessalie thought, staring ahead.

Still, somewhere in her, a small part of her hoped he wasn't like the men of her family. But hope was stupid, doubt was safer.

The last door finally came into view.

Gini slowed, eyes flicking to Cessalie like she wanted to whisper good luck, but even that felt too dangerous in this house.

Cessalie didn't wait for her to open it. She just nodded once.

Let's get this over with, she took a deep breathe.

The door creaked open slowly, dragging the stillness with it. It pressed against her ears, making even the flicker of candlelight feel loud.

And there he was.

Duke Davian Aurelthorn stood by the window with his back to the room. He did not turn when she entered.

Afternoon light fell across him, cutting a pale edge along his profile and the line of his jaw. He was tall, held straight.

His suit was black and unadorned, tailored close to his frame. Nothing about it called attention, yet it suited him in a way that made everything else in the room feel slightly out of place.

Everything about him screamed power. The way he stood, spine straight, hands clasped loosely behind him, not careless but. He didn't slouch.

He turned slowly. His eyes landed on her, and it took everything in Cessalie not to shrink under that stare. His eyes erre deep brown, almost black, neither warm nor cold. He watched her too closely, as if taking her apart piece by piece.

He was devastatingly handsome in a way that made people forget to breathe. But there was something else in him too. There was a grief carved too deeply in a way time had not healed.

Cessalie didn't bow. She just stood there.

"Lady Cessalie, you’re here." He smiled.

Cessalie did not return it. She inclined her head slightly, her gaze on him landing briefly on the dimples that appeared when he smiled. She found them disarmingly adorable before she looked away.

Davian gestured toward the sofa opposite him. "Please, sit."

She obeyed without hesitation and lowered herself onto the edge of the cushion, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. She did not look away from him. He took the seat across from her and poured water from the jug into a glass before sliding it across the table in her direction.

She did not reach for it.

"You have grown, Lady," Davian leaned back, both hands resting on the armrests.

"Is that not ob—" Cessalie stopped herself. The word hovered at the edge of her tongue. She forced it back down. She could not afford to sound sharp with a man who could repeat her words to her father.

She drew a quiet breath. "Yes, Your Grace."

He chuckled.

The sound caught her off guard. Her eyes widened slightly as she looked at him. She had expected displeasure, but not amusement.

Embarrassment pricked at her. "Your Grace," she said carefully, "what is so amusing?"

"You are exactly as you were when I saw you on your eighteenth birthday," he shook his head, a trace of laughter still in his voice.

Cessalie frowned. She had no recollection of meeting him that night. In fact, her birthday feast had ended early for her. She had struck a man who tried to place his hand where it did not belong, and she had been sent back to her chamber before the evening ended.

"I do not remember meeting you," her brows rose in confusion, while she tried to remember.

"I am aware," Davian answered. He lifted a hand to his chin, resting his index finger beneath it, his elbow against the armrest. "I was observing you from afar."

The statement unsettled her. At that time, his duchess was still alive. Why would he have watched her so closely? The question rose in her mind, but she did not voice it. She only inclined her head once more.

"You are aware of the arrangement between our families."

At the word arrangement, her breath faltered. She raised her eyes to meet his fully. He was undeniably handsome. His features were sharp without any softness.

It did not change what he was.

A widower of four months and eight years her senior and a man already seeking another bride.

Her gaze lowered to the untouched glass of water.n its surface was perfectly still.

"Your Grace," she said quietly, her fingers tightening slightly against her gown, "would you consider cancelling this marriage?"

He did not react at once. His gaze lowered, and he exhaled slowly. His tongue passed briefly over his lower lip as his fingers tapped once against the armrest.

"That is a rather hurtful statement to hear from my fiancée," he feigned sadness.

"I am not your fiancée."

He lifted his eyes to her. "Yes, you are." He paused.".... Cessalie. This marriage has been decided. It is not negotiable. You cannot cancel it, and neither can I."

"I do not wish to be married."

"So you would prefer to remain in this house?" He leaned back against the headrest, studying her. "In this hellscape?"

The word caught her off guard.

She stared at him, momentarily unsettled. How did he know? Cyrion never allowed private matters to leave these walls. To the outside world, the Draevin household was disciplined, dignified, and content.

Davian's lips curved faintly. "Your father's cruelty is no secret. It is merely ignored. People prefer comfort over truth." His gaze shifted, settling briefly on the faint mark visible near her left shoulder where the fabric had slipped with her posture.

She straightened at once, drawing her sleeve higher.

"And I imagine," he continued quietly, "that you wish to escape it every day."

"I do," she replied without hesitation. "But I have no desire to step into another prison."

The implication was clear.

He inclined his head once, eyes narrowing, face clearly showing mild offense to what she said. "So marrying me would be another form of torture."

She did not confirm or deny it, but, her silence was the answer.

Davian fell quiet, his expression were unreadable now. It was evident he had not expected such directness from her, not when she stood so visibly constrained within her own household.

Cessalie had grown accustomed to resisting in small ways. She avoided what she could, endured what she could not, and trusted little beyond her own restraint. Whether it was marriage or a simple invitation beyond the palace gates, she kept her distance from all of it.

Her gaze drifted toward the window behind him. Beyond the glass lay open sky and distant gardens she rarely walked. She stared without focus. Her thoughts were not racing, she was simply lost in a blank stillness.

"Even so, there is nothing you can do," he sighed

Her gaze remained fixed on the window. She did not hear him.

He leaned forward slightly and reached out, placing his hand over hers where it rested in her lap. "Lady?"

She flinched and drew back at once, pulling her hand away. Davian withdrew his own immediately and straightened.

She composed herself within seconds. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"I am not here to persuade you," he said calmly. "This marriage will proceed regardless. You will become the Duchess of Alderwyn."

Cessalie said nothing.

"But I speak because of your circumstances here." His voice lowered slightly. "You are not treated as you should be. In Alderwyn, you will not be harmed. You will not be burdened with duties you cannot bear."

Her eyes shifted to him at that.

"I wish to know you," he said softly, his voice low. As he spoke, his expression softened slightly. The tension at his jaw eased, and his eyes stayed on her attentively. "And to remove you from this place."

Her confusion deepened. Why would he involve himself so deliberately? Why would he offer protection without demand?

"I like you, Cessalie," he smiled faintly. "I do not ask for your trust today. I will earn it."

His words unsettled her. Coming from a man of his position, they felt almost unreal. She did not believe him. Yet something in her chest stirred despite herself.

"Lady, give it a thought." Davian rose from his seat. "I must return to the Royal Court. There is a session I cannot miss."

She did not stand.

Instead, he stepped closer, bowed slightly, and lifted her hand with care. He pressed a brief kiss to the back of it before releasing her.

Then he left.

Cessalie remained seated, staring at her hand as though it no longer belonged to her. Her thoughts were tangled and unsettled but her doubt was intact.

It was not that she did not want to leave this hell like house, but she did not trust a person who wanted to give her the moon and stars after meeting her for the first time.

And marriage here was just a deal between two powerful families so that they could become more powerful and oppress the weaker ones.

After a moment, she wiped the back of her hand against the fabric of her gown and stood, leaving the room without looking back. The still surface was water disrupted due to her motion.

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