ONE NIGHT STAND WITH HOT DUKE-Chapter 142: More like a forced bond

The messenger exhaled in relief, nearly collapsing under it, then hurried to his feet and gestured. A carriage bearing the crest of House Kosler waited not far away too ready, as though the family had known Demian would stop, would hesitate, would turn back.

Demian stepped inside.

The carriage door shut with a heavy sound, as if sealing one possibility and opening another. As the wheels began to roll away from the palace, Demian leaned his head back for a moment, his eyes closing.

He did not know what awaited him at the Kosler estate.

He did not know whether this was a sincere plea... or the final trial of a bond that refused to die.

But one thing was now clear to him, before he could truly decide his future, the bond and all its consequences had already demanded its price.

The room was heavy with the scent of bitter tinctures and healing candles.

Ivanka lay upon the great canopied bed, the white sheets stark against the pallor of her skin. Her hair, once always impeccably arranged now spilled untidily across the pillow. Her lips had lost their color, her chest rising and falling faintly too faintly for someone who had always seemed strong, untouchable.

Demian stood several steps from the bed.

For a moment, he only watched.

Not with tenderness, nor with hatred but with a quiet confusion. This was the woman who was meant to be his partner. The woman whose name had been bound to his own for years. And yet, seeing her now, helpless and fragile, he felt nothing a man was supposed to feel for the woman he was meant to marry.

No pull.

No panic.

Only a strange, unfamiliar weight.

"As you can see," Marquess Kosler’s voice broke the silence. He stood beside the bed, his expression hard, though unrest flickered in his eyes despite his effort to conceal it. "This is clearly the result of the bond."

Demian turned slowly. "Bonds do not work like this."

"Oh, but they do," the Marquess replied quickly. "You are forcing its dissolution. You are resisting something that has been woven for a long time. Ivanka’s body is reacting because, regardless of everything, she is the weaker party in this bond."

Demian stepped closer by one pace, glanced once more at Ivanka, then looked back at the Marquess. "If the bond were fully severed," he said coldly, "she would be freer. No more pressure. No more burden imposed by my decisions."

The Marquess shook his head sharply. "You speak as if this were an ordinary contract. It is not. This is a Morvex bond. A blood bond. One that cannot be treated at convenience."

"You call it a bond," Demian replied, tension tightening his voice. "I call it a shackle."

The Marquess moved closer, his tone growing urgent. "Demian, listen to me. This bond existed long before you and Ivanka came of age. It grew alongside you. You cannot simply sever it without consequence."

"Consequences that are always placed on others," Demian cut in sharply. "Never on the system that enforces it."

The Marquess fell silent for a moment, then released a heavy breath. "Think again," he said more quietly. "If not for House Kosler, then for Ivanka. For her life."

Demian clenched his jaw. Those words pressed against the same familiar point the burden of responsibility he had always carried, even when it had never truly been his choice.

He looked once more at Ivanka. Her face remained still, offering nothing no plea, no restraint.

"I will consider it," Demian said at last.

Marquess Kosler studied him intently, as if to ensure those words were not an empty lie.

"But for now," Demian continued, stepping back, "the best course is to stabilize her. Summon the finest physicians. Do whatever must be done."

He reached for his coat.

Marquess Kosler frowned. "You’re leaving?"

"I will not be coerced," Demian replied flatly. "And I will not make a decision of this magnitude under threat."

He paused at the doorway, without turning back. "If this bond is truly as strong as you claim... then it will not collapse simply because I am thinking."

The door closed softly behind him.

Marquess Kosler stood rigid in the center of the room. Several seconds passed before his shoulders finally sagged, a long breath leaving his chest the breath of a man who realized that even all his influence and tradition were not enough to bend the will of Demian Morvex.

He turned back toward his daughter.

"Ivanka," he murmured softly, more prayer than call, "you have wagered everything... on a man who cannot be caged."

The moment Demian’s footsteps truly faded from the corridor, the atmosphere in the room shifted.

The candles still burned steadily. The curtains of the canopied bed stirred faintly in the night breeze. And upon the white sheets Ivanka slowly opened her eyes.

Her eyelids fluttered first, as if she were making sure the world had grown quiet enough before returning to it. Her breathing remained weak, shallow, yet her gaze... was far too clear for someone who had supposedly been unconscious for hours.

"How did he look?" Ivanka whispered softly. "Did he... regret it?"

Marquess Kosler, standing beside the bed, turned toward her. His face stiffened clearly, he had not expected his daughter to wake so soon. He studied her for a long moment, as though weighing whether a small lie might be kinder than a bitter truth.

But in the end, he spoke plainly.

"No," he answered quietly. "There was no regret on his face."

Ivanka tensed.

"He looked... calm," the Marquess continued, the words heavy as they fell. "As though none of this weighed on him. As though whatever happened here was not enough to shake his decision."

Ivanka’s fingers clenched the sheets. Her jaw tightened, and a flash of disappointment crossed her eyes before she turned her face away.

"So even this wasn’t enough," she murmured more to herself than to her father.

The Marquess did not answer. There were no words that could soften that truth.

A short while later, he turned and left the room. The door closed gently behind him, leaving Ivanka alone with a disappointment she could no longer pretend away.

Marquess Kosler moved through the long corridors of the estate, his steps heavy. He did not head for his study, nor for the family council chamber. Instead, he went to a small room in the eastern wing a place where only a single candle was ever lit, and the windows were always kept tightly shut.

Inside, a man was already waiting.

He sat calmly on a dark wooden chair, his long robe a deep ash gray, his face half-lost in shadow. His hair was silver, his eyes sharp not with power, but with knowledge.

"Sigrid," the Marquess greeted softly.

The elder inclined his head. "You’ve met him."

The Marquess sank into the chair opposite the table. For a moment, the nobleman’s authority crumbled leaving only a father who had lost control. "Yes," he said shortly.

Sigrid folded his fingers together. "Did Demian show anything?"

The Marquess shook his head slowly. "No. No doubt. No fear. No sign that he would waver."

He let out a quiet, bitter breath. "He cannot be forced."

Sigrid exhaled deeply, as though he had already expected that answer. "Then this," he said calmly, almost coldly, "is what happens when a bond is forced from the beginning."