I was guided by the butler through the quiet yet dignified hallways of Duke Tristan's residence, until we finally arrived at a room that—honestly—looked like a study masquerading as a drawing room.
High bookshelves lined the walls.
A large, solid wooden desk stood without excessive carvings. Wide windows with plain curtains let in just enough light. There was no "screaming" luxury. Everything was calm. Functional.
Masculine.
Very… Duke Tristan.
And there he was. Sitting with a straight back, hands folded casually on a small table, his expression as calm and flat as a lake that looks tame but likely hides a prehistoric monster at its depths.
And his hair—look at his hair. It fluttered beautifully like a dark night filled with stars. That long, black, silky hair. It moved submissively, blown by a breeze coming from who-knows-where.
Oh gods, oh gods. Please stop my saliva from leaking because my mouth is hanging wide open in pure fascination.
