Owen leaned forward, his expression softening. “You do not have to decide anything right now,” he said. “Stay here as long as you need. Clowefield is your home for as long as you want it to be.”
Marianne nodded, squeezing Genevieve’s hands. “We will take care of you, darling. You are not alone in this.”
Genevieve looked between them, a fragile hope flickering in her chest. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she allowed herself to believe it.
“I do not know how to thank you,” she whispered.
“You do not need to,” Marianne said with a gentle smile. “That is what friends are for.”
As the fire crackled and the weight of her grief began to ease, Genevieve realized that, despite everything, she was not as powerless as Wilhelm had made her feel.
With Marianne and Owen by her side, she could begin to rebuild herself—piece by shattered piece.
“Your Grace.” Mrs. Hughes’s concerned voice broke the tense silence that hung in the air. “What has happened?”
Wilhelm did not immediately respond as he looked down at the shattered vase that littered the floor, his thoughts swirling in an incoherent fog. His hand throbbed, yet he felt nothing.
“I am… well, Mrs. Hughes,” he replied, his voice hollow.
Mrs. Hughes, her brow furrowed with worry, took a hesitant step closer. “But Your Grace,” she began. “Your hand…”
Wilhelm glanced down at the deep gash that marred his skin, the blood flowing freely and staining his formerly pristine white shirt.
“It is nothing,” he muttered as if his wounds could somehow erase the damage he had done to Genevieve.
“You should tend to that with haste, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hughes insisted. “The wound appears to be quite deep.”
Wilhelm waved his uninjured hand dismissively. “I shall in due course,” he assured her. “But for now, I require some solitude.”
Mrs. Hughes hesitated for a moment before curtsying respectfully. “Very well, Your Grace, as you wish,” she murmured, her voice laced with concern. “I shall… leave you to your thoughts.”
With a final glance at the Duke, she turned and exited the study, closing the heavy oak door behind her.
Wilhelm poured himself a glass of brandy and sank into his chair with a loud thud. The blood continued to flow unchecked onto his shirt, but he felt no pain.
His thoughts churned relentlessly. Genevieve’s voice echoed in his mind.
He had tried to push it aside, tried to silence it. But the words refused to stop.
Yes, he had used her. The woman who had brought warmth to his dark, empty life. He had selfishly leveraged her reputation,her curse, to attain his goals. She had trusted him, and in return for her unwavering trust, he had failed her.
I am no better than my father.
How ironic that he had worked so hard to earn her trust, only to destroy it with a single selfish act.
You are weak.
His father’s voice broke into his brooding.
Wilhelm closed his eyes, exhaling as the weight of his father’s words bore down on him once again.
Perhaps his father had been right all along, and Wilhelm had deserved every scolding and punishment.
She is better off without me. I do not deserve her love, her trust, or her presence in my life. I have failed her, and there is no coming back from what I have done to her. I have ruined everything.
And his selfishness had driven the one pure thing in his life away.
For good.
