8

8

ANNE

Fury vibrated through me like a poorly strummed lute. My perfectly manicured nails dug into the velvet of the armchair, leaving faint crescent moons of frustration. There he sat, my supposed father, the Duke of Wales, sipping his brandy with an air of nonchalance that would make a saint want to spit fire.

“That’s it?” I hissed, barely containing the storm within. “You just hand over the Dukedom to Annalisa? No fight, no argument?”

He chuckled, a dry rasp that grated on my nerves. “Fight with whom, Anne? Annalisa’s the one who actually cares about this crumbling pile of stones. You, on the other hand…”

His voice trailed off, the implication clear – I only cared about the wealth and prestige the Dukedom brought. He wasn’t wrong, not entirely. But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t fight tooth and nail to keep it.

“She’s reckless, impulsive!” I sputtered, leaping to my feet. “That so-called husband of hers appeared out of thin air, and she marries him within a day! Is that the kind of pe