ONE NIGHT STAND WITH HOT DUKE-Chapter 167: First night of marriage

In the main hall, Ivanka continued to smile in happiness, surrounded by light and praise.

And far from there, on a dark road carrying someone away from the castle, a secret had already turned into a wound a wound that, if ever opened, could become the beginning of a ruin even the elders would be powerless to contain.

That night should have been a sweet conclusion to a grand celebration. The music had stopped, crystal glasses stood empty, and the laughter of nobles faded as they returned to their respective chambers. Yet for Kosler Castle, the night was only just beginning an hush heavy with cruel decisions never spoken aloud.

In the bridal chamber, Ivanka stood before a tall mirror framed in gold. Candlelight rendered her skin pale and fragile, as though she were made of porcelain that might crack at any moment. Her hand trembled as she touched the blue-gemmed ring on her ring finger the ring that had lived for years only in her prayers and imaginings. Now the ring was real. The status was real. And yet her chest felt tight, as if she had just closed a door she would never be able to open again.

She sat slowly on the edge of the bed, smoothing the folds of her nightgown. Each second stretched long. Ivanka knew Demian would come he always came when duty summoned him. But she also knew, deep in her heart, that his footsteps would not carry the passion she had dreamed of since girlhood. What would arrive was a husband compelled by circumstance, a man whose heart remained elsewhere.

Ivanka swallowed.It’s all right, she told herself. What matters is that I am his wife now.

Meanwhile, several corridors away, Marquess Kosler stood in a small room lit by a single lantern. Before him sat a small glass vial filled with a clear liquid—nearly odorless, nearly colorless. His fingers closed around it with certainty, without hesitation, without regret. This was not the first time he had played with another’s fate; only this time, the stakes were far higher.

"Make sure the duke drinks it," he told his trusted servant in a low, firm voice. "Just a little. Don’t let anyone suspect."

The servant nodded, face pale. He knew what was being asked of him and he knew refusal was not an option.

Marquess Kosler drew a long breath as the servant left. In his mind flickered the image of Ivanka as a child his fragile daughter, who had waited far too long for a man’s love. He reassured himself that this was for Ivanka’s happiness. For her future. For House Kosler. That Demian’s feelings... would adjust with time.

He did not think of Valerie. Not tonight.

Demian himself walked slowly through the corridor, his steps heavy though his face remained composed. Congratulations, handshakes, and false smiles still clung to his skin. The marriage had happened without the voice of his heart, without his true consent. He felt like someone who had surrendered his life to the river’s current and could now only let his body be carried along.

When a servant offered him a drink, Demian accepted without a second thought. The wine felt warm as it slid down his throat, and for some reason his chest suddenly felt heavier. He frowned faintly, but exhaustion made him ignore the odd sensation.

Valerie’s image surfaced unbidden.

Her unguarded eyes. The way she was quiet yet carried storms within. The way she touched her belly with a hesitant smile a smile he had once believed was meant only for him. Guilt pressed tight against his ribs, but Demian forced it down. Too late. Everything was already too late.

The door to the bridal chamber stood before him.

That wedding night was supposed to be the peak of the celebration.

But for Demian, it felt like a trial.

The Kosler bridal chamber was drenched in candlelight—excessive, almost desperate, as if luxury itself were trying to conceal something rotten beneath it. Ivory silk curtains hung heavy, and the air was saturated with the sharp scent of flowers—too strong, too cloying—clinging to his throat and shortening his breath.

Ivanka had been waiting a long time.

Her gown had been partially removed, her hair arranged loose and neat just as the palace maids had instructed. She sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, hands clasped tightly together. Nervousness lived there, and hope so intense it bordered on pain.

When the door opened, Ivanka turned quickly.

Demian entered alone.

His steps were steady, but his face was pale. The buttons of his outer coat were still fastened, his sword not yet removed. He closed the door softly far too softly for a man who had just been married.

Ivanka stood."Demian..."

He did not answer.

Demian stopped a few steps from the bed. His gaze shifted to the small table in the corner the wine glass already empty, the bitter scent still lingering in the air.

Something was wrong with his body.

Heat crawled from his chest to the back of his neck, his breathing grew heavy, his heartbeat too strong, too fast. This was not natural. He recognized the sensation he had seen it on the battlefield, in soldiers poisoned before interrogation.

He exhaled slowly, forcing his mind to stay sharp.

Ivanka took one step closer. "You’re tired. Sit down."

"Stop," Demian said.

His voice was low, rough, but firm.

Ivanka froze. "What is it?"

Demian looked at her for a long moment not as a husband, not as a man bound by an agreement, but as someone who was finally seeing the entire game with brutal clarity.

"What did you give me to drink?"

Ivanka went rigid.

"I can feel it," Demian continued, his hand slowly curling into a fist. "A potion. A high dose. Prepared with very clear intent."

Ivanka bit her lip. Tears immediately welled in her eyes. "Father only... he was just afraid you would change your mind."

Demian let out a short, bitter laugh. "Change my mind?" He walked to the window and opened it slightly, letting the night air rush in. "You never even gave me the chance to choose."

The heat in his body had not eased if anything, it pressed harder. But Demian stood straight, letting the cold air strike his face as though it were the only anchor keeping him sane.

Ivanka stepped closer again, her voice trembling. "I’m your wife now. This is our first night. This... this is supposed to happen."

Demian turned.

His gaze was sharp filled not with desire, but with pain and anger held together by sheer restraint.

"No," he said. "Nothing that comes from coercion is ever ’supposed’ to happen."

Ivanka sobbed. "I just want to die as your wife."

The words hung in the air.

Demian fell silent.

For a moment, he did not see an ambitious woman pushed forward by her father, but someone terrified afraid of dying without meaning, afraid of leaving without status, afraid of being remembered as a failure.

But pity did not overcome the one thing stronger than all else.

"And I will not sacrifice myself," Demian said quietly, "to soothe that fear."

He walked away from the bed, each step heavy. The potion was still working he could feel it clearly but his will stood above it all.

That name rose again in his mind.

Valerie.

The way she looked at him without demanding. The way she chose silence so Demian would not feel guilty. The way she trusted never knowing how vast the lies built around her truly were.

His chest tightened.

"I will not touch you tonight," he said at last. "And I never will if it must come through potions, pressure, or guilt."

Ivanka collapsed onto the bed, her sobs breaking free. "If you leave... Father will destroy everything."

Demian reached for his coat. His hands trembled slightly not from doubt, but from his body resisting the poison that had not yet fully lost its hold.

"Let him," Demian replied. "I’ve allowed others to decide my life for far too long."

He stopped at the doorway, without turning back.

"This marriage," he said softly, "will never give you what you’re looking for. And I will not be your father’s final instrument."