In my past life, Damian had been the heir to the Duchy of Brant. He was the son of the man standing in front of me, yet Eric had abandoned him without a second thought. He’d seen our son as a political liability, an obstacle to the fresh start he wanted with a new wife and a "pure" bloodline.
To hear him speak of "responsibility" now—to hear him claim he would be a father to a child he thought was a bastard—was a hypocrisy so profound it made my skin crawl.
“What gives you the right to talk about responsibility?” I asked, my voice rising. “When you can't even fulfill the simplest duties of a husband?”
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. I hated the way my voice shook. I hated that I was showing him any sign of the old hurt, the old vulnerability.
Eric’s expression shifted, his brow furrowing in a look of genuine, sterile confusion. “The duties of a husband? I have ensured you wanted for nothing in this house, Cornelia. You have the finest rooms, the most expensive jewelry, and a budget that most duchesses would kill for. What exactly am I missing?”
*Everything,* I thought.
It was true that he’d never criticized my spending. I had adorned myself in luxury as a shield, hoping that if I looked like a queen, people would forget I was a ghost. But all I’d ever wanted was a simple morning greeting. A walk in the gardens. A cup of tea where he looked at me instead of through me.
“You never treated me like a wife,” I said quietly. “I was a piece of furniture you were obligated to keep in the drawing room.”
“I have never been unfaithful,” Eric said, his voice dropping into a hard, defensive line. “I have never brought a mistress into this house, nor have I sought one elsewhere. In the eyes of the law and the church, I have been a model husband. I don't understand your grievance.”
I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. He was right, in a way. Compared to the other noblemen of the capital, who traded mistresses like racing horses, he was a saint. But his "faithfulness" was born of indifference, not devotion. He didn't cheat because he didn't care enough to seek out anyone else.
“No, you haven't cheated,” I said. “But you’ve never set a boundary with Madeleine. You’ve let her treat this house like her own, and you’ve let your mother treat me like an interloper. To me, that is its own kind of betrayal.”
Eric looked as if he were about to argue, but then he stopped. He looked at me, his blue eyes searching mine for a long, uncomfortable minute.
“The day you mentioned the divorce,” he said, his voice low. “I tried to mend things. I tried to bridge the gap. But you’ve rejected every gesture as if I’d offered you poison.”
I stared at him. *You don't remember,* I thought. *To you, that day was just a month ago. To me, it was a lifetime.*
I still remembered the end. I remembered the smell of gunpowder clogging the air, the sound of the rebellion at the gates, and the sight of Eric—the *real* Eric—leading the hunt for me and Damian. I remembered the cold, terrifying finality in his eyes as he raised his sword.
*You drove me into the abyss,* I thought. *Do you think a few bouquets of roses can bridge a canyon of blood?*
But as I looked at him, the rage began to drain away, replaced by a sudden, heavy sense of absurdity. Why was I shouting at this man? He wasn't the hunter. He was just a "fake" occupying a life that was already hollow. Being angry at him was a waste of the precious energy I needed for my survival.
“You’re right,” I said, my voice suddenly calm, flat, and utterly indifferent.
Eric blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in my tone. “What?”
“I was being overly sensitive. I’ve been angry over trivial things, blaming you for a silence I should have accepted long ago. I was annoying, and I understand why you don't like me.”
“Cornelia, I’m not trying to blame you—”
“It doesn't matter,” I said, offering him a thin, polite smile. “Even if you blame me, even if you hate me... it doesn't matter anymore. I admit my mistakes. I shouldn't have asked for your attention. I shouldn't have asked for your love.”
I looked away from him, focusing on the roses on the table. “You don't need to take responsibility for me or my child. Go north, Eric. Defend your lands. Forget about this room and the woman in it. I won't bother you again.”
The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. I didn't look at him, but I could feel his gaze—a mix of confusion, frustration, and a sudden, sharp sting of rejection.
“Fine,” Eric said, his voice tight with a suppressed resentment. “If that is what you want.”
He turned and strode out of the room, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoed in my chest.
*Finally,* I thought, letting out a long, shaky breath. *The last string is cut. I am Cornelia now. Not a wife, not a victim. Just a survivor.*
***
Eric reached his office and slammed his fist into the marble table with a force that sent a spiderweb of cracks through the stone.
*“I don't care,”* she’d said.
He’d gone to her room to mend a bridge, to find some way to make the dream he’d been having a reality. He’d been willing to accept her, child and all. But he’d found only a wall of ice.
He could handle her rage. He could handle her obsession. But he couldn't handle her indifference. It felt like a defeat he couldn't recover from, as if the future he’d glimpsed in his dreams had been snatched away before he could even reach for it.
*“Unless it’s the real Eric, I’ll never see her again,”* he whispered, his eyes dark with a sudden, localized self-loathing. *“To her, I am just a shadow. A fake.”*
A knock at the door broke through his spiral. Janet entered, her eyes widening as she saw the shattered marble.
“Your Highness? What happened?”
Eric didn't answer. He stood by the window, staring out at the darkening gardens. The "Hero of the Empire" was gone, replaced by a man who felt as hollow as the title he wore.
“Janet,” he said, his voice dropping into a register of cold, tactical focus.
“Yes, sir?”
“I want a full report on Sardin. Every movement, every contact, every whispered word. I have to find out exactly what Cornelia is up to with her 'hound' before I leave for the North.”
His eyes regained their lethal sparkle. If he couldn't have her love, he would have her secrets. He wouldn't leave his house until he knew exactly whose war he was being sent to fight.