The next morning, Evelyn awoke with an unsettling warmth in her chest—one she refused to name.
She blamed the duke, of course. Damian Vale, with his infuriating arrogance, his smoldering stares, and that kiss—God, that kiss—had ruined her perfectly ordered world.
She stormed into the breakfast hall, determined to pretend nothing had changed. But the moment she saw him, sitting at the far end of the table, fingers lazily curled around a teacup, she knew.
Everything had changed.
Their eyes met.
And the smirk that slowly tugged at his lips made her stomach flip in the most annoying way.
"Good morning, my fiancée," Damian drawled, taking a slow sip of tea, as if he weren't the very cause of her sleepless night.
Evelyn stiffened. "Don't call me that."
He tilted his head, amusement flickering in his storm-gray eyes. "Would you prefer 'my love' instead?"
She nearly knocked over a servant's tray. "I would prefer you to choke on your tea."
Damian chuckled, setting his cup down. "Ah, and here I was hoping you'd confess you missed me."
"Missed you?" she scoffed, marching toward her seat. "I dreamt of all the ways I could strangle you in your sleep."
His smirk widened. "Dreaming of me already? Careful, darling, or I might start thinking you've fallen for me."
Evelyn shot him a murderous glare before snatching a piece of bread and tearing into it—if only to keep herself from throwing it at him.
The worst part?
She wasn't entirely sure he was wrong.