The corridors of Everthorne Manor were eerily silent as Claude walked towards the eastern wing. Servants darted aside, their heads lowered, their eyes averted from his own. It had been like that since he dismissed Isolde—whispers, nervous looks, as if the whole household felt the tempest brewing between him and Amelia.
And maybe they were right to.
He didn't know how to call this thing between them anymore.
For all these years, he had believed Amelia to be someone delicate—quiet, submissive, the sort who could be cast aside. But the woman he confronted today was far from the bride he had taken.
She was aflame.
She looked up at him defiantly, breezed past him as if he were invisible, and smiled for others in a way she'd never smiled for him.
And he despised it.
He hated the way his gaze drifted toward her in every room. The way his chest constricted when he witnessed her having a good time around other people—laughing, talking, *living* without him.
He had assured himself that he had only banished Isolde out of a desire for peace. But the reality?
The reality was much more sinister.
The reality was that he could not stand the presence of another woman by his side when the one that he wanted had spent the last few months giving him the silent treatment in his own house.
By the time he reached Amelia's rooms, he saw the door half-opened.
And then he heard her—laughing.
Not the rigid, formal politeness she used on official occasions, but something gentler, real.
Claude's hands flexed into fists as he advanced, only to come to a stop at the doorway.
Amelia sat at the window inside, wearing a long gown of dark green, its color complementing her warm brown eyes. A book rested open in her lap, although she wasn't reading it.
She was smiling at him.
Sir Edmund—his captain of the guard.
Claude's stomach churned into something nasty as he observed the scene playing out before him. Edmund had his arm braced against the trunk of a nearby tree, his stance too close, and he was smiling. His dark hair was tousled from the wind, and his face wore a warm, easy expression.
Amelia was glowing.
Claude had not seen that expression on her face in years.
A slow, dangerous heat spread through his veins.
He cleared his throat. Loudly.
Both Amelia and Edmund turned in unison.
"Your Grace," Edmund said smoothly, inclining his head. If he was startled by Claude's sudden presence, he did not show it.
Claude ignored him entirely, his gaze locked onto Amelia.
She cocked her head, her face a mask. "Was there something you wanted, my lord?"
His jaw clenched. "A word. In private."
She let out a sigh but nodded, returning to Edmund with a friendly smile. "Thank you for the conversation, Sir Edmund."
The captain paused for the smallest instant, his eyes darting between them before he bowed. "Of course, Your Grace."
As soon as the door shut behind him, Claude turned on Amelia.
"What was that?"
She raised a brow. "A conversation."
He scoffed. "It certainly *looked* like more than that."
Her lips curved into a smirk. "Jealous, my lord?"
His blood burned.
Claude took a step forward, invading her space before she could retreat. "You're playing a dangerous game, Amelia."
She did not back down, however. She lifted her chin, looking him straight in the eye. "And what game would that be?"
His hand quivered at his side. He wanted to shake her—wanted to get some sense into her.
Or maybe, he just wanted to remind her she was his.
"Do you think I don't see the way you've been parading yourself in front of other men?" His voice was low, angry.
Amelia laughed. Laughed in his face.
"Flaunting myself? Think so, do you?" She backed away, her eyes blazing with something fierce.
He balled his fists. "It was never—"
"Never what?" she interrupted sharply. "Never real? Never on purpose? Do you even listen to yourself?"
Claude breathed slowly, his anger cooled only by the gravity of her words.
He had spent so many years lying to himself that what he had done had been necessary. That Amelia would always stand by, quiet and patient.
But he had been wrong.
He had lost her.
And the worst part?
It was his own fault.
Amelia turned toward the window, her shoulders rising and falling as she exhaled. "I don't have time for this."
"Then make time."
She stiffened.
Claude stepped forward, his voice softer now. "I sent Isolde away for you, Amelia."
She went still.
His chest constricted. "I should have done it long ago, but I didn't. And because of that, I will regret it forever. But I see you now. And I will not stand by while you try to wipe me from your existence."
She spun then, turning slowly, her face impassive.
For the first time, he saw something flash in her eyes—something dangerous.
"You assume too much, Claude.
He scowled. "What?"
She inched forward, just enough for him to catch the steel in her eyes.
"You take it for granted that I *want* you around at all."
His air caught.
For the first time, he couldn't think of a thing to say.
Amelia gave him a final glance before shepherding past him, her perfume still hanging in the air.
And Claude stood there, the weight of his own pride suffocating him.
For the first time in his life, he really knew—
If he was going to win Amelia's forgiveness, he was going to have to fight for it.
And this time, he would not lose.