Sardin knew the rules of the world better than most. He was a slave, a former gladiator who had survived by the grace of a princess. He knew that noblewomen didn't give their hearts to men of his station, but he was content with her trust. He was part of her future, a shadow in her light, and that was enough.
*But I will never forgive you for making her cry,* Sardin thought, casting a final glance at the Duke’s retreating back.
He’d seen the shift in Eric’s gaze. The cold indifference was being replaced by a fierce, possessive hunger. If the Duke realized his feelings, Cornelia might waver—and Sardin couldn't allow that. He would remain silent about the flowers.
***
Eric stood alone in the hallway, watching Sardin’s shadow disappear around the corner.
As a Transcendent—a Sword Master whose senses had been honed to a supernatural degree—Eric saw more than others realized. He knew Sardin had been sneaking out of the residential wing in a mask. He knew Cornelia was communicating with the capital through secret channels. But he hadn't intervened.
They had a pact: no interference, no divorce.
*It’s better this way,* Eric thought, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword.
Cornelia was supposed to belong to his brother. He had kept his distance for five years, pushing her away until she finally broke. But now that she’d given up on him—now that she was asking for a divorce—he found himself unable to let go.
He suffered from a relentless, crushing insomnia. When he did sleep, he was haunted by a single, recurring dream: Cornelia, shy and glowing, her hands resting on her stomach. *“I’m pregnant with your child, Eric.”*
In the dream, they were happy. There was a golden-haired boy who ran through the halls of the duchy, calling him “Father.” There was laughter, and the scent of jasmine, and a peace he’d never known in the waking world.
But reality was always waiting. In reality, Cornelia didn't love him. In reality, she was a strategist who looked at him with eyes as cold as a mountain lake.
*If I do well now... if I protect her and the child... maybe that dream could be real,* he thought, his heart hammering with a desperate, foolish hope.
He headed toward the greenhouse, his steps purposeful. He would bring her the flowers she’d asked for. He would be the husband she deserved.
***
I didn't even look up from my book when the door opened.
“You’re back early, Sardin,” I said, turning a page. “Did you deliver the—”
I froze. It wasn't Sardin.
Eric stood in the doorway, a bouquet of deep crimson roses in his hand. He looked out of place in my feminine, silk-lined bedroom—a wolf in a dollhouse.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice flat.
Since the day I’d asked for the divorce, he’d avoided my chambers as if they were a plague ward. To see him standing there, holding flowers, was more than jarring. It was suspicious.
“I brought these for you,” Eric said, stepping forward and setting the roses on the table.
I stared at the flowers. *What is he playing at?*
“Were you... comfortable today?” he asked, the greeting sounding stiff and practiced.
I almost laughed. *Comfortable? In this cage?*
“Thanks to your 'generosity,' I was as comfortable as any prisoner could be,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Eric’s jaw tightened. He didn't like the barb, but he didn't snap back. “I heard you were well-fed.”
“Yes, Randon has been excellent,” I said, deciding to use the moment to my advantage. “In fact, he’s been so helpful that I’d like you to reassign him as my personal servant. Formally.”
Eric nodded immediately. “If that is what you wish, it’s done. I’ll have the papers signed today.”
*That was easy,* I thought. *One debt to Randon paid.*
“How is the baby?” Eric asked, his voice softening.
The question hit me like a physical blow. I looked at him, seeing the "concern" in his eyes, and all I could see was the ghost of my past life. I remembered the way he’d looked at me when I’d told him about Damian. He’d pretended to be happy then, too. He’d played the role of the loving father to perfection, while all the while planning to abandon us the moment the political winds shifted.
“It’s not your baby,” I said, my voice cold and hard. “There’s no need for you to worry about it.”
Eric’s expression went rigid. “I have stated that I will take responsibility for the child. He will be a Brant. He is my responsibility as a father.”
I felt a surge of rage so intense it made my vision blur. *Hypocrite. Liar.*
“Shut up, Eric,” I said, my voice low and vibrating with a decade of unshed tears. “Your behavior is not just irritating. It is disgusting.”
“Why are you so angry?” he asked, his voice full of a genuine, bewildered frustration.
I smiled, a thin, sharp Curve. *Why am I angry?*
I spent my entire first life begging for a single scrap of his affection. I tried to be the perfect duchess, the perfect wife, thinking that if I just loved him enough, he would finally see me. But he never did. He looked through me as if I were made of glass.
And when the rebellion came—when the nobles demanded my head because I was the Emperor’s daughter—he didn't hesitate. He traded me and my son for his own survival. He abandoned Damian, his own flesh and blood, to a mob that didn't know the meaning of mercy.
*You abandoned your own child,* I thought, my fingers digging into the fabric of my chair. *You left Damian to die alone in the dark. And now you dare to play the 'doting father' to a child you think belongs to another man?*
“Leave,” I said, pointing to the door. “Before I say something even more 'disgusting.'”