Chapter Three – The House Remembers
Rain tapped against the windows in soft, relentless rhythm—like fingers knocking from the past. Evelyne sat at the writing desk in her chambers, her pen hovering above the parchment. The ink had dried twice.
She wasn't writing letters. She hadn't in years. Not since her last unopened missive was returned from the front with nothing but the duke's seal—unbroken.
Instead, she cataloged estate repairs. It was a familiar fiction: that her power came from management, not from endurance. That she ruled her world not through feeling, but through structure.
A knock at the door startled her. Godric again, face unreadable.
"Lady Seraphina requests your company in the conservatory."
Evelyne blinked. "Alone?"
"Yes, my lady."
The conservatory was warm with filtered light, glass walls misted with soft rain. It smelled of lavender and old soil. Seraphina stood beside the orchids, dressed in blush silk, her posture that of someone who expected to be admired.
"Lady Thorne," she said with a thin smile. "I hope you'll forgive the intrusion."
"You're a guest in my home," Evelyne replied evenly. "Forgiveness isn't required—so long as you remember that."
Seraphina turned, arms folded loosely. "You're very… composed. I imagined something more dramatic."
"I've no interest in theatrics," Evelyne said. "Only truth."
"Then allow me to speak plainly," Seraphina said, eyes gleaming. "Alaric is not the same man who left you. Whatever marriage you think you had, it exists only on paper now."
A beat passed. Evelyne studied her, reading between every silken word.
"And yet," Evelyne said softly, "it's my name they call duchess. My crest that flies over this house. And my silence that has protected his."
Seraphina's jaw tightened.
"You presume love is a crown to wear," Evelyne continued, voice low but certain. "But it's duty that keeps this house from falling. Not affection. And certainly not ambition dressed as concern."
The orchid petals trembled in the breeze.
"You're clever," Seraphina said, smiling with her teeth. "But cleverness doesn't change the fact that he chose me. Again and again."
Evelyne didn't flinch. "Then perhaps you should ask why, after all that choosing, he still hasn't given you a title."
That night, Evelyne stood alone in the west wing corridor—his corridor. The duke's quarters had remained untouched, his absence suspended in dust and sealed doors.
She opened them now.
Inside, it was like entering a memory with no permission. The scent of leather and steel lingered. The fire hadn't been lit in years. She crossed the floor slowly, past his travel trunk, past the desk with its worn quill and unfinished letter.
She reached the wardrobe and opened it.
One uniform remained inside. Faded. Blood-creased. She remembered the day he left wearing it. Not a kiss. Not even a look back.
Her fingers grazed the collar, then paused over something tucked in the inner pocket. A paper. A letter. Unopened. Her seal. Her handwriting.
He had kept it.
The breath caught in her throat.
Why?