Chapter 26: Let You Off

The Duke of Blackmoor’s eyes flared with anger. “Are you so unwilling to call me father?”

Isolde’s voice was icy, her gaze unyielding. “Why must we keep up this pretense? Before I was thirteen, I had no father or mother, and I managed just fine. Why take me back now, only for appearances? You’re uncomfortable looking at me, and I’m disappointed in you.”

She added, “It would have been better to leave things as they were; at least then I’d have a fond memory to hold onto. Tearing it open only reveals blood and cruelty, nothing more.”

The Duke stiffened. That single beating had shattered her trust completely, driving an insurmountable wedge between them.

“I know nothing I say will matter,” he admitted heavily. “But if you still wish to marry into the Marquis’s household, I will fight for you. If nothing else, I can ensure you the position of the first wife.”

Isolde let out a cold, scornful laugh. “No, I won’t take what isn’t mine. I’ll only reclaim what is.”

The Duke frowned, taken aback. “What is yours?”

A sharp glint flickered in her eyes. “My mother’s dowry.”

His brows drew together in thought. “Your mother’s dowry is yours by right. But part of it lies with your stepmother, Matilda. The rest remains with your grandmother.”

“I want Matilda’s share back now,” Isolde replied evenly. “As for that old woman, Prudence… if you have any regard for my mother’s memory, then stand aside. Do nothing.”

Her unrelenting tone and her refusal to even address Prudence politely unsettled him. The bitterness in her words was unmistakable.

“If you don’t overstep your bounds, I won’t intervene,” he said at last. “But if you take things too far…”

“I’ll only take back what is mine,” she cut him off, a chilling smile on her lips. “If they give it willingly, I won’t harm a hair on their heads. If not…” She trailed off, but the menace in her voice was clear.

The Duke’s expression hardened. “I’ll see that Matilda returns what’s due. As for your grandmother, she’s far off in Caelmont—”

“She’ll be back soon,” Isolde interrupted, her gaze sharp and calculating. “And when she returns, she’ll pass my mother’s dowry to her own son.”

“Rubbish!” the Duke snapped, his face darkening. “Your grandmother would never covet such a thing. She’s merely keeping it in trust. When you marry, it will all be returned to you.”

“Don’t place so much faith in kinship,” Isolde said with quiet disdain. “Especially where there’s no blood. Even those with blood ties can’t be trusted.”

The Duke’s patience wore thin. “You’re speaking madness.”

Isolde’s lips curled in a wry, mocking smile. “The day you told me to come to you if anyone bullied me, do you remember? I said there was no need—that I’d fight back myself. Do you know why?”

“You wouldn’t believe me. You wouldn’t stand up for me. Since I was a child, I’ve learned to rely on no one but myself. I’ve learned not to hope—hope only leads to disappointment.”

The Duke was silent, her words cutting deeper than he cared to admit. At last, his voice strained. “You mustn’t speak like this,” he said.

Isolde gave him a tired smile, full of cynicism. “They all despise me for my harsh words, yet no one questions the ugliness of their own actions.”

He looked away, searching for a change in topic. “How did you end up on Wolf Mountain?”

“Lord Harmon claimed Mary’s family had accused me of a crime and summoned me to the courts,” Isolde explained calmly. “But once I entered the carriage, I was drugged and taken away. I told Helena to send word to you, but the housekeeper intercepted her. He kidnapped her brother to force her to frame me.”

“Don’t spew such lies!” the Duke roared, his face flushing with anger.

“As I thought—you don’t believe me,” she replied, her tone cold and mocking. “Had Helena reached you, you’d be celebrated as the hero who brought down the bandits. But the housekeeper was too busy framing me to care about your honor.”

The Duke’s face contorted, the veins in his temples standing out. “The housekeeper?”

“I could have escaped sooner,” Isolde said quietly, her voice edged with bitterness. “But I learned the heir was at Wolf Mountain. I thought I’d stay and act as an informant. I trusted Helena would reach you. I thought you’d come to rescue me, and we’d win a victory together. I hoped that, perhaps, you’d finally look upon me kindly. Maybe then my days in this house wouldn’t be so miserable.”

Her voice cracked slightly, though her expression remained calm. “But what did it come to? I fought, I bled… and for what?” She gave a bitter, empty laugh. “Forget it.”

Isolde’s voice was frosty. “With Marshal Blackwell and his wife at his back, how could he not act with such gall? If I were gone, Eleanor would step into the Marquis’s household without a single hindrance. A marriage like that would raise the Blackwells from river-dwellers to lords of the land.”

The Duke of Blackmoor was struck silent, his blood running cold. Beneath each layer, the truth unraveled, and its depth was darker and more venomous than he could have imagined.

For so long, he had courted Milton’s favor, only to be met with aloof indifference. Now the truth was plain: Milton had always set his sights on a grander prize—the Marquis’s family.

As for the talk of love yielding a child? Nonsense. A calculated maneuver, meant to force the Marchioness’s hand and hasten Eleanor’s place in the household.

The Duke’s anger erupted. His face flushed, and his temper seared through him. He spared Isolde no further glance. With a violent sweep of his cloak, he stormed off.

As she watched him retreat, so consumed by fury, Isolde felt her own tension ease, like taut strings snapping loose.

Was it worth it? The answer evaded her. Her path had always been a relentless climb through thorns and shadow.

Knowing the past changes nothing. Blood and tears alone carve the way forward.

The next morning, the butler limped into the Pearl Tower. The Duke had sent him to receive his punishment—an arm or a leg, the choice was Isolde’s.

Isolde sat beneath the eaves, her frail body slumped in the wooden chair. Her expression was calm, detached, her gaze resting icily on the kneeling butler.

“My lady, the Duke leaves the matter in your hands,” Harlan, the old guard, said with a solemn bow.

“Thank you, Harlan,” Isolde replied softly, though she gave no orders. Instead, she watched the butler in silence, as though considering him with distant curiosity.

“You’re too gracious, my lady.” Harlan bowed once more and left.

As the old man’s figure vanished, Isolde’s gaze returned to the butler. His body bore lash marks, deep and dark, yet they paled in comparison to the wounds hidden beneath her own gown.

“How fitting,” she thought with bitter irony. “A servant who hindered his ambitions was spared true punishment, yet she, his own blood, had been beaten to near death. A virtuous father, indeed.”

“Where’s that lofty authority of yours now?” Isolde murmured, her bruised lips curling into a faint, mocking smile.

The butler’s face contorted with rage. “If you’re going to punish me, get on with it. There’s no need for empty words.”

“Punish you?” Isolde’s smile sharpened, dark and sardonic. “Tell me this, sir—you, who know so much: if I were to trade my hard-won merits, earned with blood and blade, to kill a man like you… would it count as justice done?”

For an instant, fear flashed across the butler’s eyes, though he quickly schooled his features into cold indifference. “Such a waste, my lady. To squander a triumph on the likes of me—surely you wouldn’t be so foolish.”