"He doesn't look at you?"
Duke Alistair Westwood's voice cracked through the room like a whip.
"Then make him look at you, you stupid girl."
Beléah flinched, her shoulders shrinking inward as the Duke paced toward her.
"Why are you clinging to that weak body of yours?" he spat. "Is she—that commoner—prettier than you?"
Beléah shook her head quickly.
"Does she have a more gorgeous body than you?"
Another frantic shake.
The Duke's eyes narrowed, his voice dripping disgust.
"Does she have bigger breasts than you?"
Beléah's cheeks heated, but again—she shook her head.
"Then if she has nothing," he hissed, "why are you behaving like a useless, emotional mess?"
Beléah swallowed, hands trembling.
"You will use what you have," Duke Alistair continued, tapping her forehead with an angry jab. "Your face. Your beauty. Your body. Everything. You understand?"
"Yes, Father…" she whispered, voice wavering.
"Good."
He clasped her chin firmly, forcing her to look up.
