Anthony stiffened slightly, his eyes narrowing on the female figure standing behind the butler. "Clive. This is my private chamber. Have the household protocols been forgotten so quickly?"
Mr. Clive paled. "My apologies, my lord. I assumed—"
"—That just anyone may walk into my room?" Anthony's tone was clipped.
Before Mr. Clive could respond, Lady Margella swept past him with regal assurance. She was dressed impeccably in emerald silk, a fur-trimmed cloak draped across her shoulders despite the warm day. Her dark eyes took in the sight of Bettina and Anthony—hands still clasped, she seated on the bed beside him, his shirt undone, the atmosphere undeniably intimate.
"Oh, Anthony," Margella said smoothly, her voice layered with concern and something cooler beneath. "When I heard the news, I came immediately to check on my very dear…friend. You look positively pale."
Bettina moved to withdraw her hand, but Anthony didn't let go.
"Lady Margella," he said, tone neutral. "I'm being cared for."
Margella's gaze flitted to Bettina, then to their joined hands. Her painted lips curved. "So, I see. But I hope you don't mind if I request a moment alone with my partner. We have pressing business matters to discuss. I wouldn't want the company to fall into disarray."
Bettina hesitated, then gently slid her hand free. Anthony gave her a look—an apology, a reassurance—but nodded. She stood.
"Of course," she said, voice calm though her chest ached. "I'll return shortly."
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
Out in the corridor, two young maids passed by, arms full of linens, heads bowed in giggles.
"Did you see Lady Margella march in?" one whispered.
"Do you remember the times that his lordship escorted Lady Margella singularly to parties and balls but never the countess?" said the other.
"But that was before the countess changed."
"Oh, I remember. Lady Margella used to be so close to the Earl...Some say they were more than business partners."
"Maybe she's staking her claim again."
"Many people expected Lady Margella to be the next Countess. After all, it was believed back then that his lordship would be applying for a divorce sooner or later."
Bettina walked on, but each word landed like a stone in her chest.
Rekindling things.
More than just partners.
Was that true? Was Lady Margella here to reclaim what she thought was hers?
A bitter pang settled low in her stomach—ugly, unwelcome, unfamiliar. Bettina stared at the hallway wall, fists clenched at her sides. Her heartbeat thudded loud and uneven in her chest.
Why did it sting?
Mary Jane, whatever you're feeling, you don't deserve to feel this way, a quiet voice inside her whispered. You who fell into this world. You who still struggle to believe someone could choose you. You don't really belong here.
She had no claim over him. They weren't truly married—not in the way it mattered. Her presence in this world was borrowed, her identity stitched together from the ashes of a woman long dead. Lady Margella was everything she was not: poised, experienced, commanding. She belongs. And she was his equal.
Mary Jane pressed a hand to her chest. Feeling the pinch inside her chest.
I'm jealous.
The realization hit her like cold water. She had no right. And yet…
She remembered the way Anthony's eyes softened when he looked at her. The way his fingers curled around hers as if afraid to let go. The way he shielded her with his own body without hesitation.
"Maybe I don't deserve him," she whispered to herself, swallowing the lump that suddenly formed in her throat. "He's noble. Capable. Everyone respects and adores him. And I'm just…"
A broken woman from another world, still learning how to breathe without fear, still waking from nightmares of fists and screams.
And yet… he looked at her. Chose to hold her hand.
But maybe that wasn't enough. Maybe he would realize that someone like Lady Margella was a better match for him. She… she was just pretending to be someone who she was not. Pretending to be a countess when, in truth, she was a simple nobody. Someone who would be considered a commoner in this world.
A bitter laugh caught in her throat as she turned down the corridor, needing space, needing air. She headed to the east gardens.
Inside the chamber, Anthony's gaze lingered on the closed door. Whatever Margella had to say, he was not in the mood to hear it.
Because the moment Bettina left the room, he realized he hated how empty it felt without her.
Lady Margella gazed at the door that just closed after the departure of Countess Whitman. Her gloved fingers drummed lightly against the silver head of her cane with the poise of someone long used to commanding drawing rooms and council chambers. A fur-lined shawl was wrapped tightly around her shoulders, though she hardly noticed the chill. She had received word of Anthony's accident just a few hours ago, and despite the late hour, insisted upon paying a visit.
She remembered the way her insides reacted when Mr. Clive first opened the earl's bedroom door for her and beheld the sight that greeted her. It made her footsteps falter.
There, in the golden afternoon light, Bettina sat on the edge of Anthony's bed. The Earl was propped up by a mound of pillows, shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, looking pale but very much alive. Bettina was gently spooning broth to him, their hands lightly touching as she guided the spoon.
Worse—or perhaps, more infuriating—was the look on his face. Quiet contentment. Something warm, almost tender. Her heart twisted.
"Anthony," she said, her voice smooth but tight at the edges. "My heavens, what happened?"
Anthony blinked and stiffened slightly at the sound of her voice. "Margella, need I remind you that it is hardly appropriate for a woman of your station to be entering a man's bedchamber and be known by the entire household that they're alone in there?"
"Now, now, Anthony," she said, stepping forward with a composed smile. "I hardly qualify as just any woman."
He exhaled slowly, expression unreadable, and gave a shallow nod. "No. I suppose not."
"Besides, do you really need to remind me of anything in light of the many times we've been alone, together, in many different kinds of chambers? And in many different positions no less?"
"Enough."
That single word from the earl cracked like a silent whip in the room. An order for her to cease her tasteless joke.
Aware of the effect that Anthony's moods had on her, Lady Margella took the seat that was possibly meant for Bettina and folded her hands over her lap.
"You frightened me, Anthony," she said. "What happened? I heard you were injured saving your wife."
Anthony sighed, leaning back against the pillows. "There was a fire. In the records room of the company. She was inside. A beam fell. I pulled her out. Nothing more heroic than instinct." He was not about to tell her the truth, of course.
Her eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. "You could have been killed."
"Yes," he said quietly, then looked away. "But she would have died if I hadn't."
A beat of silence stretched between them.
"So... you choose her," Margella's voice was lower now. "The woman you nearly gave your life for."
He turned to look at her then. "Yes."
There was finality in that word that made her stomach twist.
"I came here for more than concern," she continued, regaining composure. "There are matters with the company that need your attention. The other directors are... uneasy."
"Uneasy?"
"With Lady Whitman's influence. Her involvement. The new trade stamp has drawn attention—imperial attention. You know how delicate some of our external arrangements are."
He raised an eyebrow. "You mean the bribes?"
"Call them necessary costs. But yes. Her reforms are shaking things. And there's more—rumors of black-market arms, unexplained activity near the border, even murmurs that someone within the company is aligned with a questionable group of people."
He frowned. "And you think rooting them out is wrong?"
"I think doing it so publicly invites destruction before we're prepared." She leaned in slightly. "Which is why I propose we stand united. You and I. We always made the strongest decisions together."
He gave a short, tired laugh. "You're proposing more than mere business partnership."
Her gaze lingered on him. Satisfied that he understood. "We were good together, Anthony. Not just in business."
His features stiffened, jaw clenching slightly.
"You're married," she said gently. "But everyone sees how fragile it is. You and I, we were always aligned—in purpose, in vision, and in social influence. Perhaps... in time, things might be as they were meant to be."
He didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was quiet but firm. "Bettina isn't fragile. Not anymore. And what was… between you and I… were nothing more than friendship and companionship. In business and in shared grief when we both lost our former halves."
Lady Margella drew back slightly, the rejection settling over her like a fine dust. Her voice faltered. "You really believe in her that much?"
He looked down at his hand, where moments ago Bettina's fingers had rested.
"I didn't, for a long time. But now... yes. I do."
And that, more than anything, silenced Lady Margella.
Lady Margella descended the marble staircase in silence, her hands gloved and posture immaculate as always. Mr. Clive followed her a step behind, his presence politely distant. The heavy door to the Earl's bedchamber shut softly behind her—final, like the end of a negotiation.
She moved like a woman unshaken. But beneath the composure, her thoughts twisted tightly around her ribs.
He dismissed me.
Anthony's words still echoed coldly: "I believe the nature of our partnership has changed."
Changed, he'd said. Not ended, not broken—worse. It had become something else entirely. Secondary. Tolerated. And all while he sat there, bruised and bandaged, feeding from another woman's hand, like a man who had chosen his quiet domestic peace over ambition, over power, over her.
He looked at Lady Whitman like that—like a man starved of light who'd found his sun.
Anthony's eyes had softened when he spoke Bettina's name. The same look Margella once knew so intimately—before Lady Whitman woke up from her coma. He admired her. Her, Margella. When they ruled boardrooms together with shared glances and spoke in the language of numbers, strategy, and steel. When their entwined hands brushed too long over ledgers and their evenings ended in whispered conversations and brandy-glazed secrets.
All of it, swept aside for a girl who once wore a wedding ring like a chain and spread nasty rumors about her own husband.
You said it was only a matter of time, in her mind, she was accusing him bitterly. You said your divorce was inevitable. You never said you'd fall in love with her.
Margella's jaw tightened. She knew the risks of coming today. She had hoped to spark his gratitude. Maybe his guilt. Perhaps even desire. Instead, she was met with the cool resolve of a man who had made a decision.
The way he looked at her… he never looked at me that way. Not even once.
At the base of the staircase, sunlight spilled through the manor's tall windows. Beyond the glass, she glimpsed a flutter of skirts—Bettina in the gardens, arms wrapped around herself against the breeze.
Lady Bettina Whitman, standing at the edge of the rose garden, arms folded, gaze distant. The wind caught at her hair. The countess who swept through ballrooms and banquets with her head held high and confidently antagonized anyone who came her way. Now, she looked—well, not fragile, exactly. More… small. Unmoored.
Margella's lips curled faintly. Not in cruelty—but in calculation.
She turned on her heel and exited through the east door, the one closest to the hedged path. Her shoes clicked softly on cobbled stones as she approached the young countess.
"Lady Whitman," Margella greeted smoothly, her voice warm, practiced. "A fine day for reflection, isn't it?"
Bettina paused mid-step. "Lady Ashcombe."
Margella offered a polite smile, but her eyes were sharp. "I was just leaving. I came to check on Lord Whitman. An unfortunate incident, this accident. I must admit I was quite… shaken when I heard."
"I'm glad you were able to visit," Bettina said, tone guarded yet courteous.
Margella smiled. "Of course. Anthony and I have always had a… deep understanding of each other. Years of shared work… and comforting each other when we each lost our loved ones… these tend to build that kind of closeness." She let that statement linger, like perfume.
The younger woman didn't respond.
Margella stepped lightly around a rosebush, brushing a petal with her fingers. "This house must feel very heavy at times, doesn't it? So many expectations. Legacies to preserve. Business to maintain. Caring for another woman's child. And now, even official international trade practices… It's more than most women are trained to handle."
"I manage," Bettina replied, a touch sharpness threading her voice.
Margella smiled again, this time thinner. "I'm sure you try. But managing is not the same as leading. And there will always be those who wonder if trying is enough."
She glanced at Bettina's simple, uncorseted gown, the faint shadows under her eyes. "You've changed, I hear. Opinions, priorities… even your temperament. They say grief and pressure make women either softer or sharper. It's difficult to tell which path you've chosen."
"I wasn't aware I was being watched so closely," Bettina said.
"Oh, my dear," Margella said smoothly, "everyone of importance is always being watched. Especially women who hold titles they didn't earn through years of merit or mastery."
A moment of silence passed between them, broken only by the wind shifting through the rose bushes.
Then Margella sighed, as if taking pity.
"Don't misunderstand me—I say this only because I once stood where you do. Young. Well-placed, but… unsure of my place. Anthony was one of the few who took me seriously. I hope he'll be as patient with you as he was with me."
Bettina's jaw tightened, just slightly.
Margella reached to brush a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve. "Well. Do let him know I'll continue overseeing the port negotiations while he recovers. That sort of work requires… a steadier hand." She gave a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "But I'm sure you'll find your footing. Eventually. Otherwise, I am quite certain Anthony will just grow tired of carrying someone he must always protect from the world rather than build it with."
Despite the heat of embarrassment flushing her cheeks, Bettina was able to respond noncommittally, "I might surprise you, Lady Ashcombe."
Margella tilted her head. "I do hope so. Anthony deserves… peace."
She let that word hang, its sharpness hidden under silk.
Then she stepped back, as though she hadn't just carved a subtle wound with every word.
"Well, I've taken enough of your morning," Margella said lightly. "Do give Lord Whitman my regards. And rest assured—if ever you need help navigating the more… complex layers of the business world, I'm always happy to advise." Her gaze flicked to Bettina's clasped hands. "It's not as easy as sitting beside a man, feeding him soup."
With that, she turned and glided away, leaving behind the scent of rosewater, power, and a cold ache that settled low in Bettina's chest.
The soft knock on the door came just as Anthony managed to shift into a semi-comfortable position, wincing as the sharp pull of his back reminded him how lucky it was that he was able move quickly that day. He didn't think he could bear to see Betty feeling this pain in front of him.
"Enter," he said, voice gruff but controlled.
Clive stepped in with his usual brisk dignity. "My lord," he intoned with a bow. "Lady Margella Ashcombe has taken her leave."
Anthony's fingers, resting on the blanket, stilled. "Did she?" he asked, not quite managing to keep the edge out of his voice.
"Yes, my lord. She spoke briefly with Lady Whitman in the gardens before departing."
At that, Anthony's gaze sharpened. "Did you hear what was said?"
"I kept an appropriate distance, of course," Clive said, lifting his chin slightly. "But I did catch a few of Lady Ashcombe's words. I believe I heard her say: 'This house must feel very heavy at times. So many expectations.' Then she added, 'Lord Anthony will just grow tired of carrying someone he must always protect from the world.' And that was all I heard, my lord."
Anthony's face remained a mask of calm, but a slow burn lit behind his eyes.
Ah.
Margella.
Anthony's jaw clenched, and his gaze drifted to the window, a line of tension deepening along his temple. He didn't speak, but inside, his thoughts spiraled.
It seems that his long-time friend and yes, former bed-partner, had refused to accept his choice. He thought he had already made it clear, even in the beginning, that their relationship outside of business was simply that of a man, who lost his first wife, and a woman, who also lost his husband, seeking warmth and comfort from each other. Never had he made any indications nor insinuations to Margella that either love or marriage was in the equation between the two of them. If he had…well, he thought he already made it very clear today.
He could almost see, in his mind's eye, Margella speaking to Betty, her voice—gentle, laced with honey, but soaked in bitterness. She wanted Bettina to doubt. She wanted Bettina to doubt him. And most of all, she wanted the distance between them to feel just a little colder, a little more inevitable.
But Margella didn't understand.
Protecting Bettina was not a burden to him. If anything, the accident had proven how instinctive—how immediate—that need was. He would throw himself under a dozen beams if it meant shielding her. The real exhaustion came from not knowing if she would ever let him carry her heart the same way.
Anthony turned his attention back to Clive, voice colder now. "In the future, Clive, I would appreciate it if you remembered that no one who is not family should enter my bedchamber without my express permission."
Clive bowed apologetically. "Yes, my lord. My sincerest apologies."
"Good. Go on then."
When the door clicked shut behind the butler, Anthony let his head rest against the pillows and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. He waited. This was around the time Bettina usually came in. She'd taken to changing his bandages, reapplying the salve, occasionally tucking a little note under his tea with a medicinal recipe idea or comment on Jason's morning tantrum. At first, he'd been mildly horrified to have her see him and nurse him like this. Then humbled. Then oddly comforted.
She was good at it. Too good.
She'd moved with calm certainty, never flinching at bruised skin or the blistering gash across his shoulder blade. Except for that charming reddening of her cheeks every time he takes his shirt off; there was nothing dainty or squeamish about her. She carefully dabbed salve and confidently tied bandage knots with the efficiency of a practiced medic.
He hadn't asked, but it lingered in the back of his mind—how many people had she tended to like that? Who taught her to do it with such grave precision? He doubted it had come from idle curiosity.
But the door remained closed. Instead, a knock came later again—tentative, then opening with no grace at all. He glanced up expectantly—only to see his valet clumsily stepping in, arms full of fresh bandages, gauze, and a jar of salve.
Anthony blinked. "Where's Lady Whitman?"
"She is indisposed, my lord. Said she wasn't feeling well."
"Is she sick? Was the doctor called for her?" Concern immediately replaced his irritation at seeing his valet.
"No, my lord, I don't think so." The valet shook his head. "But I heard she went back to her chambers right after speaking with Lady Ashcombe. And I was informed that I should be the one to administer to you tonight."
Anthony stared. "And you thought you could take her place?"
"I—yes, my lord. I mean, no, not take her place, only—well, I've changed dressings before—"
Anthony squinted. "And you, a man with all the grace of a collapsing wardrobe, thought you'd step in?"
"I've changed a dressing or two before!" the valet said defensively. "During the war, I—"
"Let me guess," Anthony cut in. "The patient died?"
"No!"
"Well, let's prepare to break your record."
The valet approached gingerly, picking up the salve. Anthony eyed him as though he were brandishing a smithing iron.
"Do you apply it with your hands or with hooves?"
"My lord!"
"I'm merely asking because I've seen blacksmiths with gentler fingers."
The valet's hand hovered awkwardly. "Would you like me to begin?"
"No, I want you to stand there until my wounds spontaneously heal out of fear of your touch."
The valet frowned, clearly unsure whether that was sarcasm or a direct order.
Anthony groaned. "All right, fine, begin—but if I scream, just know it's not from cowardice but from the sheer trauma of your gorilla grip."
"Gorilla grip?! That's unfair—"
"You insult gorillas."
The valet paused, then drew back with a sigh. "Would you prefer I get Lady Whitman?"
Anthony held up a hand. "Save us both the agony. Just… try not to break my spine while you're at it."
The valet chuckled nervously. "Of course, my lord."
With a finger full of salve, his valet carefully touched his bare shoulder, but Anthony grimaced the moment the man's hand brushed his shoulder. "Gorilla hands. You were born with gorilla hands."
"Gorilla—? My feelings!"
"Lady Whitman has fingers like feathers. You've got the touch of a gardener hacking weeds."
"I'm doing my best—"
"Your best belongs in the stables. Please, I beg you, go fetch my wife."
The valet paused, salve halfway to skin, clearly debating whether his master was joking.
Anthony lifted an eyebrow. "If she truly doesn't wish to come, then fine. But if we simply let her slip away to sulk while I suffer your bear-paw ministrations, then run—don't walk—and ask her to come back."
The valet dropped the salve back onto the tray, turned on his heel, and dashed from the room in what could only be described as a gallop.
Anthony allowed himself a small smile. It faded as he looked again toward the door.
Anthony leaned his head back against the pillow again, exhaling slowly.
He missed her.
He didn't just miss her care. He missed her quiet commentary. He was fascinated with the way she could look both cute and alluring at the same time. The way her brows furrowed when she was concentrating on the bandage. The faint scent of lavender that clung to her whenever she leaned close. The way her lips would part like she wanted to say something but always held it back.
He missed her presence like a light he didn't realize he needed until someone snuffed it out.
He closed his eyes.
Please come back, Bettina.
Before I realize I'm far lonelier without you that it hurts more compared to all my injuries combined.
------000-----
Author's Note: Today marks a special little milestone—I just received my very first support on Ko-fi!
To Miss Kristi, the kind soul who bought me a coffee: thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your gesture isn't just a cup of coffee—it's encouragement, motivation, and a reminder that someone out there believes in my story. <3
This is the beginning of a journey, and I'm so grateful to have your support right at the start. Here's to more chapters, more stories, and more moments like this!
And for anyone who'd like to visit my Kofi page too, below is the link to my Kofi page. I promise to post more images of Bettina's world there in the coming days hehe (I also removed the chapters there since I plan on posting my entire novel in here for free!):
https://ko-fi.com/villainessnerireyes