After returning to my chambers and changing into something more comfortable, I sat by the window with a simple late-night snack. The clock on the mantel had already struck nine.
*What a long, exhausting day.*
I caught sight of a carriage bearing the Arguin crest rattling out of the estate gates. I couldn't help but let out a dry, mocking laugh.
*Sending a messenger at this hour? They must be truly desperate about that contract.*
But I quickly closed the curtains and turned away. Eric’s business with his lover’s family was no longer my concern. I had decided to treat him like a stranger, and a stranger’s problems were not worth my sleep.
***
After Cornelia left, Eric sat on the sofa for a long time, his face a mask of absolute stillness.
*“I’m done being your front... I don't consider you my husband anymore.”*
Her words echoed in the silence of the office, carving a hollow space in his chest. He had spent years trying to maintain a distance, trying to convince himself that his neglect was a form of protection. But hearing her renounce him so completely felt like a death sentence.
“Yes,” he whispered to the empty room. “I suppose I was never truly your husband.”
His thoughts drifted to Reinhardt Adolf Tarrant. To the rest of the world, Reinhardt was a paragon of virtue—the "Golden Duke" who held the Emperor’s favor. But Eric knew the man’s true nature. He knew what Reinhardt was capable of when his charm failed to get him what he wanted.
*If you only knew what he intends for you, Cornelia...*
The office door slammed open, cutting through his thoughts. His mother—the Dowager Duchess Brant—stood at the entrance, her face contorted with a cold, aristocratic fury.
“What is the meaning of this, Eric?”
He didn't have time to answer before she reached him. Her hand whipped across his face, the heavy sapphire ring on her finger carving a shallow trail of blood across his cheek.
Eric didn't flinch. As a Sword Master, he had endured wounds that would have killed a normal man. But the sting of the blow was nothing compared to the venom in her voice.
“How dare you!” she shrieked. “Did I not make it clear that you were to maintain a flawless relationship with House Arguin? How dare you unilaterally terminate that contract!”
Eric looked at the blood on his fingers, then back at his mother. *So, Madeleine has already run to her for help. Predictable.*
He was thankful, at least, that the Dowager didn't yet know of Cornelia’s pregnancy. If this woman discovered he was expecting an heir with the "Crow Princess," she would find a way to use the child as leverage—or worse, eliminate the "threat" to her own control.
“Why don't you listen to me?” she screamed, her voice rising to a fever pitch. “Why must you always resist?”
Eric remained silent, his gaze steady.
“I know you value your connection to the Marquis,” he finally said. “But Madeleine was using that contract to exert influence over the duchy’s internal affairs. I won't have it.”
“And what of it? It is the Duchess’s right to manage the household! If things had gone according to plan, Madeleine would have been the one sitting in that chair, the rightful Duchess of Brant!”
Eric stood up, his height looming over her. For the first time, his voice lost its measured calm. “The Duchess of Brant is Cornelia. And she is the only one who will ever hold that title.”
The Dowager’s eyes widened in shock, then she slapped him again, even harder than before.
“You insolent fool! Who do you think you’re speaking to?”
She reached out and gripped his chin, her nails digging into his skin. “Remember your place, Eric. I did not pull you from the gutter to have you grow a spine now. You are a puppet. A stand-in. Your only purpose is to play the role I’ve assigned you.”
She released him with a violent shove, then pulled a silk handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe her hand, as if she’d touched something diseased. She dropped the cloth onto the floor and ground it into the rug with the heel of her shoe.
“Always remember,” she hissed. “Your true standing is no higher than that scrap of fabric. You are a Duke of Brant in name only. You hold this position by my grace, and my grace alone.”
She watched him, her red lips curving into a cruel, satisfied smile. She expected him to bow. She expected him to apologize and beg for her forgiveness.
“Resume the contract,” she commanded. “And see that Madeleine is welcomed back into this house with the respect she deserves.”
She turned to leave, but Eric’s voice stopped her. It was low, muffled, but carried a weight that made her spine stiffen.
“I can’t do that.”
The Dowager turned back, her expression one of utter disbelief. “What did you just say to me?”
“I said I will not resume the contract, Mother.”
He knew it was dangerous to defy her. He knew she held the power to destroy everything he had built. But he found he could no longer bend his will to her whims.
“If you try to force my hand,” Eric said, meeting her gaze with a look of terrifying clarity, “I will reveal the truth to the entire Empire.”
The Dowager’s face went pale. “The truth? What are you talking about?”
A cold, sarcastic smile touched Eric’s face. “The truth that the real Eric Lennon Brant died on the battlefields of Crythan five years ago. And that the man standing before you is nothing but his illegitimate half-brother—the 'spare' born to a common maid.”
The Dowager let out a strangled cry and began to strike him again, her blows raining down on his chest and shoulders.
“You vile bastard! It should have been my son who returned! Not a fake... not a gutter-born pretender like you!”
Eric took the violence in silence, his expression unchanging. He was a Transcendent; her physical attacks were nothing. But the psychological weight of her hatred was a burden he’d carried since he was thirteen years old.
“How impudent!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “When my son returns... and he will return... it will be the day of your execution!”
She slammed the door behind her, leaving Eric alone in the darkening office.
He let out a long, hollow breath. “No matter how hard I try,” he whispered. “I will never be the son you wanted.”
He remembered the day he was brought to the estate at thirteen. He had been abandoned by his father, the former Duke, only to be summoned back when the "real" heir needed a double—a body to send to the front lines in his place.
But his half-brother, the real Eric, hadn't been the monster his mother was. He had looked at the boy who shared his face with a look of genuine affection. He had taught him to ride, to fight, and had treated him with a kindness he’d never known.
When the war broke out, the real Eric had left a letter behind. *“I’m sorry, but I can't send you to your death in my place. If I don't return, I want you to live the life I should have had. Be the Duke I couldn't be.”*
The real Eric had disappeared, his body never found. In desperation, the "fake" had returned as a war hero, taking up the mantle of the brother he’d loved. He had done it for the real Eric. He had done it to protect the name of the only person who had ever treated him as human.
“That’s why I tried not to be greedy,” he murmured.
He thought of the girl he’d seen in the imperial procession all those years ago. The "Crow Princess" whom everyone mocked, but whom he had admired from afar.
He remembered the day he’d almost been crushed by a runaway carriage, only for a small, fierce girl to pull him to safety. Cornelia hadn't known who he was. She hadn't known he was a servant's child. She had simply saved him.
For years, he had left flowers for her on Foundation Day, hoping for a single smile. And when she did smile, he felt as if the world was his.
But that was a story from a past he could never reclaim. To her, he was the cold, indifferent Duke who hated her. And he let her believe it, because he was a fraud—a fake who didn't deserve to touch the hand of a princess.