A sob escaped her lips.
She had been so foolish, so blinded by his charm and the illusion of happiness he had woven around her. She had allowed herself to believe that he cared for her, that he saw her for who she truly was, but it was all a lie. He had used her, just like everyone else in her life.
A hand settled lightly on her shoulder, and she jumped.
“Genevieve?” The soft voice pierced through the fog of her thoughts.
Marianne knelt beside her, worry etched on her furrowed brow. Her hand settled gently on Genevieve’s arm.
“What is the matter, my dear?” she asked in a shaky voice.
Genevieve’s body rocked with each ragged sob, the sound cutting through the silence like a sharp blade. Her tears spilled over and poured down her cheeks in warm rivers. Her grief was inconsolable.
She gasped for breath as she sobbed, her chest heaving as though the air itself had thickened and was pressing down on her. Every shuddering exhale magnified the ache in her heart.
Marianne moved closer and wrapped her arms around Genevieve in a tender embrace. She held her firmly but gently, as though her touch alone might shield her friend from the heartache that threatened to consume her.
Her fingers stroked Genevieve’s hair and smoothed down the silken strands in a soothing rhythm.
“It will be all right, my dearest,” she murmured, her voice a protective coating against the hailstorm of grief.
“He used me, Marianne,” Genevieve sobbed, her voice thick with tears. “He has been using me all along.”
Marianne furrowed her brow, her eyes filled with confusion. “Using you?” she questioned. “But… how?”
Genevieve, her sobs subsiding slightly, recounted Alfred’s revelations, the words tumbling past her lips in a torrent of hurt and betrayal.
Marianne’s eyes widened in shock, her voice rising with each word.
“That… that scoundrel!” she exclaimed, her voice laced with fury. “How dare he use you in such a callous manner!”
She gently cupped Genevieve’s face and forced her to turn her head and look her in the eye.
“You cannot stay with him, Genevieve,” she declared, her voice firm and resolute. “You must leave Ravenshire immediately.”
Genevieve’s heart clenched at the thought of leaving Wilhelm behind, but she knew Marianne was right. She could not stay with a man who had used her and betrayed her trust.
“I will,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “But I must first confront him and put him in his place for his detestable behavior.”
Marianne’s gaze softened, and she reached out her hand to squeeze Genevieve’s. “I understand,” she replied sympathetically. “Promise me you will not stay a moment longer than necessary.”
Genevieve nodded dejectedly. “I promise,” she murmured.
Genevieve burst through Ravenshire’s grand entrance, the heavy doors groaning as they swung shut behind her. The cool air of the silent halls carried a faint scent of waxed wood and distant candle smoke.
Her hurried, purposeful footsteps struck the marble floor in a sharp, even rhythm and bounced off the shadowed walls. Without pausing, she quickly hurried up the sweeping staircase that led to Wilhelm’s room.
Halfway up, she nearly collided with Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper’s steady descent momentarily halted by Genevieve’s wild approach.
Mrs. Hughes clutched her skirts and blinked, her face etched with concern.
“Your Grace?” she inquired apprehensively. “Whatever is the matter?”
“Where is the Duke?” Genevieve demanded, her voice breathless and desperate with urgency.
“He is in his study, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hughes replied, looking down the hallway that led to Wilhelm’s private chambers. “But I have explicit instructions that he is not to be disturbed.”
Genevieve swept past the housekeeper without a second glance, the stiff rustle of her skirts and the sharp clicking of her heels breaking the silence. The wall sconces cast a trembling light, their glow barely illuminating the clenched fists at her sides.
