Deepak—no, Gerffron—woke to the soft rustle of curtains and the faint scent of roses that had already started to wilt. Sunlight sliced through the tall arched windows of the villa, painting golden stripes across the massive four-poster bed. For one blissful, treacherous second he thought he was back in his tiny Hyderabad hostel room, the fan whirring lazily overhead and his roommate snoring two feet away. Then his fingers brushed against silk sheets instead of cheap cotton, and reality crashed down like a carriage wheel over his chest.
He sat up too fast. The room spun. The same throbbing ache in his upper arm from last night flared bright and angry, a perfect circle of bruises already blooming violet under the pale skin that still didn't feel like his. He stared at it for a long moment, tracing the marks with trembling fingertips. Proof. This was real. The wedding, the balcony, the woman who had spoken to him like he was less than dirt—everything was real.
A soft knock echoed through the heavy wooden door.
"Your Grace?" Selfi's voice, calm and professional, the same light-yellow dress from yesterday now paired with a crisp white apron. She entered without waiting for permission, carrying a silver tray that steamed gently. "Good morning. I have brought your breakfast. Her Grace has already left for the eastern border patrol, but she left strict instructions."
Gerffron swallowed the lump in his throat. Of course she had. Gorgina Wadee didn't seem the type to linger for awkward morning-after small talk. He almost laughed at the absurdity—married less than twenty-four hours and already abandoned. In his old life, the closest he'd come to marriage was watching cousin Birsha mock him for even dreaming about it.
Selfi set the tray on the bedside table and began fluffing pillows with practiced efficiency. "Today you have etiquette lessons at ten. I have laid out your day clothes. The seamstress will visit after lunch to adjust your wardrobe—Her Grace insists everything be… appropriate for your station."
Station. The word tasted bitter. House-husband. Stay-at-home duke-consort. Whatever fancy title they gave it here, it still meant he was a glorified decoration. He glanced down at the breakfast: warm bread rolls glistening with butter, some kind of berry preserve that smelled like heaven, sliced fruits he didn't recognize, and a porcelain cup of something dark and fragrant. His stomach growled loudly, reminding him how desperately this new body needed fuel.
"Thank you, Selfi," he managed, voice still raspy from sleep. The maid paused mid-motion, tilting her head as if the politeness surprised her. In the original Gerffron's life, maybe he hadn't been big on please-and-thank-yous. Deepak filed that away—another tiny clue to the man whose skin he now wore.
He ate slowly, forcing himself to savor every bite while his mind raced. Back in India he'd never been a foodie; survival had always come first—good grades, keep your head down, don't give them more ammunition. Now this body devoured everything like it had been starved for weeks. Maybe it had. The itty bitty pieces of memories in his head (God, he still couldn't believe he was thinking in bullet points even after death) mentioned Gerffron's family situation. Lower-middle noble. Father who apparently couldn't keep it in his pants. Mother who collected half-siblings like stray cats and turned them all into unpaid servants. Original Gerffron was prideful enough to try jumping off a terrace rather than become a house husband.
He almost choked on a strawberry. The terrace. The original Gerffron had chosen the same way out Deepak had been forced into. Two broken souls colliding in one body. Karmic joke of the century.
Selfi cleared her throat gently. "Your Grace? The bath is ready. Shall I help you dress after?"
Help him dress. Like he was a child. Heat crawled up his neck. In his old life he'd barely let anyone see him in shorts after… after the computer lab incident. The memory tried to surface—cold tiles, laughter, cousin Birsha's voice outside the door—but he shoved it down hard. Not now. Not when he was already drowning.
"I can manage," he said quickly. "But… could you tell me more about the household? While I eat?"
Selfi's eyebrows rose a fraction—the only crack in her perfect maid composure. She folded her hands and began reciting in that calm, measured tone.
"The Wadee Duchy spans three provinces. Her Grace rules with an iron fist, as is expected. You, Your Grace, are the first consort in two generations. The previous duke… well. That is not my place to say. There are thirty-seven indoor servants, twelve gardeners, and the stable master. Your personal wing is the east tower—private study, library, and parlor for receiving guests. Her Grace's quarters are in the west wing. Separate, as she instructed last night."
Separate. Good. The thought of sharing a bed with those golden-amber eyes staring at him like he was prey made his skin crawl. Yet something about those eyes tugged at the back of his mind, a half-remembered nightmare he couldn't quite place.
Selfi continued, voice dropping slightly. "There is also Lady Elowen—Her Grace's mother. She resides in the north wing. She… likes things done a certain way."
The way Selfi hesitated made alarm bells ring in Deepak's head. Another mother-in-law. Fantastic. In every language, in every world, that title carried the same weight.
He finished the last of the bread and stood, testing his legs. The body was shorter than his old one, slimmer, but it moved with a strange grace he hadn't earned. He caught his reflection in the full-length mirror across the room—mousy brown hair tousled, emerald eyes wide and haunted, skin so pale it almost glowed in the morning light. He looked like a porcelain doll someone had dressed up for a wedding and then forgotten on a shelf.
"Selfi," he said quietly, "what was I like? Before yesterday, I mean."
The maid froze. For the first time, genuine surprise flickered across her face. She glanced at the closed door, then back at him. "You… you really don't remember anything, do you, Your Grace?"
He shook his head. No point lying. Not to the one person who seemed actually kind.
Selfi exhaled slowly. "Before you jumped off, you were quiet. Obedient. Your family… they sent you here with very clear instructions. Smile, bow, never speak out of turn. They took a large dowry from Her Grace. Very large. You tried to refuse the marriage at first. That was why the incident on the terrace took place two weeks ago. You survived. Barely. After that, you stopped fighting."
Deepak's stomach turned to ice. The terrace. The original Gerffron had chosen death over becoming a trophy husband. And now Deepak was living the life the boy had tried to escape.
He forced a smile he didn't feel. "Well. New day, new me, right?"
Selfi didn't smile back, but something softened in her eyes. "I'll prepare your clothes. The lessons begin soon. And Your Grace… be careful around Lady Elowen. She has very strong opinions about proper consorts."
The bath was heaven and torture at once. Hot water scented with lavender and something sharper—maybe rosemary—eased the bruises but couldn't wash away the panic clawing at his ribs. He scrubbed until his new skin turned pink, half expecting the body to dissolve and reveal the old Deepak underneath. It didn't. The emerald eyes staring back from the copper mirror remained stubbornly foreign.
When he emerged, Selfi had laid out clothes that made his jaw drop: a soft cream tunic embroidered with tiny golden leaves, matching breeches, and a long flowing over-robe of deep emerald that matched his eyes perfectly. It screamed expensive. It screamed, "look at me, I'm the duke's pretty little husband."
He hated it. He put it on anyway.
The etiquette lesson took place in a sunlit salon overlooking the rose gardens. The instructor was a tall, pinched-faced woman named Madam Vesper who looked like she'd swallowed a lemon and enjoyed the taste. She spent the first hour teaching him how to hold a teacup—pinky out, wrist relaxed, never slurp. Deepak's Indian brain screamed in protest. Back home you drank chai from steel glasses or cups and nobody cared about your damn pinky.
But he smiled. He nodded. He practiced the shallow bow that apparently passed for greeting among house-husbands. Because survival came first. Always had.
Halfway through the lesson the door opened without a knock.
Lady Elowen Wadee swept in like a storm wearing silk. She was taller than her daughter, silver threading through burgundy hair, the same golden-amber eyes narrowed in assessment. The resemblance to Gorgina was uncanny—and something about that stare made Deepak's spine lock up.
"So this is the new consort," she said, voice dripping honeyed disdain. "Stand up straight, boy. A Wadee husband does not slouch."
Deepak rose automatically, years of conditioning kicking in. The woman circled him slowly, gloved hand tapping her chin.
"Skin like milk, eyes like cheap glass. At least you're decorative. Though I told Gorgina we could have done better. The Cliff family has always bred weaklings. Your mother was a servant before she trapped your father, wasn't she? And now half your siblings scrub floors while you sit here eating our food."
The words landed like precise little knives. Deepak felt the old familiar burn behind his eyes—the same burn he'd felt every time Birsha had cornered him in the school corridor, every time relatives compared report cards, every time someone whispered "that boy is too soft, too girly, too wrong."
He kept his face blank. Years of practice made it easy.
"Yes, Lady Elowen," he answered softly. "I am grateful for the opportunity."
The older woman's lips curled. "Grateful. How quaint. You will attend my tea party next week. The other house-husbands will want to inspect you. Wear something that doesn't make you look like a drowned kitten. And for Arbestas' sake, stop staring at the floor. You are a duke's consort now. Act like it."
She left without another word. The door clicked shut like a jail cell locking.
Madam Vesper cleared her throat. "Shall we continue with the curtsy—ah, the consort bow?"
Deepak nodded, but inside something small and sharp was waking up. He'd spent twenty-two years letting people like Lady Elowen—people like Birsha—walk all over him. He'd died because of it.
Not this time.
The rest of the morning blurred. Selfi showed him the library—shelves upon shelves of leather-bound books that smelled of dust and history. He ran his fingers along the spines, recognizing none of the titles: Zenos Empire: A Complete Chronicle. The Laws of Consortship. Proper Conduct for the Domestic Noble. He pulled the last one out and flipped it open. Page after page of rules: never contradict your spouse in public, host at least three tea parties per season, produce an heir within five years or face royal penalty.
He closed the book with a snap. No same-sex marriage allowed. Yet here he was, legally bound to a woman who clearly despised him. The universe had a sick sense of humor.
Lunch was served in the private solar—a small round table set for one. Selfi explained Her Grace rarely ate at home during border patrols. Deepak ate alone, staring out at the manicured gardens where servants clipped roses with military precision. The flowers were beautiful. Perfect. Deadly. Just like everything else here.
Halfway through the meal a footman arrived with a sealed letter. The wax bore a simple C insignia. Cliff. His—Gerffron's—family.
Deepak broke the seal with shaking fingers.
Son,
We trust the wedding went smoothly. The funds have been most helpful. Your younger brothers send their regards. Do not forget your duty to the family. A good consort keeps his mouth shut and his legs open when required. We expect another payment by winter.
Mother.
The words swam. Payment. Duty. Keep your mouth shut. He could hear Birsha's voice in every line. The same casual cruelty. The same assumption that Deepak—Gerffron—existed only to be used.
He folded the letter carefully and tucked it into his sleeve. Evidence. Always keep evidence. He'd learned that the hard way after the computer lab. No proof, no justice. This time he would collect every scrap.
The afternoon dragged into evening. Selfi gave him a tour of the east wing—his domain now. A private study with a massive oak desk. A solar perfect for hosting teas. A small music room with a harp he had no idea how to play. And at the very end of the corridor, a locked door.
"What's behind that?" he asked.
Selfi hesitated again. "Storage, Your Grace. Old things. Nothing important."
The way she wouldn't meet his eyes told him it was very important. He filed it away. Later. When he wasn't being watched by thirty-seven pairs of servant eyes.
By the time the sun dipped low, painting the villa in blood-orange light, Gerffron felt like he'd aged ten years. His feet ached in the fancy boots. His head throbbed from memorizing titles and curtsies. But underneath the exhaustion, something new was stirring.
He stood on the same balcony from last night, wine glass in hand, watching the marketplace lights flicker on below. The same marketplace that had reminded him of home. Now it felt like a promise. People down there were living normal lives—laughing, bargaining, falling in love, making mistakes. Free.
He wasn't free. Not yet.
But he was alive. Twice over.
Deepak took a slow sip of wine and let the words form in his mind like a vow.
In this life, I'll try to live differently.
No more cowering. No more apologizing for existing. He would smile, he would bow, he would play the perfect house-husband. And while they all looked at the pretty doll on the duke's arm, he would learn every secret this duchy held. He would find out why Gorgina's eyes felt like Birsha's. He would discover what was behind that locked door. He would turn the half-siblings who wrote cold letters into allies or cut them loose—whatever kept him breathing.
And if anyone—mother-in-law, wife, royal decree—tried to break him again…
Well.
Roses had thorns for a reason.
A soft knock pulled him from his thoughts. Selfi again, this time carrying a small tray with evening tea and a single black rose.
"Her Grace sent word. She'll return late. She also sent this." The maid placed the black rose beside his glass. "She said it matches your eyes."
Deepak stared at the flower. Black. Beautiful. Deadly. A message? A threat? Or something worse—something almost like affection?
He picked it up carefully, thorns pricking his fingertip. A single drop of blood welled up, bright red against pale skin.
He smiled at the rose, small and sharp and entirely his own.
"Tell her thank you," he said softly. "And Selfi?"
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Tomorrow… I think I'd like to explore the gardens. Alone."
The maid bowed, but not before he caught the tiniest spark of approval in her eyes.
As night settled over the Villa of Wadee, Gerffron Cliff—formerly Deepak Sehwal—stood on the balcony and watched the moon play hide-and-seek once more. This time he didn't fall asleep.
This time he planned.