Clutching the sheet against her body, Juliet watched the man with bated breath.
He shed his robe and turned his back to the bed. Morning light carved the contours of his broad shoulders and the hard ridges of muscle that tapered down his spine — a flawless, predatory physique, built less for elegance than for violence. His face, when she'd glimpsed it, was all sharp angles, striking enough to steal the air from a room. Scars of varying length and depth were scattered across his skin like a history written in silver, and even *those* seemed deliberate, as though some cruel artist had placed them there for effect.
*For a moment*, Juliet thought, *I truly did lose my mind over this man.*
Having cast the robe aside, Lennox reached for a clean white shirt and pulled it on himself.
It was a habit unworthy of a duke of his station — dressing without a valet — but he was a man who had spent half his life on the battlefield. He despised the sight of his own scarred body and refused to let servants near it.
Because of this, only two kinds of women ever crossed the threshold of his bedroom: a woman who lasted one night, or a woman he intended to *use*.
Juliet was the latter.
*…Perhaps we were using each other all along.*
A quiet, bitter laugh escaped her lips.
She let her head fall back against the pillow, and in that same instant, her gaze met a pair of red eyes. The Duke's gaze narrowed as his fingers worked a silver cufflink into place.
"Did I wake you?"
His interest was only natural. After their nights together, Juliet was usually so spent she couldn't lift a finger the following day. Instead of rising at dawn, she typically slept well past noon.
"…No, Your Highness," Juliet replied with a soft sigh.
She pushed the sheet aside and stood. Now that he'd noticed her watching, pretending to sleep would only look foolish.
The truth was, she hadn't slept at all. She had lain awake through the long hours of the night, eyes open in the dark, her heart beating with a restless energy that left no room for exhaustion.
"I need to tell you something," she said carefully, stepping down from the bed.
Her long hair fell around her in a tangled curtain. She could feel the knots catching against her bare shoulders, but for once, Juliet did not care how she looked.
It wouldn't have mattered if she had. No matter how carefully she dressed, Juliet always looked faded standing before this man, who burned like the sun itself. Compared to him, even her brightest summer dresses seemed no better than modest nightclothes.
"Tell me later."
"Lennox." Juliet's hand shot out, catching his wrist before he could turn away.
*There won't be a later. Not if I stay silent now.*
**Lennox Carlisle.**
The empire's youngest ruler. The Northern Duke of Carlisle. Her lover — and her lover was a devastatingly busy man.
They were always surrounded by attendants, advisors, officers. This sliver of morning, these few minutes between his waking and his duties, was the only time they were ever truly alone.
"It will only take a minute," she pressed. "I won't waste your time."
The Duke looked down at the woman clinging to his arm.
Cold, pitiless red eyes. Juliet felt a shudder crawl up her spine under that indifferent gaze, but she did not release him. She did not look away.
Finally, after a silence that stretched thin as wire, permission came.
"Fine."
Juliet exhaled in relief. The Duke moved to the edge of the table and leaned against it. He picked up a silver cigar case, flicked it open, and drew out a cigar with practiced ease.
"Speak."
"It's… well…"
Her lips parted, but the words resisted. She didn't know how to approach this — didn't know where to begin.
*Just say it.*
"I—"
"A present?"
"…What?"
"This is about your birthday present, isn't it?"
"……Ah."
*A birthday present.*
Juliet blinked, momentarily thrown by the unexpected interruption. Only then did it register — her twenty-fifth birthday was mere days away.
The Duke of Carlisle had never been a caring lover. He forgot anniversaries, ignored sentiment, and treated affection like an inconvenience. But he was *endlessly* generous with his wealth. Having a rich, busy lover meant growing accustomed to gold in place of warmth.
And yet, her birthday was the one date he always remembered.
Just one day a year. ***One single day*** when Juliet Montague was permitted to ask him for something.
A slow smile spread across her face, and she nodded.
"Yes. That's exactly right. It's about my birthday present."
If the Duke noticed the sudden shift in her expression — the way her smile hardened at its edges — he gave no sign of it. He smoothed a hand through his hair with a careless gesture, already losing interest.
It was nothing more than a flicker of irritation. But even that small motion, performed by *him*, carried something dangerous.
"Tell me what you want."
Instead of answering, Juliet let out a breathless laugh. Seven years ago, when they had first met, this man had said those very same words — followed immediately by a condition.
*Tell me what you want. Besides marriage.*
Back then, disgusted by his arrogance, she had made impossible, unreasonable demands just to spite him. But every one of them had rolled off Lennox Carlisle like rain off stone. Her lover existed on a plane she could never reach.
To him, she was nothing more than a mild irritant — a nuisance, no different from any of her petty requests. Juliet was clever. It hadn't taken her long to understand this.
*Yes.* She had always known. He could discard her without so much as blinking. Juliet knew this better than anyone alive.
"This year," she said quietly, "I don't want a gift. I want a favor."
"A favor?"
"Yes."
After a heartbeat of hesitation, she continued.
"…Do you promise you'll hear me out?"
Something about her seriousness — the gravity with which she held herself, as though standing before a tribunal rather than a lover — struck a chord. For the first time, a sound that resembled laughter escaped the Duke of Carlisle's lips. His usually stern mouth twisted into a crooked, wolfish grin.
It was pure mockery. But no one in the empire would have dared call the young Duke on his arrogance. He did not fear the emperor. Lennox Carlisle's power and bloodline could have secured him the throne itself, had he ever desired it.
And this was merely a birthday wish from a mistress.
"Alright. I swear," Lennox said, his tone dry as parchment.
He was humoring her — toying with her, the way a cat bats at something it has already lost interest in. But that was enough. That careless oath was all Juliet needed.
"Thank you, Your Highness. I—"
She smiled — sweet, honeyed, deliberate — and blinked with exaggerated slowness, holding the mask of adoration in place for one final, trembling moment.
Then she let it fall.
"Please break up with me."
"…*What?*"
"Your Highness."
Juliet's smile did not waver. It widened — bright and serene, almost angelic — as she delivered the words that shattered every one of Lennox Carlisle's expectations.
"Let's end what we have between us."