Isolde's anger at Amelia had been building since the day she arrived.
She had anticipated a frail, discarded wife—a woman easily overshadowed and forgotten. But instead, she had entered a home where Amelia's name was spoken in awe, where even the servants appeared to be loyal to her more than their own duke.
It was unacceptable.
And so, Isolde did what she did best.
She whispered.
"Your wife is making a fool of you," she whispered, her fingers running along Claude's arm while they sat within his study. "Everyone is speaking. The servants, the nobles… they observe how little respect she has for you."
Claude's jaw tightened, already annoyed by Amelia's uninterested nature. "She has always been obstinate."
"She is stubborn beyond words," Isolde insisted, her voice honeyed with feigned concern. "She is teasing you. She takes pleasure in seeing you struggle with the estate. Can you not see it?"
Claude did not answer, though the germ of doubt germinated. Amelia had left him to deal with everything, and her complacency—her enjoyment—was unmistakable.
At dinner that night, his temper broke.
As the nobles assembled for a formal dinner, Claude was seething with anger as Amelia entered the hall, composed, and entirely untroubled by the bedlam she had left behind.
"You seem… relaxed, wife," he said coolly, his voice carrying across the table.
Amelia met his gaze, unmoved. "I am."
Claude's fingers tightened around his goblet. "It must be nice to indulge in your hobbies while others carry the weight of responsibility.
She raised her glass, undisturbed. "It is."
The hushed whisper of the table froze, all gazes flicking between the pair.
Something shadowy crossed Claude's face, and then, before he knew it, the words had escaped.
"Perhaps I expected too much from a cripple who was never meant to be a duchess"
Silence.
The air was deathly silent, the insult suspended in it like a blade.
Amelia's hold on her goblet tightened, her face a mask. But those who were familiar with her—those who had watched her restore the estate from the foundations—saw the flash of hurt in her eyes before she hid it behind apathy.
"If you think that, Your Grace," she replied smoothly, "then it is well that I have discharged myself of the responsibility."
And with that, she stood up, casting one final look at Claude before taking her leave of the table.
And although she moved with her customary elegance, those who were nearest to her could detect the rigidity of her movements.
The rain outside had started to build as Amelia mounted her horse, requiring the fresh air to drown out the bite of his words.
Claude released her.
But when her horse came back hours later—empty and wild—he felt his heart stop.