The Duke's carriage rolled to a stop before the great temple in the capital.
It was still early morning, yet rows of colorful carriages already crowded the courtyard — lacquered doors glinting in the pale winter light, coachmen stamping their feet against the cold. Today was the last day of the year, and with it came the temple's most lucrative hours. Guilt and ambition loosened purses faster than any sermon.
Juliet stepped down and walked some distance from the carriage before the footman could offer his arm.
"I'll be back soon."
Without a maid at her side, few recognized her. This was precisely the point. It allowed her to pass through the temple's arched entrance unhindered, just another face among the faithful.
Inside, the air smelled of warm wax and aged stone. The tradition was simple: those who made generous donations could write a wish on a slip of paper, and a priest would light a candle on their behalf. The larger the donation, the taller and more magnificent the candle. It was a clever arrangement — one that ensured aristocrats in need of divine favor kept their wallets open.
Dozens of candles already flickered around the altar, their flames trembling in the drafts. So many wishes had been made that the white marble goddess standing beneath the domed ceiling seemed to wear a halo of living gold.
Juliet reached into her purse and counted out several coins. It was only then, standing before the altar with the gold warming in her palm, that she realized she had nothing to wish for.
*What would I even ask?*
She stared up at the goddess's serene, unblinking face, searching for an answer that didn't come.
Then, from behind her — whispers.
"Is it true?"
"That woman?"
"Is that the Duke of Carlisle's *mistress*…?"
She didn't need to turn around. She could feel their gazes on her back like needlepoints pressed against bare skin.
---
Lennox Carlisle was wholly indifferent to society and its rituals. But the nobles of the empire were anything *but* indifferent to him.
An unmarried young duke. A ruler of immense wealth and terrifying power. A man who appeared in the capital only once a year — for the New Year's banquet at the imperial palace — and who arrived each time with a different beautiful woman on his arm.
His relationships never lasted more than three months. The women who briefly held the position were known, in drawing rooms and over teacups, as **"Carlisle's mistresses."**
They received an extraordinary amount of attention — though not the kind any woman would want.
The Duke's taste played a role in this. His mistresses were always stunning, but of surprisingly low status. Dazzling beauties with modest bloodlines and questionable refinement made ideal prey for high society's sharpest tongues.
People laughed at the Duke's shallow preferences. They mocked the naivety of the women who accepted his hand. But the most *delicious* topic — the one that kept parlors buzzing for weeks — was always the same:
*What happened to them after the Duke was finished?*
---
"Why, isn't that Miss Montague?"
*Of course.*
The moment Juliet handed her gold coins to the young priest and requested a candle, they descended.
"Miss Montague, when did you arrive in the capital?"
"Are you well? You look thin."
"I sent you a tea invitation the other day — I do hope you received it."
"I'll be *terribly* upset if you refuse me again."
Juliet drew a slow breath, arranged her smile, and replied with measured courtesy.
"I'm afraid I've been rather busy. Thank you for the kind invitation, but I must decline."
The smile was polite. The boundary was absolute. Their words meant nothing — Juliet knew precisely what they said about her the moment she turned her back.
*"Pathetic."*
*"Does she truly believe she'll become a duchess?"*
---
A few years ago, the capital had been genuinely *shocked* when Juliet Montague first appeared at the Duke of Carlisle's side.
The reason was simple: she was nothing like his previous mistresses.
Juliet Montague was the only daughter of the ancient Montague earldom. The family's fortune had long since faded — they could boast of little beyond their historic contributions to the empire's founding — but her bloodline and status were far above those of any woman the Duke had previously chosen.
More than that, she did not fit the pattern. Every mistress before her had been the same type: voluptuous, wide-eyed, unmistakably ornamental. Juliet, by contrast, was an elegant, refined beauty — her features delicate and composed, her calm blue eyes like something rendered by a painter's careful brush.
Those who remembered the Duke's usual tastes were perplexed.
The late Earl and Countess of Montague and their quiet, well-mannered daughter had rarely been the subject of gossip. And Lennox Carlisle — the Duke of the North, the center of every rumor and scandal in the empire — was her opposite in every conceivable way.
For a woman from *that* family to appear at a ball on *his* arm was extraordinary enough. That she was breathtakingly beautiful only deepened the mystery.
"Perhaps the Duke's tastes have changed."
"And how long will *this* one last?"
Their bewilderment was brief. Soon the gossip resumed its familiar rhythm, only now with a sharper edge. Because the higher the pedestal, the more satisfying the fall.
The moment she had foolishly taken the Duke of Carlisle's hand, Juliet Montague's fate had been sealed — at least in their eyes.
*"It's a pity you fill yourself with such dreams."*
*"The death of the Earl and Countess makes for quite the interesting story, doesn't it?"*
Mockery dressed in the silk of sympathy. Cruelty perfumed with concern.
People placed bets on how many months it would take before the Duke discarded her. Everyone waited, smiling behind their fans, for the foolish countess to fall.
But a month passed. Then another. The seasons turned. The year changed.
And there was no news.
Juliet Montague still lived in the north. She was still the Duke's mistress.
Society was *disappointed*.
No one believed the Duke had actually fallen in love, of course. The only duke in the empire who held no royal blood — and the disgraced Countess of Montague, whose tarnished name was hardly worthy of a duchess's coronet. It was unthinkable.
Besides, Lennox Carlisle treated her no differently than he had treated any of the others. If he had truly cared — if he had felt even a fraction of genuine affection — he would have formalized the relationship through marriage. They were both of age. There was no legal impediment.
The absence of a proposal said everything.
And so, those who had once merely whispered now began to speak openly.
"Have you heard? That woman apparently has quite a *strong* predisposition for bedroom arts."
"My *God*, how vulgar."
"Pretending to be well-bred — perhaps *that* is how she secured the Duke's favor."
They didn't believe she would ever become the Duchess of Carlisle.
And Juliet agreed with them.
Contrary to what many assumed, she had never once believed she would marry him. After all, no one knew Lennox Carlisle better than she did.
*Whatever is no longer useful is easily cast aside.*
---
"Oh my — who is *this*?"
A sudden commotion near the temple entrance drew every eye. The great doors swung wide, and a woman swept in, trailed by a retinue of attendants and hangers-on. Her gown was extravagant, her smile sharp, her presence designed to command attention.
She spotted Juliet and brightened as though greeting a dear friend.
"It's been *ages*, Miss Juliet!"
"…Princess Priscilla."
Though the hostility radiating from the woman was unmistakable, Juliet lowered her head in a polite bow, her expression betraying nothing.
Princess Priscilla — the Emperor's niece.
The imperial family had produced no daughters of its own, and Priscilla had long monopolized her uncle's affections. As a result, she enjoyed the privileges and title of a princess in all but official blood.
She was famous for another reason as well. Ten years ago, when Lennox Carlisle had attended his first New Year's banquet as the newly returned Duke of the North, Priscilla had been the first woman to dance with him.
She had been only fifteen at the time.
It had been enough. From that single dance, the princess had fallen hopelessly, obsessively in love. She begged the Emperor to send a marriage proposal to the Duke of Carlisle — and she did not stop begging.
The Emperor had agonized over the request. If Lennox Carlisle married into the imperial family, it would be tantamount to giving wings to an already dangerous predator. The Duke's military power, combined with a direct tie to the throne, would have made him virtually untouchable — a threat the Emperor could never hope to control.
But rejection carried its own dangers. A refused proposal would humiliate the imperial house. In the end, Priscilla's relentless persistence forced the matter into the open, and rumors spread that the offer had indeed been made on behalf of the crown.
And then…
"I'm a bit late in saying so," Juliet said smoothly, "but congratulations on your engagement, Princess."
"Oh, it's quite alright." Priscilla waved a gloved hand. "Since you live out in the *countryside*, it's only natural you'd hear the news late."
The barb landed softly, wrapped in a smile. Juliet let it pass. *There is a limit to being charming, and this woman found it years ago.*
Six months prior, Priscilla had finally become engaged to Count Kasper, a distant relative of the imperial family.
Juliet's gaze drifted to the young man standing at Priscilla's side. He was watching her with an openly appraising stare — his expression disapproving, his attire ostentatiously decorated in a way that spoke more of effort than taste. Count Kasper, without a doubt.
*Not a bad match for a princess.*
Count Kasper was the adopted son of the Marquis of Guinness, and upon his father's death, he would inherit the title. The Marquis of Guinness was one of the empire's most powerful nobles, ruling the vast southern territories.
"What wonderful luck!" Priscilla clasped her hands together, her voice ringing through the temple. "It must be *fate* that brought us together in such a place. Let's make a wish side by side!"
Before Juliet could respond, Priscilla seized her hand. Her grip was firm — possessive — as she steered Juliet toward the altar with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
"It's been *so* long since we've seen each other. Allow me to light a candle for you, Miss Montague."
With a magnanimous flourish, Priscilla produced a single gold coin and held it up for the crowd to admire.
Then she let it fall.
*Clink.*
The coin struck the marble floor and spun in a lazy, ringing circle before settling flat.
"Oh *dear!*" Priscilla pressed her fingers to her lips. "How clumsy of me — it slipped right out of my hand."
She placed her silk-slippered foot directly on top of the coin. The movement was precise. Deliberate. Unhurried.
"Juliet, would you be a darling and pick that up for me?"
The toe of her shoe pressed the gold firmly against the stone.
"You don't mind, do you?" Her smile widened. "We've been friends for *such* a long time."
A ripple of stifled laughter moved through the crowd as comprehension dawned. Arms folded. Fans lifted to hide smirks. Every eye fixed on Juliet, waiting — *hungry* — to see how the Duke's mistress would respond.
The trick was an old one. Priscilla had used it before on the Duke's previous lovers — a petty exercise in power that forced a woman to kneel at the princess's feet under the guise of a friendly favor. A small humiliation designed to remind everyone of the natural order.
Juliet looked down at the coin beneath Priscilla's shoe.
She did not blush. She did not flinch. She did not panic.
*Perhaps Princess Priscilla has forgotten who Juliet Montague is.*
The Montague name might have lost its luster, but the family remained among the empire's founders. And though Juliet had spent recent years in the north, she had grown up in this city — raised among these people, schooled in their games. She had survived seven years as the Duke of Carlisle's mistress. These childish provocations were beneath her notice.
Everyone wanted to see her shamed. Everyone expected her to crumble. But even if she had once chosen the wrong man, Juliet Montague was **far** from stupid.
She was not a naive girl chasing after love.
*I'm not fragile enough to break over something this small.*
And most importantly — Juliet Montague was in a ***terrible*** mood today.
"Well? Go on, pick it up," Priscilla urged, her voice sharpening with impatience.
On any other day, Juliet might have let this pass. She despised pettiness and had long ago learned that the surest way to win was to refuse to play.
But today was not any other day.
Juliet simply looked at Priscilla — looked at her the way one studies something mildly interesting — and smiled.
"I have a better idea, Princess."
"A *better* idea?" Confusion flickered across Priscilla's face — the first crack in her composure.
*Clink. Clatter. Ring.*
A cascade of gold coins tumbled from Juliet's open hands. They struck the marble in a bright, musical shower — scattering across the temple floor, rolling against the altar steps, spinning and glinting in the candlelight. One after another after another, until her purse was empty.
Priscilla stared, lips parting, her rehearsed smile dissolving into something blank and startled.
Juliet straightened, brushed her palms together lightly, and spoke with perfect warmth.
"I completely forgot to bring you a gift."
"What is—"
"Congratulations on your engagement, Princess." Juliet's smile was radiant. Sincere. *Devastating.*
Then, with exquisite precision, she echoed Priscilla's own words back to her.
"Oh dear — they slipped right out of my hand." She tilted her head, her blue eyes wide and innocent. "But we're *friends*. You won't be angry about something so small, will you?"
***Silence.***
Absolute, ringing, breathless silence filled the temple — broken only by the soft hiss of candle flames and the last gold coin rolling slowly to a stop against the goddess's marble feet.