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... ords echoed off the high ceilings, "You're joking. You must be joking."

Her father's face, ever stern didn't so much as flinch. He sat at the head of the long table. "Enough, Marcella," Alistair said, his eyes sharp and devoid of warmth. "This matter has been settled. You are to marry Duke Berith Montclair of Ashenholt."

She blinked repeatedly. For a moment, the world felt as if it had tilted off its axis. Her fingers trembled, curling into tight fists at her sides, the nails bit ...

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