The townhouse stood quiet under the midday sun, its stone facade as unyielding as the man who lived within. Clorinde and Wriothesley approached the gate hand in hand, her grip tight enough to betray the storm raging beneath her composed exterior. The bright morning light caught the silver embroidery on her Champion coat, turning it into a shield of gleaming resolve, while Wriothesley’s dark attire absorbed the warmth, his scarred knuckles flexing once as they paused at the threshold.

  Clorinde glanced at him. “You don’t have to do this.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I know. But we do.”

  She knocked—three sharp raps that echoed like a challenge.

  étienne opened the door himself. His eyes—violet like his daughter’s, but colder, sharper—flicked from Clorinde to Wriothesley and back. No surprise. No warmth. Just the flat assessment of a man who had spent his life weighing threats.

  “You brought him here. To what do I owe the pleasure.” he said. Not a question.

  Clorinde lifted her chin. “We came to talk.”

  étienne stepped aside—cane tapping once against the floor like a judge’s gavel. “Then talk.”

  The sitting room was as austere as Clorinde remembered: high-backed chairs arranged like a courtroom, a single hydro lamp burning low on the mantel, family portraits staring down with frozen disapproval. Her mother’s face—soft, lavender-haired, forever young—hung above the fireplace. étienne took his seat there, cane planted between his knees.

  Clorinde and Wriothesley remained standing—united, unbowed.

  étienne’s gaze settled on Wriothesley. “So. The Duke of Meropide. Former convict. Murderer of his adoptive parents. And now you stand in my home, holding my daughter’s hand like you deserve it.”

  Wriothesley’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. “I don’t pretend to deserve it. But she chose me. And I will spend every day proving I’m worthy of that choice.”

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  étienne’s laugh was short, bitter. “Worthy? You killed to escape your past. You rule a prison because you belong in one. And you think that’s enough for her? For the Champion Duelist? The blade of Fontaine’s justice?”

  Clorinde stepped forward. “Enough. This isn’t about your judgment. This is about us. I chose him. A long time ago. In that alley. When he was just a boy who needed bread and I was just a girl who needed someone to see me. And I choose him now. Every day.”

  étienne’s eyes flashed. “You disgrace your title. Your mother’s memory. Everything I taught you.”

  “You taught me nothing but distance,” Clorinde shot back, voice cracking for the first time. “You looked at me and saw her death. You raised me like a weapon, not a daughter. Wriothesley saw me as a person. As someone worth fighting for. Worth loving.”

  The word hung in the air—love—like a drawn sword.

  étienne’s knuckles whitened on his cane. “Love? From a man with blood on his hands? He will drag you into the depths with him.”

  Wriothesley spoke then—quiet, but unyielding.

  “What do I need to do?” he asked. “To earn your approval. Tell me. I’ll do it.”

  étienne stared at him—measuring, judging.

  “There is nothing you can do,” he said finally. “You are a convict. A killer. No title changes that. No pardon erases blood. You are unworthy of her. And if she chooses you, she chooses disgrace.”

  Clorinde’s voice turned to steel.

  “Then give your consent anyway,” she demanded. “Because I will not let you stand between us. Not after everything. You knew about our friendship when we were children. You saw me come home with dirt on my dress and hope in my eyes, and you said nothing. Why ruin this now? The only thing I’ve ever truly wanted?”

  étienne rose—slowly, leaning on his cane.

  “Because I will not watch you destroy yourself for a man who lives in shadows.”

  Clorinde stepped closer—eyes blazing.

  “Then don’t watch. Because I will live with him. Even if it means inside the Fortress. Even if it means giving up this house. This life. Everything but him.”

  The room went still.

  Wriothesley’s breath caught. He looked at her—stared intently—and felt something crack open inside his chest. Love, fierce and unyielding.

  “I won’t let that happen,” he said quietly. “I will provide for her. Everything she needs. A home. Safety. Happiness. Whatever it takes. I swear it—on my title, on my life. I will give her the world she deserves. Even if I have to build it from the depths up.”

  étienne stared at them—daughter defiant, man resolute.

  “You have my disapproval,” he said at last. “But you do not have my permission to need it.”

  He turned and left the room—cane tapping like a retreating storm.

  Clorinde exhaled—shaky, triumphant—and leaned into Wriothesley’s side.

  He wrapped an arm around her.

  “We don’t need it,” she murmured against his chest. “We have each other.”

  He nodded.

  And in that moment, with her father’s shadow retreating down the hall, they both knew: they would build their future together.

  No matter the cost.