The Hale family house stood crooked at the edge of a dusty village path—built of worn mud bricks, patched holes, and creaking wood that groaned with every passing breeze. The roof, covered in rusted tin sheets, leaked when it rained. It was a place where every corner whispered of hardship. The windows were small and fogged, and their only real light came from the outside world—sunshine, hope, and the stubborn bloom of wildflowers that clung to the dry garden walls.
Despite the poverty that wrapped around their lives like a second skin, there was something magical about that little house. Not because of its walls—but because of one girl who lived inside.
Isolde Hale.
The youngest of four daughters, Isolde didn't dress in silks or attend grand parties. Her hands were always calloused from weeding the flower beds, her skin sun-kissed and freckled, and her gown always slightly torn at the hem. But she was radiant in ways that money could never buy—kind, honest, and endlessly captivating.
Isolde Hale was a vision the world rarely deserved.
Among all her siblings, she shone the brightest — not just in beauty, but in grace, warmth, and a certain mystique that made strangers pause and look twice. Her long hair flowed like liquid silver under the sunlight, cascading down her back in soft, glimmering waves that danced in the wind like moonlight over water.
But it was her eyes — those unforgettable celestial amethysts — that left even the hardest of hearts breathless. Speckled with golden flecks of moonfire, a rare glow seen only in old myths and ancient legends, her gaze seemed touched by the heavens themselves. They weren't just eyes; they were entire galaxies, holding secrets and stories no one else could read.
Her skin held the softness of morning dew, kissed by light yet untouched by time. Her presence was both soothing and electrifying — the kind that made even flowers seem to bloom just a little more brightly when she walked by. Her voice, light and airy, felt like the first spring wind after a bitter winter.
Many in the town whispered that she was no ordinary girl, that perhaps the gods had carved her with their own hands — a goddess in human form. And though her family struggled, and though her clothes were often patched and plain, nothing could hide the divine glow that surrounded Isolde Hale.
It was early morning, and while her sisters had long finished their chores and returned inside, Isolde remained in the flower garden. The family called it the Hale & Bloom Garden, though there wasn't much business left in it. Yet Isolde gave her heart to it every day—caring for every petal, every root, as if they were pieces of her soul.
She was kneeling in the soil, hands stained with earth, when she heard the unexpected clatter of wheels on gravel.
A black and silver carriage—sleek, royal, and far too elegant for their humble village—came to a halt just before their crooked gate.
Isolde's breath caught.
The door opened, and stepping down in boots polished to perfection was Mr. Evander Crowhurst—the Duke's steward. Sharp-eyed, silent, and noble in stature, he carried the air of a man who could command a room without ever raising his voice.
Isolde dropped her tools and ran to him without hesitation. Her feet splashed through puddles, her heart pounding with joy. She threw her arms around him before her thoughts could catch up to her actions.
"I thought you were coming next month!" she exclaimed, burying her face in his chest.
Evander chuckled—a rare sound from a man so composed. "The Duke changed his plans."
"But... I thought what he says is always final," she asked curiously, pulling away to look into his storm-gray eyes.
"It usually is," Evander said with a small smile. "But I told him I had to meet my incoming wife. Otherwise, she'd get mad at me."
Isolde burst into laughter, brushing a flower petal from his shoulder.
"You're not wrong."
For a moment, the world was just the two of them, surrounded by sun-warmed roses and wilting lilies. Isolde's heart bloomed with happiness, but beneath it, a storm of worry began to churn.
"I want to marry you, Isolde," he said quietly. "I may not be a prince, but I promise you a life of loyalty and safety. If you still want me, I'll speak to your family."
Isolde's smile faltered. She had waited for these words—dreamed of them in the quiet of the night. But the thought of her family's reaction... especially her mother's... made her tremble.
—
That morning, over a modest breakfast of boiled cassava and corn porridge, Isolde summoned all her courage and shared the news.
"Mr. Evander has asked to marry me," she said gently. "He wishes to speak to you, father."
Her father, Mr. Hale, a quiet man with tired eyes and a tattered cap, nodded slowly. "I'll think on it. He is a man of standing. If his intentions are honest... then maybe."
But her mother, Mrs. Vivienne Hale, dropped her spoon with a loud clink.
"No," she said sharply. "Absolutely not. Your older sister Janet must marry first. That is how it has always been."
Isolde looked down, her throat tightening. "But... it's me he wants to marry."
Before she could say more, a hand rested gently on her shoulder.
"It's true, Mother," Janet said kindly. "Evander wants her, and frankly... I love the fact that my younger sister is getting married to a wealthy, handsome young man. She deserves it."
Isolde looked at her big sister, touched by the sincerity in her voice. Arabella and Wilhelmina chimed in with cheerful congratulations, pulling her into a hug.
But the sweetness didn't last.
Later that afternoon, Mrs. Vivienne called Janet into her bedroom.
The door clicked shut.
"My dear," she whispered with venom laced in honey, "Do you know what the townsfolk will say? That you're unworthy. That your own younger sister married into wealth before you. That you've been disgraced."
Janet hesitated. "But Mother... she's happy. I'm happy for her."
Vivienne's voice hardened. "This isn't about happiness. It's about dignity. Don't you remember how Isolde always takes what's meant to be yours? Since you were children. First, your dresses. Then, your birthday cake. And now… your future."
Janet looked down, emotions clashing inside her.
"You are beautiful, Janet. Elegant. And you deserve that life more than anyone. Take what's rightfully yours. Make me proud. Don't let history repeat itself."
For a long time, Janet stood silently. Then she nodded slowly.
"You're right... She's disrespecting me. The last born... marrying before me... No. That can't happen."
And just like that, a seed of betrayal was planted.
A storm was coming.
Would Mr. Evander marry the woman he truly loved?