The sight of Sienna-Rose, radiant and serene, standing in the middle of her four wives was nothing short of a dagger to Alessander's heart. She stood tall, poised like a flame in the center of a perfect circle—each of her wives orbiting around her, each gaze fixed upon her with a tenderness so unshakable it made the stone-hearted falter.
Her crimson crest—a veiled flame—shimmered faintly against the soft sunlight pouring through the high glass windows of the duke's estate's corridor. The entire court seemed to pause, suspended in a fragile reverence.
And Alessander watched. Watched with the ache of a man who knew precisely where he stood. He was a noble knight of the realm, commander of a dozen battalions, the favored son of a duke, and the heir of the Lysander Duchy. But all of that meant nothing. Not here. Not before her.
