The manor was still.
Too still.
Mary Jane stood outside the Earl's bedchambers, her palm resting against the heavy doorframe. A soft draft curled through the corridor, brushing the edge of her skirts and whispering like a warning. She swallowed hard, her heart drumming against her ribs. She had heard from Jane earlier that afternoon that the Earl had ridden out for an urgent meeting in the royal palace. He might be returning really late today. If she was going to do this, it had to be now.
She had scoured the manor already—her own rooms, the study, the drawing rooms, the family library. Even the attic and the basement. Nothing. Not a hint of a motive or proof to tie anyone to the deaths of the countess' parents. Not even for a way back home. But this room—the Earl's room—she had avoided it until now. Too personal. Too risky. Too close.
But she had no time to spare anymore.
Every night her thoughts of Ethan had grown darker, heavier. The guilt of living here in comfort while her little brother could be suffering or dying under their stepfather's fists clawed at her sanity. The mystery that had at first seemed like an important but distant injustice was now urgent. Raw. Real.
She pushed the door open and slipped inside.
The air in the room smelled faintly of old woodsy smoke and sandalwood. His scent. She tried not to notice. Tried not to picture him undressing here, tried not to feel like she was trespassing in the middle of something private. The curtains were half-drawn, filtering golden light onto polished furniture and crisp order. Everything was immaculately arranged—military neat, almost as though he never truly lived here.
She moved quickly, aware that every second she lingered made the risk greater. Her fingers flew across the surface of his desk, checking drawers, and bedside tables. Nothing. Contracts. Seals. Ledgers, all in perfect order. She entered to the walk-in closet. It creaked slightly as she opened it. Suits, uniforms, riding boots. A tall box containing bejeweled pins, brooches, and cufflinks. No secret compartments.
Then her gaze caught the far wall of the closet—a dark-stained section of oak with no decor, but very slightly misaligned. Something that one would only see if they would care to look.
She moved closer and pressed along the seams. Feeling for any small knob or crack. A few seconds later, finally, her fingers found a barely perceptible indentation. She hesitated.
Then pressed.
Click.
A soft whir of gears, then a panel eased open with a low hiss. Hidden behind it was a shallow shelf tucked into the wall, protected from dust and time. Her breath caught.
It was nearly empty.
Only two objects lay tucked in the back corner: a small, unframed portrait and what looked like a torn piece of parchment.
She reached in with trembling fingers, lifting the miniature painting first. Carefully, she smoothed out the crinkled portrait. The breath in her lungs vanished.
It was her parents.
Bettina's parents.
She stared at their familiar faces—her mother's gentle smile, her father's calm gaze. Why was this in his room? It was the size of a desk ornament. Personal. Private.
She turned it over.
A single phrase was scrawled in harsh ink across the back, in unfamiliar handwriting:
-----000-----
"Remove the obstruction."
-----000-----
Her blood ran cold.
With shaking hands, she lifted the other folded parchment. A map—no, a blueprint. Faded and torn. The Sutherland warehouse, it said so at the bottom of the parchment, or at least part of it. One corridor was circled. Another corner marked with an X.
Was this the spot where the fire began?
She barely had a second to process the implications when her ears caught something—the low creak of boots on wood. Sounding faintly from the open closet door.
Footsteps.
Someone was coming.
Her heart seized.
She fumbled the portrait and blueprint into her skirt pocket, shoved the hidden panel shut, and glanced wildly around the room for where she might have disturbed something. Had she left a drawer open? The wardrobe door?
No time… No time!
The doorknob turned.
She stepped back just as the door opened.
And there he stood.
The Earl.
Anthony James Whitman.
She froze. He froze.
Time fractured.
He was still dressed in his riding clothes, minus his cloak, dark curls windswept, his expression hard to read—but not unreadable. Surprise. Confusion. A flicker of suspicion.
And then something else.
"What," he said slowly, "are you doing in my room?"
Mary Jane's lips parted, but her voice faltered. Every excuse she might've fabricated turned to ash on her tongue.
Caught.
And she had no idea what he had seen.
Or what he would do next.
Anthony James Whitman opened the heavy door to his chambers with a quiet exhale. He hadn't even taken two steps inside before he stopped short—frozen.
There, framed in the soft light that streamed from the tall window, stood his wife.
Betty.
Her back was to him, her figure still and alert like a cornered animal. His eyes flicked to the drawers—ajar. The armoire—unlatched. The small stool beneath his desk slightly pushed out of place.
His heart lurched. She was searching for something.
"…Betty?"
She spun, nearly dropping whatever it was she had just slipped into the folds of her skirt. Her eyes, wide with panic, locked with his. A storm of emotions raged behind them—fear, shame, and something he couldn't quite name.
"What are you doing here?" His voice came out lower than he meant, raw with surprise.
No answer. Her lips parted, but no words came. Just that brittle silence.
He could see her fear and all he wanted to do was to walk over to her and hug her.
But the room stretched between them, a gulf of confusion and heartbreak.
"You've avoided me for days. Barely spoken to Jason. You hide behind locked doors…" He stepped forward slowly, hands loose at his sides, keeping his voice gentle so as not to scare her further. "And now I find you… here. In my room. Going through my things?"
A flash of hurt crossed her face, as if she hadn't expected him to sound so wounded.
"I wasn't—" she began, but faltered. "I didn't mean to… I just…"
He waited. She looked down, clutching the side of her skirt tightly. She wasn't just guilty—she looked fragile. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Like a woman made of glass and worry.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked softly. "Is that why?"
Her head jerked up. "No." Not anymore.
"Then why?" His voice cracked, just slightly. "Why not just ask me for whatever you were looking for? I would have helped you, you know. With anything."
She didn't answer. Just turned as if to leave, to find an escape route, her movements sharp and desperate. And something in him snapped—not in anger, but in a tidal wave of helplessness that refused to drown quietly.
He reached forward and caught her wrist—not harshly, not to restrain her, just enough to stop her from fleeing again.
"Don't walk away," he said hoarsely. "Not again. Please."
She stilled. But she wouldn't meet his gaze.
"I don't care what you were looking for. I don't care if you think I've done something terrible. Just—talk to me, Betty." His voice was pleading now. "You don't have to do everything alone."
The silence between them was thick with unsaid truths.
"I miss your voice in this house," he whispered. "Jason misses you. I miss waking up and hearing your slippers scuff across the floor, the way you used to peek into the breakfast room just to see what we were eating…"
He stepped closer, his grip loosening into something almost reverent.
"You've turned to stone," he said. "And I can't—" his breath hitched "—I can't lose you like this."
At that, she finally looked up at him.
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
"I wasn't trying to hurt you… nor Jason," she whispered, voice trembling. "I just… I had to look. I had to know. And—"
She broke off, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"I don't know what I'm doing anymore," she said. "I feel like I'm trapped in a dream, and Ethan—" Her hand flew to her mouth too late. "I mean—I—"
But Anthony didn't ask who Ethan was. He didn't interrupt. He just saw how the weight of whatever pain she carried dragged her down.
Then, before she could escape again, before he lost her completely, he did the only thing his heart knew to do.
He pulled her into his arms.
"I will let you go if you don't want me to touch you," he said fervently into her hair, inhaling her scent deeply, his voice nearly cracking. "But please, let me carry at least some of your burdens. Give me some of your trust."
For a moment, there was only silence, her body stiffened against his. Then, slowly—so slowly—it was like watching something thaw, her body tipped forward. She collapsed into him, not in surrender, but in exhaustion. Her hands clenched his shirt, as though afraid he would vanish.
Her head dropped against his shoulder, and the trembling began in earnest.
"I'm so tired, Anthony," she whispered into his chest. "So tired of smiling…of being happy…at the cost of someone else's pain. So tired of feeling like I'm betraying someone every time I breathe."
His arms momentarily tightened around her, and then he enfolded her gently, his arms warm and sure. One hand rose instinctively to stroke her back in slow, soothing circles. He could feel how tense she was, every breath drawn tight like a coiled spring.
"I don't need your smiles," he murmured, voice husky. "Just… stay. Let me carry the weight for you."
He kept stroking her back and repeating his promise. "I'll carry it," he said, voice low, steady. "Whatever weight you're bearing, I'll carry it. You don't have to do this alone."
They stood like that—two souls wrapped in one desperate embrace—in a room that no longer felt cold or impersonal, but pulsing with raw, human ache. His words kept repeating in her ears.
It was that promise—the raw, quiet sincerity of it—that finally broke her resolve.
"There's something I need to find," she whispered, the words trembling like leaves in a storm. "Something I need to understand about what happened to my family."
He didn't speak. He only held her tighter.
"I wasn't sure who to trust," she continued, a choked sound catching in her throat. "Not even you."
That hurt more than he expected—but he understood. He'd given her reasons. Still, he tilted her face gently, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"You can trust me," he said firmly. "You can. Whatever it is you're looking for, I'll help you. I'll move mountains if I have to—but I will never let anyone hurt you. Not even myself. Not again."
A fresh tear slid down her cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb, and for the first time in days, her body no longer pulled away.
Then he looked down.
"You're barefoot."
She blinked, suddenly aware of the cold floor beneath her feet.
Without another word, he bent down and gently slid one arm beneath her legs and the other behind her back.
"What are you—"
"I'm carrying you," he said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "You've walked enough tonight."
She didn't protest.
The walk to her chambers was silent, save for the soft crackle of lanterns in their sconces. She felt the warmth of him, the quiet strength of his hold, and for a moment, she allowed herself to lean her head against his chest. She didn't hear the gasps of the maids who saw them nor the clatter of feather dusters and mops that fell from their surprised hands. She didn't even care if everybody else in the household were seeing her being carried like a baby.
Once they reached her bedroom, he set her gently on the edge of her bed. And then helped tuck her in. She held onto his sleeve as he tried to step back.
"Stay," she said, barely audible. She needed something, or someone to cling on at that moment. Like an anchor. "Just for a moment."
He nodded, pulling a chair close beside the bed. But before he could sit, she looked at the space beside her on the bed.
She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.
He sat beside her on the bed, careful not to crowd her. She laid down in silence, hand still gripping his as he rested his back on the bed's headboard, the weight of unspoken grief hovering like mist in the air. At some point, her head rested on his warm hand, her breath slowing.
He didn't move. Didn't dare disturb the peace she had finally found.
As her eyes fluttered shut, his gaze fell on her profile, the exhaustion beneath her eyes. The soft glow of the hearth flickered across her sleeping form, casting long, gentle shadows over her face. Anthony James Whitman sat by her side, one elbow on his knee, hand holding his head as if in prayer—but he wasn't praying. He was just... watching her.
Her breathing had evened out, but her brows still pulled together slightly, as though the shadows that was triggered by that damned blood-drenched package haunted her dreams and hadn't quite let her go. One hand was curled near her face on the pillow, delicate and trembling faintly with each breath. He reached out instinctively and smoothed her hair behind her ear—not to wake her, but to remind himself that she was still here. Still warm. Still real.
And still hurting.
His throat ached. Not with tears—"men must not cry" his father drilled that in him throughout his life—but with the weight of everything she wasn't saying.
She had just told him she was tired of living in this world. Tired of living.
That admission of hers rang in his ears like church bells in fog. He could hardly bear the thought. The pain in her voice, the way her eyes didn't shine the way they used to, the lifeless stillness in her limbs—it felt like watching a candle burn itself out.
He hadn't realized until now just how much she mattered.
She wasn't the same woman he had married—no. She was not the one who gazed wrathfully at him, not even the one who flinched at his gaze, who seemed constantly on edge. This woman—Betty—had responded with poise against the sharp tongues of high society, reinvented toys with nothing but scraps and stubbornness, made Jason laugh until he hiccupped, and once told him in a very serious tone that if he didn't change his cravat, she would refuse to be seen with him at the garden luncheon.
And slowly, somewhere in all the chaos and endless duties, he had started to look for her in every room he entered. In every quiet moment, every sunrise, every time Jason ran to him with excitement about something she said or did.
She had become important to the household, yes. And to Jason, certainly.
But to him?
God help him, he was in love with her.
Not in the way he had loved before—not with fire and youthful impulsiveness—but something more profound. Something that took root without asking permission. Something that made him feel more deeply because it was wrapped in the hope of healing.
And now, seeing her like this—wounded, lost, afraid—he would burn the world down if it meant she wouldn't have to carry her pain alone.
His thoughts went back to that hideous package sent by a coward… or perhaps a group of cowards. To wrap cruelty in celebration… to mock her joy, her strength, with blood and broken dreams—his jaw clenched, his throat thick with rage. Whoever did this didn't just want to scare her. They wanted to break her.
His free hand clenched rigidly as he made a whispered vow. "I swear on everything I have left… I will make them regret it."
As if attuned to his emotions, Bettina began making small noises of protest whilst still asleep.
He took a deep breath and calmed himself. He leaned forward slightly, brushing the back of his fingers along her cheek. It seemed to have helped calm her down.
She looked so small and vulnerable in the wide bed that he just wanted to gather her up in his arms and never let go.
"I'm right here," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Whatever you're searching for… whatever you're afraid of… I'll stand beside you. You're not alone anymore, Betty."
And maybe… next time she looked at him, she'd see it. Not the earl. Not the man tied to her pain.
Just him.
Someone who had fallen helplessly in love with the woman he almost lost before he ever truly saw her.
He spent the rest of the night just watching over his wife.
*****What was shattered, now made whole*****
Warmth.
It wasn't the kind of warmth that came from sunlight or blankets—though the pale morning light had already crept past the curtains and tangled lazily in her sheets. It was something slightly moving. Solid. Alive.
Lady Whitman stirred with a sleepy breath and blinked her eyes open, slow and reluctant, as if the heaviness of her emotions still hadn't quite let her go.
Then she froze.
Her head was resting against something—someone.
Too big to be mistaken for little Jason.
Her heart stuttered once, then again.
Her lashes lifted fully and her gaze settled on the man beside her.
Anthony.
He was fast asleep, lying awkwardly on the edge of her bed, his back slightly bent and his arm twisted at an uncomfortable angle so she could rest against it. He must have removed his dark travel coat he wore at some point in the night, but he was still wearing the rest of the same clothes he had on yesterday when he arrived home. The top two buttons of his silk shirt, minus his cravat as well, were undone and she could spy his strong collarbone that were normally hidden by his clothes. A faint hint of dust clung to his sleeve, and there was a crease along his collar. His jaw was unshaven, a soft stubble shadowing the sharp line of his face.
What made her heart stutter was waking up with her cheek resting on top of his stomach as his back was resting on her bed's headboard. His right arm was curled over her head while his other hand still loosely cradled her wrist, as though his body hadn't wanted to let her drift too far — even in sleep. He was like a mother hen keeping her baby chick safely under her wing all throughout the night.
Something cracked—faint and internal—like the sound of winter ice beginning to break beneath the first spring sun.
He'd stayed.
All night.
Her throat tightened, emotion welling before she could stop it. Before she came to this world, there was no one for her to rely on. Before she came to this world, it had been second nature for her to expect either violence or aggression from a male authority figure. That's why she had learned to observe carefully those that she knew would have power over her – so that she wouldn't do whatever it is that would irritate or anger them. But from her experience her, the Earl was very different indeed. Very different from her stepfather.
She tried to lift her head gently, carefully, not wanting to wake him—but even the small shift made his hand stir.
The Earl's brow furrowed slightly, as if even unconscious, he was alert to her presence. Protective.
She stared at him.
This man. Her supposed enemy. The one she'd once feared, once resented. And yet now… he had held her as she trembled with grief, stayed when she collapsed, watched over her without question, without demand.
He may look scary and intimidating at first, with his cold expressions and even colder voice in the beginning, but she now learned that he was a warm and caring father. He gave her the freedom to explore this world, do whatever she wanted, and gave her space whenever she needed it. He was someone who truly deserve everyone's respect, including hers.
She remembered the feel of his arms around her last night—the steady stroke of his hand along her back, the heat of his chest as he murmured that he would carry the weight of her problems for her.
Nobody ever said that to her before.
You can trust me… Whatever it is you're looking for, I'll help you, he had said.
But could she really trust him? She was essentially trying to investigate on his father, the former Earl of Whitman, under the belief that he may have something to do with the death of Bettina's parents. How would he react if she told him about this? Would he still help her out if she told him about this?
Her gaze dropped to their joined hands, his fingers still curled around hers, calloused but gentle. Not restraining. Not forcing. Just there.
A knot of guilt twisted low in her chest as another thought came to her mind.
Jason.
She'd pushed him away.
She had been so consumed with her fear and guilt—guilt for leaving Ethan, for surviving, for not finding a way home—that she had turned away from the one child in this world who looked at her with unfiltered joy.
You're not Ethan, she had thought once when Jason reached for her. You're not mine to love.
But wasn't that unfair? To punish another innocent boy because she was afraid of hurting again? Afraid that she was betraying her brother by loving another child?
Ethan… her kind and loving stepbrother… would never have wanted that.
The thought hurt.
It hurt more than she expected.
She swallowed thickly and wiped at her cheek, surprised to find it damp. When had she started crying?
A quiet groan stirred from the Earl as his eyes fluttered open, brow still drawn from fatigue. His gaze found her almost instantly, sharpness rising despite sleep.
He sat straighter, concern flaring in his features.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, voice low and hoarse.
She nodded faintly; voice caught in her throat.
"I must've…" she whispered.
There was silence—soft, unsure. The air between them felt delicate, like one wrong word might shatter something too fragile to repair.
He looked at her again, deeper this time.
"I didn't want to leave," he said. "Not when you were like that."
She nodded again, but it felt heavier. Her mouth opened. Closed. Then finally—
"There's something I need to find," she murmured, eyes not meeting his. "Something I need to understand… about what happened to my family."
The words left her in a whisper, almost a confession.
"I wasn't sure who to trust…" Her voice faltered, barely audible now. "Not even you."
His expression didn't harden—didn't twist in offense or coldness. Instead, he reached for her other hand, enclosing it between his palms.
"You can trust me," he said softly. "Whatever it is, however deep it runs—I'll help you. I swear it."
The vow in his voice was steady. Unshaking.
She looked up then, finally meeting his eyes.
There was no trace of mockery there. No cold detachment. Only sincerity—and something else. Something that burned low and unspoken in the way he looked at her, as if she were no longer just a responsibility, no longer a duty, but something far more personal. Far more precious.
She didn't answer with words.
She simply leaned her forehead lightly against his shoulder. And his answering embrace steadied her.
Her inner world was still a mess.
Her heart still ached.
But maybe it is time for her to reveal the truth. Or at least part of it.