ONE NIGHT STAND WITH HOT DUKE-Chapter 168: Impossible to fail

The door closed.

Ivanka was left alone with the ring on her finger, the status she had fought for, and the bitter truth that none of it was enough to make Demian hers.

In the cold palace corridor, Demian leaned briefly against the wall, drawing in a long breath, holding back the waves of heat still crashing through his body.

He may have lost the game of power that night.

But one thing he had not lost.

He refused.

And that refusal was the only truth he still possessed.

Demian did not walk far after closing the door to the bridal chamber.

His steps halted at the end of the corridor, his body leaning against the cold stone wall. Heat still pulsed beneath his skin, his breathing not yet fully steady. But before he could calm himself further, quick footsteps approached.

"Asher."

The captain of the guard stopped immediately in front of him. His expression shifted the moment he took in Demian’s condition pale skin, a clenched jaw, eyes far too sharp for a man who should have just emerged from his wedding night.

"What happened, Your Grace?" Asher asked quietly, tension coiled in his voice.

Demian opened his eyes. "They laced my drink with an aphrodisiac."

The words fell flat without emotion, without emphasis.

But their impact was immediate.

"What?" Asher froze, then his face hardened with restrained fury. "Who would dare—"

"Summon all my guards," Demian cut in. "Now."

Asher did not ask another question. He turned sharply, giving a brief signal. Within minutes, the corridor filled with Demian’s personal guards faces loyal, alert, and now burning with anger.

One of them stepped forward. "Will Your Grace return to the bridal chamber?"

Demian slowly shook his head. "No." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "I will not return in this condition."

He drew a long breath. "Get me an antidote. Immediately."

The guards nodded in unison. No one questioned his decision. No one doubted his words.

Before long, Demian was moved to another room within Kosler Castle an old study rarely used, cold and plain. There, without excessive candlelight and without the cloying scent of flowers, he sat and waited for the antidote to work its way through his body.

The heat gradually receded.

But the anger did not.

Demian sat motionless in the old wooden chair, his back straight despite the lingering stiffness in his muscles. The room he occupied was one of the oldest in Kosler Castle thick stone walls, narrow windows, and a worktable whose surface bore the scars of time. A place too honest for intrigue.

A physician stood before him, pouring a clear liquid into a silver cup. A bitter scent immediately filled the air.

"The antidote will work gradually, Your Grace," he said carefully. "Its effects won’t be immediate, but the poison or whatever it was will not progress any further."

Demian gave a brief nod and drank the liquid without hesitation. The bitterness made his jaw tighten, but he showed nothing. He had lived too long among small betrayals disguised as courtesy.

Asher stood a short distance away, his hands clenched behind his guard’s cloak. "Your orders?" he asked.

"No one is to enter the bridal chamber," Demian replied. "No one touches my belongings. And make sure no member of the Kosler family approaches this room without my permission."

Asher bowed his head. "Understood."

Silence fell again but not a peaceful one. Demian stared into the small fire in the hearth, its flame flickering as if uncertain whether it wished to keep burning. In his mind, one thought kept circling relentlessly, they dared to go that far.

Meanwhile, the bridal chamber had turned into a silent battlefield.

There were no screams, no raised voices only a suffocating tension hanging in the air, sharp and metallic, like the scent before a storm breaks. Ivanka stood at the center of the room, her posture rigid though her breathing came in shallow gasps. Her wedding gown was still flawless, yet her face was wet with tears she no longer tried to hide tears of anger, frustration, and fear.

"This was not supposed to happen," she said sharply, her voice breaking yet filled with accusation. "The potion should have worked."

Marquess Kosler stood a short distance away, his posture calm, almost relaxed. His gaze swept over his daughter without the slightest hint of sympathy the look of a nobleman long accustomed to weighing failure the same way he weighed land and titles.

"Then you failed to make proper use of it," he replied coldly.

Ivanka shook her head hard. "No. He was aware. Too aware." Her hands clenched at her sides. "As if the potion wasn’t strong enough."

The Marquess let out a slow breath not from exhaustion, but from disappointment. "There is no potion in this world capable of completely overpowering a person’s will," he said evenly. "That is why you should never rely on it alone."

Ivanka stared at him, her heart pounding wildly. "What do you mean, Father?"

The Marquess stepped closer, each movement deliberate and controlled. When he stopped directly in front of her, he lowered his voice more dangerous for how utterly certain it sounded.

"The bond."

Ivanka froze. The word fell into her chest like a stone.

"If you can sleep with him," the Marquess continued without hesitation, as if discussing a trade strategy, "the curse will activate. Once bound, Demian will never be able to truly let go of you."

Ivanka swallowed. Her throat felt dry. "That curse—"

"Will bind his soul to yours," the Marquess cut in. "His desire, his thoughts, even his choices. He resists now because he is still free. But once the bond is formed..." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. "...he will return. In the end."

Ivanka’s hands trembled. "And that woman?"

A thin smile curved the Marquess’s lips not the smile of a father, but of someone who had long since made peace with the cruelty of the world. "She will be abandoned. Or forgotten. Sooner or later."

Silence fell.

Ivanka closed her eyes. In her chest, two forces collided crushing guilt and the terror of losing everything if she failed again. She had gained the ring. The status. The name.

But Demian, Demian’s soul remained beyond her reach.

"If you want him to remain your husband," the Marquess said softly, his voice absolute and without room for negotiation, "you know what must be done."