"It must be difficult to accept. I understand."
Alexio's voice carried a note of something that might have been sympathy—though with him, it was impossible to tell.
"The princess likely feels obligated to fulfill her duty by producing an heir. Such is the burden of royal blood."
*Duty.* The word tasted bitter in Adelina's mind.
An ideal princess *would* think that way. She would accept her role as a vessel for noble lineages, would submit to the expectations carved into her bones since birth. She would marry, bear children, and sacrifice her body and sanity on the altar of dynastic continuation.
But Adelina had watched her mother do exactly that.
And she had sworn—silently, desperately, in the darkest hours of the night—that she would never follow the same path.
She didn't bother correcting the Duke's assumption. Let him believe whatever he wished about her motivations. The result would be the same.
Alexio, apparently interpreting her silence as reluctance, pressed forward with his argument.
"You see, I already have a child who will serve as my heir. Introducing complications into the succession would be... inconvenient." His tone remained conversational, almost casual. "There's no need for the princess to bear children. In fact, doing so would create problems I'd rather avoid. My stepmother would never allow my intended heir to be officially recognized if a legitimate child existed to challenge that claim."
He paused, studying her face.
"However, the future *Duchess* could make such recognition possible."
"I see." Adelina's voice came out steadier than she expected.
The pieces clicked into place with sudden clarity.
The Duke of Pembroke had an illegitimate child—a son or daughter born outside of marriage, with no legal standing. He needed a wife who would accept this child as her own heir and, crucially, who would *never* produce a competing claim. No noblewoman in her right mind would agree to such terms. Children strengthened a wife's position within her husband's family. Children created bonds between houses, solidified alliances, guaranteed inheritance rights.
A childless marriage was social suicide for any woman of rank.
Unless that woman feared childbirth more than she feared obscurity.
Adelina's mind raced through the implications.
Every day, her father pushed her toward marriage with increasing desperation. Even if she escaped this particular arrangement, he would simply find another buyer. And another. And another. The pressure would never stop—not as long as she remained unmarried and fertile.
*Ironically,* she realized, *marriage itself is the only escape from marriage.*
If she wed on her own terms—to a man who explicitly did not want her to bear children—she would be forever beyond her father's reach. No more auctions. No more bidding wars. No more being traded like livestock at market.
"A man with an unusual proposal," she murmured, half to herself.
Alexio's expression flickered—a brief shadow of uncertainty crossing his handsome features. He seemed to read her contemplative silence as rejection.
"I'll give you time to consider," he said, a faint sigh escaping his lips. "You can proceed to the Rossi estate as planned and meet Derek Pembroke. I wouldn't recommend it, personally, but to make an informed decision, it's only natural to explore all your—"
"I'll do it."
The words cut through his measured speech like a blade.
Alexio blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"I agree to the marriage."
Silence crashed over the carriage.
The Duke stared at her, violet eyes wide with undisguised shock. For the first time since they'd met, he seemed genuinely caught off-guard.
"And the man you're agreeing to marry...?" The question emerged slowly, as though he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.
"His Grace Alexio Pembroke." Adelina met his gaze without flinching. "I will marry *you*."
The rain continued its assault on the carriage windows—a relentless percussion that filled the space between them. Neither spoke. Neither moved.
Finally, Alexio recovered enough to respond.
"You can take more time to consider—"
"I've already made my decision."
"You may come to regret—"
"I won't."
She cut him off before he could finish the sentence, her voice firm and unyielding.
A low chuckle escaped Alexio's throat—surprised, almost delighted.
"I never imagined the princess would be quite so... decisive." Something warm crept into his expression, softening the sharp edges of his features. "I had prepared myself to wait at least a week for an answer."
He studied her for a long moment, his gaze searching her face as though looking for signs of doubt or hesitation.
He found none.
With a decisive motion, Alexio rapped his knuckles against the carriage wall.
"Turn around," he called to the coachman. "We're heading back to Roche."
---
## — The Homecoming —
Prince Arthur strode through the mansion gates with the self-satisfied air of a man whose schemes were finally bearing fruit.
The morning had been productive. Madame Pembroke's offer was secured. The marriage contract was all but signed. Within weeks—perhaps days—Adelina would be Derek Pembroke's bride, and five billion klons would flow into Arthur's depleted coffers.
*Everything is proceeding exactly as planned.*
His good mood lasted precisely until he noticed the carriage waiting at the entrance.
It was black—sleek and elegant, polished to a mirror shine despite the lingering drizzle. The craftsmanship alone marked it as expensive beyond measure. But it was the emblem on the door that made Arthur's blood run cold.
A golden griffin, wings spread wide, talons extended.
The Pembroke family crest.
*Why would—*
His first thought was Madame Pembroke. Perhaps she had arrived early, eager to finalize the arrangements. That would explain the carriage, the crest, the unexpected visit.
But something felt wrong.
The crest gleamed in the gray afternoon light, and Arthur couldn't help but picture the face that accompanied it. Not the Dowager Duchess with her calculating smile, but *him*. The half-blood bastard. The Rogue Duke.
Just looking at the emblem made Arthur's jaw clench with barely suppressed rage.
The morning newspapers had been full of speculation about the railway scandal—whispers that the Duke of Pembroke had orchestrated the entire scheme, profiting handsomely while investors like Arthur lost everything. It *had* to be true. How else could the man have withdrawn his investment with such perfect timing unless he'd known the collapse was coming?
It was obvious. Undeniable. *Infuriating.*
If Alexio Pembroke had been standing before him at this moment, Arthur would have struck him across the face without hesitation.
*That scheming, lowborn—*
The carriage door swung open.
Arthur arranged his features into a welcoming expression and stepped forward, extending his hand to assist Madame Pembroke down the steps.
"Did Madame come to discuss the outcome of the Rossi meeting?" he asked smoothly. "I'm certain everything proceeded according to—"
A large, gloved hand clasped his.
Arthur's gaze snapped upward.
The face that greeted him was not Madame Pembroke's.
It was *him*.
Alexio Pembroke stood in the carriage doorway, impossibly tall, dressed entirely in black, his violet eyes gleaming with undisguised amusement.
"*Gah*—Duke of Pembroke?!"
Arthur stumbled backward, releasing the man's hand as though burned. His voice emerged as an undignified squawk, all carefully cultivated dignity evaporating in an instant.
*Was that bastard always this tall?*
Arthur had always looked *down* on the Duke of Pembroke—metaphorically speaking. He'd avoided close contact, refused invitations, dismissed the man as beneath his notice. Consequently, he'd never realized just how *imposing* the Duke was in person.
Alexio smiled—a pleasant, courteous expression that somehow managed to convey absolute contempt.
"Your Highness came out personally to greet me?" He descended from the carriage with fluid grace, clasping Arthur's hand in a proper handshake before the prince could recover. "I hadn't expected such a warm welcome, *Father-in-Law*."
The title dropped like a stone into still water.
Arthur's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"His Grace the Duke of Pembroke arrives, and of course I would—" His brain caught up with his ears. He froze mid-sentence, replaying the Duke's words.
*Father-in-law?*
"Duke of Pembroke." Arthur's voice had gone dangerously flat. "What did you just call me?"
"I called you my father-in-law." Alexio's smile widened. "Is there a problem?"
"*Father-in-law?*"
"Precisely."
Arthur stared at the man, searching for signs of madness or jest. The Duke's expression remained perfectly serene—polite, pleasant, utterly infuriating.
*He's lost his mind,* Arthur decided. *Or he's mocking me.*
Either explanation was unacceptable.
"*Tch.*"
This was exactly why Arthur couldn't stand associating with people of *bad blood*. The Queen—bless her failing heart—had made a grave error in bestowing a ducal title upon this quasi-nobleman. The man was a disgrace to the aristocracy, a stain upon the kingdom's honor. It was Arthur's *duty* to correct such impertinence.
He opened his mouth to deliver a scathing reprimand—and caught sight of movement behind the Duke.
A familiar hem. A familiar dress.
A familiar *face*.
"*Adelina?*"
His daughter stood just inside the carriage doorway, rain-damp and pale, her expression carefully neutral.
"Why are you *here*?" Arthur's voice rose sharply. "What happened to Rossi? Weren't you supposed to be at the Marquis's estate? *Answer me!*"
He surged forward, words tumbling over each other in his fury.
"Have you lost your tongue? I'm asking you a question! Why did you come *back* instead of—"
"Father—"
"Don't 'Father' me! Explain yourself this instant!"
Adelina's lips pressed together, parting and closing several times as she searched for an opening that never came. Arthur's barrage of questions left no space for response.
Finally, she simply stopped trying.
Alexio, who had been observing the exchange with detached interest, stepped smoothly between father and daughter.
"*Ugh*—!"
Arthur found himself face-to-chest with the Duke, forced to retreat by the sheer wall of the man's presence.
"Duke of Pembroke!" The prince's face flushed crimson. "I have no time for you! Can't you see I'm discussing *family matters* with my daughter?"
"If this is a family matter," Alexio replied calmly, "then I have all the more reason to intervene." That pleasant smile remained fixed in place. "Please don't be so harsh with Adele, Father-in-Law. This is entirely my doing."
*Father-in-law.*
*Adele.*
The words struck Arthur like physical blows.
"There it is again!" He jabbed a finger toward the Duke's chest. "Why do you persist in calling me that? Have you forgotten your titles, Duke of Pembroke? Or have you simply abandoned all pretense of proper etiquette?"
"Not at all." Alexio's tone remained perfectly courteous. "Despite being only *half* a nobleman, I received excellent training in protocol. I assure you, *Father-in-Law*, my address is entirely appropriate."
"What—you did it *again*!"
Arthur had reached his limit.
He lunged past the Duke, reaching for Adelina with desperate hands. If he could just grab her, pull her away from this madman, get her inside where—
Alexio moved faster.
"*Ah!*"
A startled cry escaped Adelina's lips as she found herself pulled against the Duke's chest. His arm wrapped around her shoulders—protective, possessive, unmistakably *intimate*.
From the outside, they appeared to be embracing.
Arthur's eyes bulged nearly out of his skull.
"E-e-*what in blazes*—!"
"As you can see," Alexio announced, his voice carrying clearly across the courtyard, "Adele and I are getting married."
He pulled her slightly closer, his smile sharpening into something triumphant.
"Which is why it would be most appropriate to address Your Highness as my *father-in-law*."
The rain had stopped.
The clouds were beginning to part.
And Prince Arthur Roche stood frozen in his own courtyard, watching his carefully laid plans crumble to dust around him.
---