Trigger Warning: This chapter contains references to suicidal thoughts and/or actions.
It had begun as a normal day for me. I'd awaken, prepare for the morning, and then bury myself in paperwork. Yet something felt different. Emotionally, mentally, and physically, I was drained. Normally, with discipline, I'd be up at the sixth hour, but that morning I lingered in bed until the seventh. When at last I opened my eyes, the room was already bright, golden beams slipping through the heavy curtains — a rare warmth compared to the dimness I was accustomed to.
Slowly, I rose and made my way to the adjoining bath. The water the maids had prepared was no longer warm, but I did not complain. Unbothered, I shed my nightdress and lowered myself into the cool bath. Surprisingly, it felt almost comforting. Other noblewomen boasted of scented oils and petals to soften their skin, but such luxuries had never been afforded to me — even as the wife of a duke.
I did not linger long. After washing, I stepped out, reaching for the towel draped neatly over the hanger. I had grown used to tending to myself, though it was meant to be the duty of my maids. That is what years of neglect teach you — how to stop expecting care from others.
Once dry, I crossed to my closet and considered my wardrobe. I settled on a crisp white blouse with a high lace collar framing my neck, its sleeves tapering neatly into buttoned cuffs. Though slightly creased, I did not mind. The bodice was modest, tailored close with delicate pin-tucks, and a small cameo brooch rested at my throat. For my skirt, I chose deep wine-colored wool, the heavy fabric brushing the floor as it swayed with quiet dignity. Black leather pumps, scuffed with years of use, completed my attire. My hair — once a source of pride, now streaked with the silver threads of age — fell loosely to my shoulders.
Leaving my chamber, I descended to the dining hall on the first floor. In earlier years I had woken so early to ensure my punctuality at family breakfasts. I had once hoped it would make me more welcome. Instead, I had only gained indigestion, seated under the weight of silent judgment.
Entering the hall, I found my husband at the head of the long table, with my sister-in-law and her two daughters settled comfortably at his right. I had thought they would have departed by now.
"Good morning, Your Grace," I said softly, bowing my head.
As always, he ignored me.
It had taken two years of marriage to realize the cold, loveless future awaiting me. Thirty years had since passed. Once, the sting of being disregarded had pierced deeply, leaving me raw. Now, the wound was numb.
I took my seat quietly, unfolding the napkin across my lap. The girls whispered and giggled amongst themselves while their mother conversed with the duke. I ate without complaint, finishing quickly before excusing myself.
The halls stretched before me as I left the dining room. Once, they had dazzled me with their polish, their chandeliers and gilded frames gleaming with the promise of grandeur. Now they seemed dim — or perhaps it was simply the shadow of weariness in my own eyes. I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear and walked slowly to my office. There, my desk waited as always, littered with papers demanding attention. Another long day began.
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I had given thirty-two years of my life to a family who never once regarded me as their own. I had tried, endlessly, to be the perfect daughter-in-law. I never complained, even when uncomfortable. I gave everything, only to be forgotten. My husband despised me, though I never knew why. He had never touched me as a husband should and so, I bore him no children. His family treated me as though I were little more than dirt clinging to their shoes. Was I truly so detestable?
These thoughts haunted me as I gazed at the night sky from the balcony. The moon bathed the gardens in silver light, casting a gentle glow on the garden below. Watching it had always brought me peace. Tonight, however, I was not seated with a shawl draped over my lap. Tonight, I perched on the stone railing, eyes heavy, heart hollow.
I had cried for thirty years; my tears had long since run dry.
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply — and let myself fall. At last, I would be freed.
That was what I thought would happen.
When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in my own bed, staring at the familiar ceiling. Confusion washed over me. Did I not fall to my death?
I sat up slowly, glancing about. Some details of the chamber seemed different, yet unmistakably this was my room. I crossed to the window and peered outside. The garden should have been bathed in darkness but there, in the moonlight, stood the orange tree — the very one my brother-in-law had cut down years ago to make way for his wife's garden.
So… was I dreaming?
I wandered the room, my fingers trailing across the furniture, the pale curtains, the soft carpet. Nostalgia crept over me, warm and aching. My vanity sat bare, no bottles of perfume, no jewelry scattered across it. When I sat before it, I expected the worn face of a 58-year-old woman. Instead, the mirror reflected a younger me — perhaps age 26.
I touched my hair, long and soft black, tumbling past my thighs. My husband had once ordered it cut short, declaring it troublesome. But here it was whole again, just as I loved it. My porcelain skin, tinted with a rosy hue, was smooth and luminous, free of age. My ash-grey eyes, no longer dulled by sorrow, seemed almost alive.
I rose, curiosity pushing me onward. Even in my simple undergarments, I felt no shame. The white marble halls gleamed faintly in the light of the chandeliers, and my steps echoed against polished floors. I knew every corner of this mansion, every secret passage I had once discovered. Descending the grand staircase, my hand brushed the railing as I glanced toward the front doors. No servants bustled about. The house was silent.
"What are you doing?" The voice froze me. Deep, sharp, unmistakably laced with disdain.
I turned, meeting the gaze of the man who had been my husband. His golden hair gleamed in the light, his piercing blue eyes hard as ice. Cedric Valemont — heir of the Valemont house. Stoic, proud, and just as handsome as the day I first laid eyes on him.
Normally, I would have faltered. But this time, my gaze did not waver.
"I am doing nothing, my lord," I replied evenly.
His eyes narrowed. "Then why are you down here?"
"Am I not allowed, my lord?" I asked calmly. We stood in silence, watching one another. I noticed, with mild surprise, that he appeared more muscular than I remembered. Finally, he broke away, turning his back on me.
I chose to do the same. Leaving him behind, I stepped outside into the night. The air was sharp and cold, filling my lungs with the scent of damp grass and earth.
"Where are you going?" His voice followed.
"I thought you had left, my lord." I descended the stairs slowly, hand on the railing. We had exchanged more words in this single encounter than we had in years of marriage. A laugh — soft, bitter — escaped me.
His footsteps paused. "That did not answer my question."
"Then tell me, my lord," I said, turning toward him, "did you ask out of curiosity… or suspicion?"
For a moment he said nothing, the silence thick between us. Memories of their scorn, their disdain for my family, rushed through my mind. How foolish I had been, thinking love could be found here.
At last, I headed inside. I had no desire to linger in this dream any longer. I returned to my chamber, leaving him on the stairs, his eyes fixed on me. Curling beneath my covers, I allowed sleep to take me once more.