Amelia Everthorne stood frozen on the top of the sweeping staircase, observing as the doors to Everthorne Manor swung wide open. A burst of shouts—cheering, clapping, and shouting his name—permeated the air, and the crowd parted to show Claude.
Her husband. Her estranged husband.
The man who four years ago, word unspoken, backward glance not given, had walked out of her life. The man whose icy indifference had prompted her to construct the house he walked away from, to strengthen her position with blood, sweat, and strategy.
Now, however, he was returning.
Clad in the silver and black armor of a warrior, his stance upright and authoritative, Claude was not the husband she had wed. No. This one was a hero to the realm—detested by his foes and beloved by the people. A warrior who had battled with ruthless efficiency, slaying with no qualms, and bringing home his loot.
And standing at his side, as if an afterthought, was the woman—the mistress—come to supplant her.
Isolde.
A lovely, fragile thing, with dark hair that cascaded in waves down her shoulders, her gentle, innocent face circled by the sparkle of costly jewelry. She stood by his side, her hand lightly on his arm, her eyes one of respect, adoration, and something else that ate away at Amelia's gut.
This woman had come to claim her place in the house she had fought so hard to create.
Amelia's own chest constricted, yet her own face was an unyielding mask of poise. She had always been the one to master her own emotions. The world may judge her as the frail, crippled duchess who had been discarded—but within, Amelia was anything but.
She had constructed Everthorne Manor out of the ashes of his disregard. She had put the staff in their place, earned respect from the other lords and ladies in the neighborhood, and forged a reputation as a woman of fortitude—her fortitude. While he was away, she had been the actual master of this household, not a temporary stand-in.
And now, Claude was returned. But not to her. Not to the woman who had waited by his title while he was away.
Amelia moved forward, her limp barely noticeable as she came down the stairs, her head held high. Each step was deliberate, controlled. She was in charge.
Her gaze darted to the crowd—the court, the nobles, all waiting to welcome the duke. They stepped aside for him, their adoration palpable. But none of them noticed her. Not truly. They didn't know what it had cost her to live this long, to maintain this house.
And then there was Claude—standing at the bottom of the stairs, his icy stare locked on her.
"Amelia," he told her, low and nearly unfazed as the others quieted.
For an instant, she was unsure if he was actually talking to her or simply saying the words out of duty. She could glimpse the disdain hidden within his eyes, the stiffness of his stance revealing something more sinister than indifference. His lips, so often habituated to curling into smirks, were now straight and thin. Claude was the kind of man who only opened his mouth for gain—and if he did so, it was with deadly accuracy.
Amelia pressed herself to hold his eye, her own as hard as his.
"My lord," she replied, her voice silky but with an edge of venom. "I didn't anticipate so much. fanfare in your return."
Claude's gaze flashed, a flicker of something bitter and hard passing over them. He moved closer, the authority in his stance making the air between them charged, like a tightly drawn bowstring.
"You've done well," he said, his voice clipped, calculating. "The manor appears to be thriving in my absence." His eyes didn't soften, but they stayed on hers for a fraction of a moment longer than they needed to. Amelia didn't blink.
Her jaw clenched. "I had no choice but to make it so."
Claude's lips curled at the edges, a bitter parody of a smile. "No. You didn't."
Amelia's fingers contracted around the stuff of her skirt, her knuckles growing pale. He had a way with those little buttons, always. Had a way of making her feel tiny. But not on this day.
She locked her eyes to his, impenetrable. "I got along splendidly without your interference." There was a gritty quality to her voice now. "And I see you brought some new… friend."
She granted herself a quick look toward Isolde. The woman had been standing silently at his side, her hand resting softly against his arm. There was a sense of innocence about her—a stark contrast to the chill that seemed to emanate from Claude.
Isolde's eyes touched hers briefly, and something in the look. Amelia could see the flash of a challenge, a little query in the set of the woman's shoulders. Was she challenging her?
Amelia smiled, but it was not warm.
"Isolde," Claude replied, his voice turning possessive as he looked at the woman at his side. "This is my wife, Amelia." He said her name as if it were no more than a far-off formality.
Isolde smiled primly, her voice as honey-sweet as her smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Amelia. The duke has spoken of you often."
Amelia's lips opened, but she suppressed the words that rose to her lips. The duke had mentioned her? Had he indeed? Or had he merely mentioned her name so as not to arouse suspicion in this woman, to prevent her from asking too many questions?
Amelia turned her gaze back to Claude, a steely resolve forming in her chest. "I'm sure." She said it quietly, but with finality. "And I'm sure your return will be… welcomed."
The tension was palpable. Claude moved closer to her, his gaze growing dark. He was aware that she was no fool, that behind her calm demeanor lay a fierce woman who had learned to survive and prosper in his absence. And that realization troubled him more than he wished to admit.
"You're angry," Claude whispered, his voice perilously low. His eyes scrutinized her, his lips twisting in a mockery of comprehension. "I don't care, Amelia. You've constructed a kingdom here, haven't you? But you see, it's still my kingdom."
Amelia's heart beat faster, but she spoke calmly. "Then it would appear I've only been a temporary ruler, my lord."
There was a flicker across Claude's face—something indeterminate, too fleeting to register. He leaned forward, his hand snapping out to grab her wrist. It was fast, unpremeditated, and tight. His grip made Amelia's heart beat faster, but she didn't allow him to recognize her unease.
"You believe you've built something here," Claude snarled, his voice low, its edge telling. "But it all that you possess—all you've achieved—was ever mine."
Amelia glared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. "No." She spoke softly, but with complete conviction. "It never was. It always was."
Claude's eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment, she was sure he would hit her. But instead, he let go of her wrist, his hold like a vice, his face like a thundercloud about to explode.
He moved away.
"Rejoice in your kingdom," he told her, his voice icy as it ever was. "But do remember who really masters Everthorne."
Amelia didn't say a word. She had no need to. She saw now.
It was no game of titles any more. This was war.