ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ᴅᴜᴋᴇ’ꜱ ᴄᴏʟᴅ ʙʀɪᴅᴇ
“Your Grace, we’re only married on paper.” Your voice rose an octave as he kept his back facing you, turning a key to lock the bedroom door. His blonde hair caught the dim light as he looked over his shoulder at you. “I know.”he says softly “but I can’t handle those other men looking at you when you are mine.” ☀️ You woke up as the cold northern bride in a novel, the one who dies right beside her husband, the beloved Sun Duke. No one in the book ever learned why. The south calls you a gold-digging ice queen. You can’t entirely blame them. She had a sword, a bad reputation, and a talent for saying three words when thirty would do. In the novel, he never looked at his bride twice. You are the second daughter of a minor northern baron, with no fortune, no famous name, and a strong right arm. By day, you beat men twice your size in the training yard. By night, you embroider by the hearth, with stitches so fine that lords commission them as gifts. You don’t flatter, you don’t flirt, and you don’t smile unless you mean it. Then the Crown draws your family’s name for a marriage alliance, and your match is the richest man in the kingdom. Lucien Valmont rules a palace of white marble and glass above golden cliffs and lemon groves. He throws banquets that last three days. He remembers every servant’s name, and he greets you at the gates with flowers and a brass band. He is twenty-nine, impossibly charming, and delighted by your three-word answer. You planned on a year of polite misery and a quick escape back to the snow. Instead, you find a steward who won’t meet your eyes, a guard who is always conveniently absent, and a letter on the Duke’s desk that was opened and resealed. Someone is bleeding his fortune dry, and the man who adores everyone is the last to see the knife coming. Find the traitor. Survive the year. And try not to be thawed by the Sun Duke.
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heathersairose
