Chapter Two – The East Wing
The servants whispered before they moved. Evelyne heard them—not the words, never the words—but the shift of air and the rustle of fabric as maids darted down halls and footmen scattered like autumn leaves.
Her husband was home, and the walls trembled from it.
She walked the east wing corridors in silence, trailing her fingers along the faded stone. These halls had been empty during the war. Now, they would house the woman who wore crimson silk and curled her fingers possessively around the duke's arm.
A tremor of bitter laughter bubbled in Evelyne's throat.
Lady Seraphina would have the best chamber, no doubt. The one Evelyne had prepared for visiting nobles, sunlit and lined with tapestries depicting the Thorne lineage. Let her sleep beneath the gaze of Alaric's ancestors.
Let them all bear witness to this humiliation.
She entered the chamber just as two maids were adjusting the canopy.
"Strip the red linens," she said. "Replace them with ivory and slate. No gold trim."
The maids glanced at one another before nodding.
"And remove the mirror facing the bed," Evelyne added. "She won't need it."
They obeyed without question. Her voice had taken on that cold clarity—the tone of a woman who ran an estate while her husband chased glory and left her with silence.
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Later that afternoon, Evelyne found herself in the solar, gazing out at the training yard. The clash of steel below had always comforted her once. Now it felt invasive—like war had followed Alaric home.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
She turned. Her steward, Godric, entered with a bow.
"Your Grace, the duke requests your presence in the study."
She blinked. "The study?"
"Aye, milady. He said it was urgent."
Urgent. The word rang in her ears like a challenge.
When she entered the study, the room was exactly as he'd left it—untouched, dustless, preserved. He stood near the hearth, pouring over a map. The fire crackled, throwing light against the sharp lines of his face.
"You sent for me," Evelyne said evenly.
Alaric didn't look up right away. When he did, it wasn't with warmth—it was with weariness.
"I wanted to speak privately," he said. "About Seraphina."
There it was. Not even a moment of courtesy.
Evelyne didn't flinch. "Then speak."
He leaned against the desk. "There are… political entanglements. Her family backed my campaigns. Without their support, we'd have lost the southern front."
"And you repaid them with your heart?" she asked.
His jaw tightened. "I never promised you affection when we married."
"No," she said, stepping closer. "You promised me nothing. And I kept my vows anyway."
For a moment, silence stretched between them—thick with all the things left unsaid.
"I didn't bring her here to shame you," he said.
"Then why is she in my home?" Evelyne snapped. Her voice cracked like a whip. "Why is she parading through these halls like a queen when I've been nothing more than a shadow in your name?"
Alaric met her gaze. There was something in his eyes—regret, maybe. Or something crueler: indifference wrapped in duty.
"You were never meant to be part of this mess," he said quietly.
"I was always part of it," she replied. "You just never looked hard enough to see."
She turned, skirts brushing the floor, and left before he could say more. She would not beg—not for his love, not for an explanation. If he wanted war at home, she would fight like the duchess he barely knew.