The Dowager Duchess Bianca didn't bother with a knock. She slammed his office door open, her eyes wide and bloodshot with a frantic, pulsing energy.
“Is it true?” she demanded, her voice a shrill rasp.
Eric looked up from his desk, his expression a mask of bored, military efficiency. “You’ll have to be more specific, Mother. Many things are true in this house.”
“Cornelia! Is it true that she is pregnant with your child?”
Eric’s eyes flickered. For a fraction of a second, he felt a wave of cold, dark relief wash over him. *She thinks it’s mine,* he thought. *Good. At least for now, the arrows will be aimed at me, not her.*
If Bianca had suspected for a moment that Cornelia had been "unfaithful"—or even that she was claiming to be—she would have had the Princess "removed" before the sun set. To Bianca, a betrayal of the Brant bloodline was a crime that only death could settle.
“Yes,” Eric said, his voice firm and absolute. “She is carrying my child.”
Bianca’s face contorted as if she’d swallowed ash. She’d hoped it was a lie—a desperate ploy by Cornelia to gain leverage. But to hear the "fake" confirm it so casually was a betrayal she hadn't anticipated.
“Have you forgotten what I told you?” she hissed, leaning over his desk. “I specifically ordered you never to touch her. I told you to keep your distance until the real Eric returned!”
Eric remained silent, his gaze fixed on her.
“She is the daughter of the man who sent my son to his death!” Bianca shrieked, her voice cracking. “She is the seed of the enemy! And you... you gutter-born substitute... you dared to plant your own filth in the womb meant for a Brant?”
Eric clenched his fist under the table, the guilt he’d carried for years flaring like an old wound. He’d tried to stay away. He’d told himself that Cornelia was the enemy, the daughter of the tyrant who had sent his "brother" to a slaughterhouse masquerading as a battlefield.
But he remembered that night—the night he’d been too drunk on grief and wine to maintain his defenses. He’d thought it was a dream. He’d kissed those red, intoxicating lips, thinking it was the only moment he’d ever be allowed to have with the woman he secretly adored. But the sensation had been too real, the scent of her skin too sweet. He’d woken up in horror, realizing he’d crossed a line he could never uncross.
“It was a mistake,” Eric said, his voice cold. “But it is a mistake I intend to protect.”
“Protect? You think I’ll allow a bastard of your blood to inherit this duchy?”
“I have no intention of making the child the heir,” Eric said, catching Bianca off guard. “The title of Duke belongs to my brother. When he returns—or when his true lineage is restored—the heir will come from him. But until then, this child will be recognized as a Brant. He will have the name, the protection, and the status of my son.”
Bianca stared at him, her chest heaving. She saw the "monster" behind the mask again—the cold, immovable warrior who had survived the front lines. She realized she’d finally found his weakness.
“I will not recognize him,” she whispered. “I will never call a thing of your blood my grandson.”
“You will recognize him in public,” Eric said, his voice dropping into a register of lethal certainty. “Because if you don't—if you cast even a shadow of doubt on his legitimacy—I will walk into the Imperial Palace and tell the Emperor exactly who I am. I will tell him that the 'Hero of the Empire' is a fraud you pulled from a mercenary camp. Do you think you’ll survive the treason trial, Mother?”
Bianca gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached. She loathed him. She loathed the way he looked like her son but acted like a beast. She loathed the way he’d stolen the life she was holding in trust.
“Fine,” she hissed. “I will 'turn a blind eye' for now. But do not think this is over.”
She turned and stormed out of the office, her heels clicking like gunshots against the floor.
As she reached the annex, she summoned her head maid, a woman whose loyalty was as dark and deep as her own.
“Madam?” the maid asked, bowing.
“Cornelia is pregnant,” Bianca said, her voice low and vibrating with poison. “I was thinking of giving her a gift. A gesture of my... grandmotherly affection.”
The maid looked confused. “A gift, madam? After everything she’s done?”
Bianca smiled, a thin, sharp Curve that didn't reach her eyes. “Oh, it’s a very special gift. One that will ensure she never has to worry about the 'burden' of motherhood ever again.”
***
Back at *The Gilded Solitaire*, Rune Felton was staring out the window, her mind a whirlwind of shock and indignation.
*How could she?* Rune thought. *To treat a pregnant princess with such venom... it’s not just rude, it’s monstrous.*
In most noble houses, a pregnancy was a cause for celebration, a moment where even the coldest mother-in-law would offer a temporary truce to ensure the health of the heir. But the look on Bianca’s face hadn't been one of joy—it had been one of pure, unadulterated horror.
“Madame Felton?”
Rune turned to see a woman standing in the doorway of the VIP lounge. She was dressed in a gown of deep emerald silk, her posture so regal it made the room feel small.
“Duchess Lenheim?” Rune gasped, dropping into a deep, trembling bow.
Duchess Lenheim was the leader of the Emperor’s faction, a distant cousin of the sovereign, and one of the most powerful women in the Empire.
“I heard there was quite a scene here today,” the Duchess said, her golden eyes fixed on Rune. “Something about a broken necklace... and a certain royal daughter who is finally showing some spine.”
Rune swallowed hard. She knew that what she said next would change the course of the social season—and possibly the fate of House Brant.
“It was... more than a scene, Your Grace,” Rune said. “It was a tragedy.”