The moment the heavy castle doors swung open, a blast of warm air hit my face, contrasting sharply with the icy winds outside. Standing in the dimly lit entryway was a tall man dressed in a pristine black suit. His posture was stiff, his graying hair slicked back, and his eyes sharp with scrutiny as they landed on me.
"Are you... the princess?" he asked, his tone teetering on disbelief.
For a moment, I wasn't sure if he was genuinely questioning my identity or mocking me. His gaze traveled over my threadbare cloak and plain, slightly damp dress, lingering on the mud-caked hem. His thin lips pressed into a frown, and he arched a brow as though expecting me to apologize for my very existence.
I straightened my back, ignoring the discomfort from the long journey and the weight of his judgment. "Yes," I said simply, my tone neutral but firm.
The butler's frown deepened. He adjusted his cuffs with deliberate slowness, as if giving himself time to process the unpleasant reality before him. "You're late," he said, his voice clipped. "And... underdressed. Surely the King's court could have afforded better attire for a royal bride."
Ah, there it was. The subtle dig. I held his gaze, my expression as blank as the snow-covered fields I had left behind.
"If there's an issue with my attire, I'm afraid you'll have to take it up with my father," I said, brushing past him into the grand foyer.
The interior of the castle was as cold and unwelcoming as its exterior. High vaulted ceilings loomed above, their dark wood beams draped in cobwebs. The stone walls were lined with tapestries, their once-vivid colors faded by time. A massive chandelier hung overhead, its crystals catching the dim light of the flickering torches.
The butler followed close behind, his polished shoes clicking against the stone floor. "You'll address him as His Majesty," he said, his voice stiff with disapproval.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "Of course," I replied, though the words were devoid of any sincerity.
He led me through the foyer and into a side corridor. Servants bustled about, their arms laden with trays, linens, and firewood. Unlike the palace staff back home, they didn't stop to stare or whisper. Instead, they cast me quick, indifferent glances before returning to their tasks.
It wasn't respect that silenced them, though—it was something else. Fear, perhaps?
As we passed, a young maid accidentally bumped into me, nearly spilling the stack of folded linens in her arms.
"Watch where you're going!" she snapped, her voice sharp with irritation.
I blinked at her audacity. Though I couldn't blame her. I probably looked like a lowly commoner in my attire.
Before I could respond, the butler cleared his throat. "Marta, mind your manners," he said, though his tone lacked any real reprimand.
The maid huffed, muttering something under her breath before scurrying off.
We continued down the corridor until we reached a grand staircase. Its marble steps gleamed under the dim light, and a thick red carpet ran down the center, softening the sound of our footsteps.
"This way," the butler said, motioning for me to follow.
At the top of the staircase, we turned left, entering a smaller, more secluded wing of the castle. The air here was cooler, and the stone walls seemed to close in, making the space feel oppressive.
Finally, we stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. The butler knocked twice before pushing it open, revealing a modest sitting room.
"The Grand Duke is currently occupied," the butler explained, his tone brisk. "You'll remain here until he's ready to meet you."
The room was sparsely furnished, with a single armchair near the fireplace and a small table in the corner. A fire crackled weakly in the hearth, offering little warmth. I moved to stand near it, rubbing my hands together to chase away the lingering chill.
The butler lingered in the doorway, watching me with a mix of suspicion and disdain. "Your accommodations will be prepared shortly," he said. "In the meantime, I suggest you take this opportunity to... collect yourself."
I raised a brow. "Collect myself?"
He hesitated, as though realizing he might have overstepped. "It's been a long journey," he said, his tone smoothing into something more neutral. "You'll want to make a good impression on His Grace."
As the door closed behind him, I let out a slow breath, taking in my surroundings. The walls were bare except for a single painting—a gloomy landscape of snow-covered mountains. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and aged wood, and the faint sound of wind howling outside added to the oppressive atmosphere.
I lowered myself into the armchair, its upholstery rough and worn. My muscles ached from the journey, but I couldn't afford to relax. This was just the beginning of the story, the first step in a long, treacherous path.
I stared into the weak flames, my thoughts racing. In the novel, this was the point where Ophelia's misery truly began. The Grand Duke was a man cursed not only in body but in spirit, his demeanor cold and unyielding. He ignored Ophelia, treating her as little more than a shadow within his castle walls.
But this time, things would be different.
I wasn't here to play the role of the trembling, forgotten wife. I had no intention of fading into the background, nor would I let the Grand Duke's curse dictate my fate.
No, I would take control of this story.
And if the Grand Duke thought he could ignore me, he was in for a rude awakening.
The sound of approaching footsteps jolted me from my thoughts. The door creaked open, and the butler stepped inside, his expression carefully neutral.
"His Grace will see you now," he said.
I stood, smoothing the wrinkles from my dress. As I followed him out of the room, my heart pounded with a mix of anticipation and resolve.
This was it—the moment where the real game began.