The grand dining hall was illuminated by a thousand candles, but the air felt suffocating. Lady Isabella sat at the head of the table, her eyes darting between Arthur and Elena, who was serving the wine.
"You're clumsy, girl!" Isabella hissed, purposefully knocking her glass over so that the deep red wine spilled across the silk tablecloth—and onto Elena's apron.
The room went silent. Arthur's grip on his silverware tightened until his knuckles turned white. Elena, however, didn't flinch. She grabbed a linen napkin and began to clean the mess with a grace that silenced the room.
"My apologies, My Lady," Elena said, her voice steady. "But perhaps it is the glass that is unsteady, not the hand."
Isabella's face turned crimson with rage, but before she could retort, William, Arthur's best friend, chuckled softly. "A sharp wit, Arthur. Where did you find such a jewel?"
Later that night, the mansion was shrouded in shadows. Arthur had retreated to the frost-bitten garden. Elena, noticing he had left his coat behind, hurried after him. She found him sitting on a stone bench, his head in his hands, trembling. He wasn't just cold; he was breaking.
"Your Grace?" she whispered.
Arthur looked up, his eyes glassy. "It's not just a marriage, Elena. It's a sale. My family's debts are so deep that the Marquis owns my very name. If I don't marry her, they will take everything from my people."
Elena stepped closer, ignoring the boundaries of her station. She placed a hand on his trembling shoulder. "Then we shall find a way to pay the debt before the wedding day."
Just then, a voice boomed from the terrace: "The Marquis has arrived to finalize the date!" It was the head butler, his voice sounding like a death knell.
Arthur looked at Elena, his hand catching hers. "Don't leave," he pleaded, his voice raw.