"My lady, are you certain?"

Eliza's eyes were wide, the marriage contract trembling in her hands. "To marry the heir of the House of Blackwood? Lord Dylan Lucas?"

The name seemed to hang heavy in the air.

Rumor had it that Lord Dylan Lucas was as cold and ruthless as the northern lands he ruled. He could be summoned to the battlefield at a moment's notice, and might very well perish there.

Moreover, he was known to shun the company of women, yet he had three adopted sons. Marrying him meant, first and foremost, raising another's children.

Gabriella looked at her loyal, terrified maid, a trace of genuine warmth softening her gaze. "It is my best and only choice, Eliza."

She walked over to a small, carved wooden box on her vanity. Inside were the few precious belongings left by her birth mother, including several rare dried herbs.

In her past life, during the days she was imprisoned and forgotten, she had voraciously read books on medicine and healing—it had been her only solace.

Now, it was her bargaining chip and weapon in this second life.

She took out a piece of parchment and a quill, swiftly writing down a list of ingredients. "Take this to the estate's apothecary," she instructed Eliza. "Have them brew a healing draught using these exact herbs."

Eliza took the prescription, her expression a mix of confusion and concern, but she nodded.

Next, Gabriella penned a letter. Her handwriting was elegant, her wording meticulous. She expressed the humble concern of a bride-to-be for her fiancé as he prepared to fulfill his duties to the Crown. It was respectful but not fawning, caring but not overstepping.

Once the draught was brewed, she carefully packed the warm, fragrant vial alongside the sealed letter. "Have this delivered to the Blackwood estate immediately."

The scene shifted across the city to a study paneled in dark, imposing oak. The air within the Marquess of Blackwood's residence was stagnant and heavy.

Lord Dylan Lucas was polishing his broadsword. The steel blade gleamed under the lamplight, reflecting his handsome yet granite-hard features. His eyes were a deep, stormy grey, and his very presence imbued the room with a chilling, unapproachable aura.

His trusted aide, Finn, entered silently and placed a box from the Curtis manor on the corner of the massive desk.

Blackwood did not look up. He was indifferent to this marriage; it was an arrangement forced upon him by his grandmother to secure a mother for his three adopted wards.

"From your fiancée, my lord," Finn reported softly. "Lady Gabriella Curtis."

A faint crease appeared between Dylan's brows. He set the sword aside and opened the box with a trace of weary obligation.

A mild, earthy scent of herbs wafted out, contrasting sharply with the smell of old leather and steel that dominated the room.

He picked up the letter. The handwriting was graceful, exuding a feminine softness.

He read the contents, his expression unreadable. The lines were a delicate weave of etiquette and concern. He had expected something else—perhaps desperation, or even resentment. This quiet dignity caught him off guard.

Then, his gaze fell upon the vial of tonic.

He uncorked it and took a sniff, his eyes narrowing instantly.

Willow bark and devil's claw.

It was a remedy for deep joint pain, a prescription for the old war wound he so carefully hid—a weakness he never allowed anyone to see.

It was a closely guarded secret. How could she possibly know?

Finn watched his master, trying to gauge his mood. "Shall I dispose of it, my lord?"

Dylan remained silent for a long time before setting the vial back on the desk. "No," he said, his voice low. "Keep it."

His eyes lingered on her signature, the elegant strokes of the 'G' and 'C'. For the first time, this arranged marriage felt like more than just a name on a piece of paper. It now had a scent, a presence, a hint of mystery.

He recalled his grandmother's pragmatic words: "Blackwood, you need a mistress to manage the household. Someone to look after the boys."

Perhaps this Gabriella would be the right woman for the job.

Soon, the day of Gabriella's wedding arrived. She was escorted into the vast, luxurious bridal suite of Blackwood Manor.

Yet, she waited alone until night fell. Her husband, Lord Dylan Lucas, had not appeared.

Lord Dylan had not even attended his own wedding ceremony, sending his younger cousin to stand as a proxy in the groom's place.

The whispers among the few guests were merciless, gossiping about how insignificant Gabriella must be for the groom to not even bother showing up.

In her past life, Seraphina had endured the same humiliation, becoming a laughingstock the very next day.

Dylan Lucas was, indeed, a man of cold disposition and few desires.

In her previous life, after casting Seraphina out, he never remarried, remaining solitary for the rest of his days.

Until five years later, when his old wounds relapsed, leading to his untimely death.

Gabriella turned her head and instructed her maid, Eliza, to have the kitchens prepare a warm bowl of soothing herbal broth for Lord Dylan.

Finally, deep into the night, the heavy oak door creaked open. A gust of cold night air swept in, carrying the faint scent of wine and the chill of winter.

Lord Dylan Lucas stood in the doorway. He was taller than she remembered from his brief appearances at court, dressed in a stark black formal coat, his frame broad and imposing.

He stopped before her, his stormy grey eyes scanning her—cold and detached, like a general inspecting new artillery. There was no warmth, not a shred of a husband's interest.

A knot of tension tightened in Gabriella's stomach, but she maintained a serene expression. She had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in her mind.

He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing coldly against her cheek as he unceremoniously lifted her veil.

Their eyes met. His gaze was as cold as ice.

"Miss Curtis," he began, his voice a low rumble. "Or I suppose it is Lady Lucas now. There are certain things we must clarify from the very beginning."

Gabriella remained silent, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"I married you to fulfill my duty to my grandmother," he stated bluntly. "And to provide a nominal mother for my three adopted sons." He paused, letting the harsh honesty sink in. "This marriage is nothing more than that. I will not offer you my companionship, my affection, or my bed. In no true sense shall we be husband and wife."

Every word was like a shard of ice, methodically dissecting any illusions of matrimony.

Gabriella's eyelashes fluttered—a flawless imitation of a heartbroken young bride.

Slowly, she stood up, the heavy silk of her gown rustling around her. She executed a perfect curtsy, allowing him a brief glimpse of disappointment in her eyes before masking it away. "I understand, my lord," she said, her voice soft but clear, carrying just the right amount of tremor. "I never harbored any unrealistic expectations."

Gabriella raised her head, meeting his gaze—wide-eyed and sincere, shimmering with unshed tears. "My only request, my lord, is that you allow me to fulfill my duties to the children. To care for them as if they were my own." She pressed her advantage, her tone filled with tender earnestness. "They have lost so much already. They need a mother's love. I promise you, I will be a capable and devoted stepmother."

Her words struck the only chink in his armor. His sons were his sole weakness.

He scrutinized her, searching for any trace of deceit.

But he found none.

All he saw was a woman who knew her place and offered a practical solution.

Gabriella held her breath inwardly.

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension.

The muscle in Dylan's jaw tightened, then relaxed. Finally, the rigid line of his mouth softened, almost imperceptibly.

"Very well," he said stiffly. A pact was sealed.

He turned, preparing to leave for the adjacent study to sleep.

Just as his hand grasped the cold brass doorknob, Gabriella suddenly called out to him.

"My lord. Please, wait."