Isabella didn’t wait for a reply. She turned on her heel, her worn cloak swirling around her ankles as she stormed out of the shop. The bell above the door chimed a frantic, mocking goodbye.

Even though family’s debts felt like a noose around her neck, she would rather starve than take a single copper from a man who treated her desperation like a spectator sport.

​Inside the shop, silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the settling of dust. Leon stood still, his gaze fixed on the door she had just slammed. He didn’t look angry or insulted; he looked satisfied.

​The heavy curtain at the back of the shop parted, and the elderly shopkeeper stepped out, his wrinkled face splitting into a knowing, toothless grin. He leaned his elbows on the scarred wooden counter, looking at the nobleman who remained in the shadows.

​"Well?" the old man rasped. "What do you think of her, My Lord?"

​Leon turned, a faint, chillingly calm smile playing on his lips. "She’s perfect."

​"Perfect?" The old man chuckled, shaking his head. "A fallen Baron’s daughter with nothing to her name but a sharp tongue and a head of hair she can’t afford to keep? I’ve seen many ’perfect’ things in my time, but she... she looks like a disaster."

​"Exactly," Leon replied, his silver eyes flashing with a cold, calculated light. "A fallen family with no ties to the Duchy of Tharon or any other influential nobles. They are isolated, desperate, and forgotten by the court. To find a noblewoman who has descended so far that she is willing to sell her own hair... it’s exactly what I needed."

​"Your tastes are as strange as ever," the shopkeeper muttered, scratching his chin. "I still don’t understand why you had me scouring the city for ruined noblewomen like this."

​"That is my concern," Leon said, his voice dropping into a tone that invited no further questions.

​He reached into his coat and pulled out a heavy leather purse, placing it on the counter with a dull, weighted thud. "Your services are no longer required. Thank you for the lead."

​As he turned to leave, Leon paused at the threshold, his hand on the cold iron handle of the door.

​"One more thing," he added, looking back over his shoulder. "If she returns—and she will—tell her you are no longer buying hair. Tell her the market has crashed, or the demand has vanished. I don’t care what lie you use, as long as she leaves with her hair intact."

​The shopkeeper nodded, his eyes on the gold. "Consider it done."

​Leon stepped out into the rain, the mist swallowing his figure. He hadn’t just ’met’ Isabella by chance; he had hunted for someone like her. And now, the trap was set.

Leon returned to the Duchy that evening, the damp chill of the rain still clinging to his dark coat. He found his brother, Mathias, in the dimly lit study, lounging by the fireplace with a glass of deep red wine in his hand.

​Mathias looked up as Leon entered, his eyes narrowing as he took in his brother’s unusual expression. There was something there—a flicker of cold satisfaction mixed with something Mathias couldn’t quite name.

​"Leon," Mathias said, raising his glass in a mock toast. "What is that look on your face? Don’t tell me you’ve gone and committed some grand catastrophe while I wasn’t looking."

​Leon moved toward the decanter, pouring himself a drink with practiced elegance. "Brother, why is it that every time I do something, you assume it’s a disaster?"

​"Because I am your brother," Mathias countered with a dry chuckle. "And I know you. So, out with it. What did you do?"

​Leon took a slow sip of the wine, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint, cryptic smirk. "I think... I’ve found a wife."

​Mathias choked. A spray of wine escaped his lips as he coughed violently, his eyes bulging in pure shock. "A wife? Leon, this is hardly the time for your twisted sense of humor."

​"I am quite serious, brother," Leon replied, his voice as calm as a frozen lake.

​"Who is the poor girl? The poor, unfortunate soul?" Mathias asked, still breathless, wiping his chin with a silken sleeve.

​Leon tilted his head slightly. "Why ’unfortunate’? I believe I am quite a catch."

​"Yes, yes, of course. A catch with teeth," Mathias muttered, leaning forward. "Just tell me. Who is she?"

​Leon looked into the swirling red depths of his glass, his voice dropping into a firm, unwavering tone.

​"Isabella Norman."

​"Norman? Who is that? I’ve never heard that name in my life," Mathias said, frowning as he searched his memory for any noble house with that name.

​"Exactly. That’s the point," Leon replied coolly. "She is from a fallen house. As you know, I want a wife with no strings attached to the current high society. I don’t want any more political headaches; this palace already has enough poison flowing through its halls."

​Mathias stared at him, incredulous. "So... your solution is to just marry a random woman off the street?"

​"It wasn’t random. I’ve met her."

​"You met her?" Mathias leaned in, his eyebrows shooting up. "And what did she say to your ’charming’ proposal, you madman?"

​"I haven’t proposed yet."

​Mathias blinked, confused. "Then what happened when you met? Did you at least have a civilized conversation?"

​"She called me a deviant," Leon said flatly, as if he were discussing the weather.

​A heavy, stunned silence filled the room. Mathias’s jaw practically hit the floor as he stared at his brother in utter bewilderment.

​"What on earth did you do, Leon, to make a noblewoman call you that?"

​"Nothing," Leon shrugged, taking a calm sip of his wine. "I simply offered to buy her hair. That was all."

​"Buy her hair?" Mathias exploded, half-laughing and half-horrified. "You offered to buy a woman’s hair the very first time you met her? Leon... you are a deviant. You truly have some strange, twisted tendencies!"

​"You are boring, Mathias," Leon said, his voice laced with a hint of feigned disappointment. "I asked her with the purest of intentions."

​"Yes, well, keep your ’intentions’ to yourself," Mathias retorted, rubbing his temples. "You’d better take yourself to her and apologize. And for heaven’s sake, take a bouquet of flowers with you."

​Leon tilted his head, his silver eyes reflecting the hearth’s glow. "So... you aren’t against it?"

​Mathias sighed, his expression softening for a fleeting moment. "You have to marry sooner or later, Leon. If you think she is the right one, then marry her. It’s a thousand times better than being trapped in a political arrangement like I am."

​"I suppose you’re right," Leon murmured, standing up.

​The next morning, the world felt gray and heavy to Isabella. Her heart was a leaden weight in her chest. She had returned home the previous evening empty-handed, unable to help her father after the shopkeeper’s sudden, inexplicable refusal to buy her hair. The despair was starting to feel like a permanent resident in their crumbling house.

​A soft, rhythmic knocking at the front door broke the suffocating silence.

​There were no servants left to answer it; the halls that once echoed with the bustle of a noble household were now hollow and cold. Isabella straightened her worn dress, wiped her face, and went to open it herself.

​She pulled the door open, only to freeze.

​There, standing on her doorstep with the morning mist swirling around him, was the stranger from the shop. Leon.

​He raised a hand, waving slightly with a calm, almost casual air. "Hello, Miss Isabella."

​Isabella stared at him for a heartbeat, her emerald eyes igniting with a sudden, searing fury. Without a single word, she gripped the handle and slammed the door shut, the bang echoing through the house.

​Leon blinked, staring at the weathered wood of the door. He hadn’t expected such a swift execution of his greeting. He reached out and knocked again, more persistent this time.

​"Excuse me, Miss Isabella!" he called out through the door, his voice still infuriatingly steady. "I truly have a matter of great importance I wish to discuss with you."

​A cunning smile played on Leon’s lips as he leaned forward, his voice dropping into a low, persuasive velvet. "If I were to pay off your father’s debts and relieve him of that crushing burden... would you mind if I placed a ring on that hand?"

​Isabella’s breath hitched, her cup rattling slightly against the saucer. "What? Are you... are you making a deal with me?"

​"Yes," he replied, his face turning stone-cold and serious, the mischief vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

​"I don’t understand," she stammered, her mind spinning. "We’ve only met twice, and—"

​"It isn’t about the meetings," Leon interrupted, his gaze piercing through her defenses. "Think of it as a political marriage of a different sort. I need a wife who is far removed from the filth of the high noble society, someone with no strings and no hidden agendas. And you? You will need a husband sooner or later, and your father needs a miracle. Consider it a fair trade, Miss Isabella. What do you say?"

Isabella looked at him, her throat tightening. The image of her father behind iron bars flashed before her eyes, followed by the memory of the empty cupboards and the cold nights. She had no choice. She had already thrown away her pride in that hair shop; what was a marriage compared to her father’s life?

​"I... I accept," she whispered, her voice trembling. "For my father’s sake, I will do it."

​Leon stood up, but he didn’t head for the door. Instead, he moved toward her and slowly dropped to one knee. Isabella gasped, retreating a step in surprise. From his pocket, he pulled out a small velvet box and flicked it open.

​Inside sat a ring—a delicate gold band set with a pale emerald, surrounded by tiny, intricate silver leaves.

​Isabella’s breath hitched. She didn’t just recognize the ring; she felt a phantom warmth on her fingers just looking at it. "This... is this my mother’s ring?"

​Her voice broke as she stared at the piece of jewelry she had been forced to sell to a nameless merchant months ago just to buy medicine.

​Leon looked up at her, his silver eyes softer than she had ever seen them. "My brother advised me to apologize to you with flowers... but I thought this would be a better way to ask for your hand. I know we are strangers, Isabella. And I know this started as a deal. But as my wife, I promise I will do everything in my power to ensure you never have to sell anything you love ever again."

​He held the ring out, waiting. "So, will you truly be my wife?"

​Isabella felt a tear slip down her cheek—not out of misery this time, but out of a sudden, overwhelming sense of relief. She reached out, her fingers brushing his as she let him slide the ring onto her finger.

​"Yes," she sobbed softly. "Yes, I will."

​[Present Day]

​The memory shattered like glass as a cold draft swept through the chamber. Isabella blinked, finding herself back in the heavy silence of the palace.

​She looked down at her hand. The emerald ring was still there, catching the dim candlelight. It was the only thing that had remained constant through the years of their complicated marriage.

​She traced the cold metal of the ring with her thumb, a sharp, aching loneliness blossoming in her chest. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t see the "deviant" stranger or the "calculating" husband. She only saw the man who had brought her mother’s memory back to her when she was at her lowest.

​"I really miss him," she whispered to the empty, shadows of the room. Her voice was barely a breath, fragile and longing. "I wish... I wish he would just talk to me again."

​