Chapter 2
Gasps filled the room–but I was the first to rush forward, pounding my fists against both Lady
Isolde and Sir Alaric Storme.
“Why would you lie to Mother and me? You’re both horrible! You’re liars!”
My tiny hand landed lightly on Isolde’s stomach. I didn’t hit her hard, but she let out a sharpery of pain.
Without hesitation, Father kicked me. Hard,
I flew backward and crashed into a wooden chest. Pain splintered down my spine and through my
bones.
Mother scooped me up, tears spilling down her cheeks as she held me tight. Her jaw clenched with
quiet fury.
Moments later, she wiped her face, stood tall, and slapped Father across the face with all her
strength.
The man was a knight, a seasoned commander–but the blow nearly sent him reeling.
“Elowen!” Isolde stepped between them, her voice choked with desperation. “I’m four months along… And Alaric’s helped you for years. Without him, you’d have ended up like the rest of us- just another name on the house ledger!”
She grabbed Mother’s hand, her eyes wet. “Please. Be merciful. Let us have this.”
“You want my child,” Mother said, voice trembling, “to use as sacrificial medicine?”
Father’s face held not even a flicker of remorse.
“Isolde’s health is delicate. This might be her only chance to carry a child. And we already have a daughter–you should be content.‘
“So all this time,” Mother whispered, “when she said she was staying in the Dovecote Lodge, hidden away by some nameless patron… it was you?”
He nodded once, without shame.
Mother swayed on her feet. I ignored my own pain and scrambled up to steady her, clutching her
arm until she could stand.
“Eight years,” she said quietly. “We waited in that place for eight long years. Shamed and forgotten. And you…”
Chapter 2
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“Turns out, when a man truly loves someone, he hides her. Tucks her away where no one can
question her.”
Her voice grew eerily calm. By the end, there was even a faint smile on her lips.
Father reached up to tuck a lock of Isolde’s hair behind her car, his tone soft. “You became the Jewel of the Swan, Elowen. You danced your way into every nobleman’s memory. How could I ever
marry you?”
“But Isolde she never fought, never demanded. I forged her a new past as the daughter of a minor official. No one would ever question her blood.”
“You’re sure about this?” Mother asked coldly. “You won’t regret it?”
He hesitated. Then furrowed his brow and said, “If you’re willing to give up the child, I’ll pay a hundred gold crowns to grant you your release… You can be my mistress.”
“A hundred crowns is no small sum,” Ms. Rowan piped up smoothly. “For Elinor’s sake, perhaps you should consider it.”
They were always asking Mother to sacrifice–for me.
But none of them asked what I wanted.
I looked
up
at her. “I don’t want him as my father. I just want you.”
A flicker of pain crossed Sir Alaric’s face.
But the moment Isolde let out a soft gasp, his gaze snapped back to her belly like it was a compass needle drawn to the wrong North.
“Alaric,” she whined sweetly, resting her hands on her stomach. “The little mischief–maker’s been kicking all morning. When are we going home?”
“Now,” he said with a sharp breath. “I’ve no use for a defiant woman–or a rude, ill–bred child.”
And just like that, he turned his back on us.
He left with Isolde on his arm, without so much as a glance behind.
Before disappearing through the doors, he gave Ms. Rowan a few last orders.
“Let her rot in the Quarry pits. Make sure she regrets ever crossing me.”
Tears welled in my eyes.
Cheater ?
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But Mother didn’t flinch. She only reached down, brushed my hair back gently, and whispered, “It’s all right, sweetheart.”
Ms. Rowan ordered the coffers of gold to be carried off.
Just as the last one vanished into the back room, she turned–and her eyes went wide.
Another coffer had appeared in the courtyard. Quietly. No fanfare.
Another thousand gold crowns.
“I suppose this one’s for me,” Mother said softly, stretching out a hand toward me. “Come, Elinor.
It’s time we left.”
At the gate stood the same velvet–curtained carriage from the other night, now gleaming under the morning sun.
An older butler in a well–kept coat rushed forward, bowing deeply as he swept the curtain aside. “Milady, please–we must go. Lord and Lady Hawthorne await you at the manor.”
