“Thirty women have stood where you’re standing. Do you know what every single one of them said to me?”

Nathaniel Bowmont leaned against the doorframe, his pale fingers gripping the wood as though standing upright required more strength than he wished to admit.

Clara looked directly into his dark eyes.

“They asked how much money they would receive.”

For the first time, something resembling a smile touched his mouth. It was a bitter, humorless expression.

“Not quite. Some asked whether the money would be paid before the wedding. Others wanted to know whether they could leave the estate after the funeral without forfeiting their inheritance.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing.

“One woman actually asked my father whether my death would be painful to witness.”

Clara felt a coldness settle in her chest.

“And what did your father tell her?”

“That she was no longer welcome in his house.”

“Good.”

Nathaniel blinked.

“Good?”

“Some questions reveal more about the person asking them than they ever reveal about the person being discussed.”

For a moment, he simply stared at her.

Then he laughed.

It was a short, rough sound that ended in a cough. He turned away, pressing a hand against his chest, and Clara instinctively stepped forward.

“Don’t touch me.”

She stopped immediately.

Nathaniel waited until his breathing steadied before looking back at her.

“You see? That’s what happens when people come too close. They begin believing they have some responsibility for keeping me alive.”

“I haven’t touched you.”

“You were about to.”

“And you told me not to. So I stopped.”

His expression changed slightly.

Most people, apparently, did not stop when he asked them to.

Clara glanced past him into the room. Heavy curtains blocked much of the afternoon sunlight. A half-empty glᴀss of water stood beside a cold fireplace. Several books lay unopened on a table, and a tray of untouched food had been abandoned near the window.

The room smelled of stale air and medicine.

“May I come in?” she asked.

“No.”

“Very well.”

She turned toward the staircase.

Nathaniel frowned.

“Where are you going?”

“To find somewhere else to sit.”

“You’ve come all this way to marry me, and you’re leaving because I won’t let you into my room?”

“No. I’ve come all this way because I agreed to marry you. I haven’t agreed to stand in a hallway until you decide whether you wish to speak to me.”

She continued walking.

“Miss Whitfield.”

She stopped but did not turn.

“Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”

“Yes.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice sharpened. “My heart could stop tomorrow. I could collapse while you’re sitting beside me at breakfast. You could wake up one morning and discover that the man you married is already in his grave.”

Clara slowly turned around.

“Then I suppose tomorrow would be a terrible day.”

His face hardened.

“You think this is amusing?”

“No. I think it is tragic. But I refuse to pretend that tragedy has already happened when you’re still standing here arguing with me.”

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then Nathaniel stepped aside.

“Five minutes.”

Clara entered.

“Thank you.”

“And don’t open the curtains.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t move my books.”

“I have no intention of moving them.”

“And if my father has told you to make me eat, you may inform him that you have failed before you’ve even begun.”

Clara glanced at the untouched tray.

“I haven’t been instructed to make you do anything.”

“Then what exactly are you here for?”

She set her traveling bag beside a chair.

“To meet my husband.”

The word struck him harder than she expected.

Nathaniel’s face became completely still.

“Your husband,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“We aren’t married yet.”

“Legally, not until the ceremony. But your father has signed his part of the agreement, and I have signed mine. I don’t intend to spend the next several days pretending we are strangers.”

He looked away.

“You shouldn’t call me that.”

“Your husband?”

“Don’t.”

“All right, Nathaniel.”

His head snapped toward her.

“You’ve known me for less than ten minutes.”

“And I’ve already learned that you dislike being called your husband, dislike people touching you, dislike sunlight, and dislike being told what to do.”

“An impressive accomplishment.”

“Thank you. I’m a quick learner.”

For the first time, the corner of his mouth lifted without bitterness.

It disappeared almost immediately, but Clara saw it.

And she realized something important.

The man in front of her was not merely ill.

He was waiting.

Waiting for the world to confirm what he had already decided: that everyone who came near him would eventually grow tired, frightened, or disgusted enough to leave.

She knew that kind of waiting.

She had lived through it beside her younger brother’s bedroom door, listening for footsteps that never came.

She pulled a chair toward the window but did not open the curtains.

“I’m going to sit here for a while,” she announced.

“You may find that extremely boring.”

“I have spent entire afternoons repairing torn shirts while my brother complained about the sтιтching. I can survive an hour of silence.”

Nathaniel studied her.

“Your brother?”

Clara’s fingers тιԍнтened around the chair.

“He died two years ago.”

Something in Nathaniel’s face softened, although he quickly concealed it.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

“Was he ill?”

“Yes.”

“Was there nothing the physicians could do?”

She looked at him.

“They did what they could.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No,” Clara agreed quietly. “It isn’t.”

She sat down.

“And sometimes there isn’t an answer that makes losing someone easier.”

Nathaniel looked toward the window.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the ticking of a clock.

Then he spoke again.

“My father believes you can save me.”

Clara shook her head.

“Your father believes you can be persuaded to live.”

“Is there a difference?”

“A considerable one. I cannot promise you a long life. I cannot promise your heart will recover. And I will not lie to you by pretending love is a medicine that cures every illness.”

He stared at her.

“Then what can you promise?”

Clara met his eyes.

“That while you are alive, I will treat you as a living man.”

His jaw тιԍнтened.

“Even when I become difficult?”

“Especially then. Though I reserve the right to tell you when you’re being unreasonable.”

“And if I refuse to eat?”

“I’ll ask whether you’re hungry.”

“And if I refuse to speak?”

“I’ll stop talking.”

“And if I tell you to leave?”

She paused.

“Then I’ll ask whether you truly want me to leave or whether you’re hoping I’ll prove you right.”

His expression changed so suddenly that she knew she had struck something raw.

“Get out.”

Clara rose.

“All right.”

She picked up her bag.

Nathaniel watched her, his face pale with anger—or perhaps something else.

She reached the door.

“Miss Whitfield.”

She turned.

He swallowed.

“You’re actually going?”

“You asked me to.”

His fingers curled around the edge of the desk.

“The others always argued.”

“Would you have preferred that I argue?”

“I don’t know what I would have preferred!”

The words burst from him with such force that he immediately pressed a hand to his chest.

Clara set down her bag.

She did not rush toward him. She did not panic. She waited until he had steadied himself.

Then she said, very gently, “That is the first honest thing you’ve told me.”

His eyes filled with an emotion he seemed furious to possess.

“Five minutes are over,” he muttered.

Clara glanced at the clock.

“By nearly half an hour.”

“You counted?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked me to stay for five minutes. I thought it would be rude to leave before you knew how much time had pᴀssed.”

He stared at her in disbelief.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed again.

This time, the sound lasted several seconds.

And when it ended, the room seemed a little less ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.

The following morning, the entire household gathered in the breakfast room to witness what they expected would be another disaster.

Edward Bowmont sat at the head of the table, reading a letter he had not turned a page of in twenty minutes.

His sister, Lady Margaret, stirred her tea.

“Has the girl gone yet?”

Edward lowered the letter.

“Miss Whitfield is still here.”

“For heaven’s sake, Edward. It’s been a full day. Surely Nathaniel has explained the situation.”

“He has.”

“And?”

Edward folded the letter carefully.

“She has not asked for additional payment.”

Lady Margaret gave a sharp laugh.

“Perhaps she is clever enough to wait until after the wedding.”

Before Edward could reply, the door opened.

Clara entered.

She wore a simple blue dress, her hair neatly pinned back. She looked neither triumphant nor distressed. She merely greeted everyone and took the seat Edward indicated.

“Good morning, Miss Whitfield,” he said.

“Good morning, Mr. Bowmont.”

“Did you see my son last night?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Clara spread a little ʙuттer over her bread.

“He is not particularly fond of questions.”

Lady Margaret nearly choked on her tea.

Edward stared at Clara.

Then he laughed.

It was the first genuine laugh Lady Margaret had heard from her brother in months.

But the laughter vanished when Polly hurried into the room.

“Mr. Bowmont! Sir!”

Edward stood.

“What is it?”

“It’s Mr. Nathaniel.”

Everyone froze.

“What has happened?” Edward demanded.

Polly’s eyes widened.

“Nothing, sir. That’s the thing. He’s come downstairs.”

Edward dropped his napkin.

Lady Margaret rose so quickly that her chair scraped across the floor.

“Impossible.”

But before anyone could say another word, footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Slow footsteps.

Uneven footsteps.

Then Nathaniel appeared in the doorway.

He wore a dark waistcoat and a clean white shirt. His hair had been combed, his face shaved. He looked painfully thin, and one hand rested against the wall for support.

Yet he was standing in the breakfast room.

The same breakfast room he had refused to enter for six weeks.

Edward’s face went white.

“Nathaniel?”

His son looked at him.

“Good morning, Father.”

The older man took a step forward, then stopped himself, as though afraid that moving too quickly might make the apparition disappear.

“You’re downstairs.”

“Your powers of observation remain extraordinary.”

Lady Margaret pressed a hand to her mouth.

Nathaniel looked at the table.

“Is there any coffee left?”

Nobody moved.

Then Clara quietly pushed back her chair.

“Polly, would you bring another cup, please?”

The young maid practically ran toward the sideboard.

Nathaniel walked toward the empty chair beside Clara. By the time he reached it, his breathing had grown shallow.

Clara noticed.

“Would you like to sit before you decide whether the coffee is worth the journey?”

He gave her an irritated look.

“Yes.”

She pulled out the chair.

He sat.

Edward stood motionless, staring at his son as though he had witnessed a miracle.

Nathaniel noticed.

“Please don’t look at me like that, Father.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve returned from the grave.”

Edward’s lips parted.

For a moment, the duke seemed unable to speak.

Then he said, in a voice thick with emotion, “I thought I might never see you here again.”

Nathaniel lowered his eyes.

“Neither did I.”

The admission silenced the room.

Clara did not reach for his hand. She did not congratulate him or tell him how brave he was.

She simply pᴀssed him the bread.

Nathaniel took a small piece.

Then another.

Across the table, Lady Margaret watched with growing suspicion.

When Nathaniel finally excused himself, she waited until the door had closed before turning toward Clara.

“What have you done to him?”

Clara looked up from her tea.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence. He has refused to come downstairs for months. He has barely eaten. And now, after a single evening with you, he is sitting at our breakfast table.”

“Perhaps he wanted breakfast.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

Lady Margaret leaned forward.

“Listen carefully, Miss Whitfield. You may have convinced my brother that you are some sort of saint, but I know how these arrangements work. You intend to make my nephew fall in love with you, collect the money, and leave him heartbroken before he dies.”

Clara set down her cup.

“I have no intention of making your nephew do anything.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because he shouldn’t have to face his illness entirely alone.”

Lady Margaret’s eyes narrowed.

“You expect us to believe that you would marry a dying man for nothing?”

“No,” Clara replied. “I expect you to believe that money isn’t the only reason a person might make a difficult choice.”

For a moment, Lady Margaret said nothing.

Then she smiled coldly.

“Very well. Let us see how long your noble intentions last.”

Clara returned her attention to her tea.

She had heard similar words before.

They no longer frightened her.

What she did not know was that Lady Margaret had already begun planning a way to remove her from Bowmont Estate.

And she would not be the only person determined to see Clara fail.

Three days later, the wedding took place in the small chapel on the eastern grounds.

There were no crowds, no grand celebration, and no musicians.

Nathaniel had insisted on keeping the ceremony simple.

“I refuse to have an orchestra playing while everyone waits for me to collapse,” he had told his father.

Edward had argued for nearly an hour before finally surrendering.

Clara wore an ivory dress Polly had helped her alter. It was modest, with delicate lace at the cuffs. She had no expensive jewelry and no elaborate veil.

Nathaniel stood beside her in a black coat, his face pale beneath the morning sunlight.

When the vicar asked whether he took Clara Whitfield to be his lawful wife, Nathaniel hesitated.

Only for a moment.

But Clara felt it.

She turned her head toward him.

He was staring at her as though he could not understand why she was still standing there.

“Are you certain?” he whispered, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

Clara answered just as softly.

“No.”

His eyes widened.

She continued, “I’m not certain about the future. I’m not certain what will happen tomorrow. But I’m certain I am standing here because I chose to be.”

Nathaniel looked at her for a long time.

Then he turned to the vicar.

“I do.”

When it was Clara’s turn, her answer came without hesitation.

“I do.”

The ceremony ended with a simple blessing.

As they stepped outside, Nathaniel stopped beneath the old oak tree beside the chapel.

“Clara.”

It was the first time he had used her first name without sounding as though it annoyed him.

She turned.

“Yes?”

“You understand that my father intends to give you a fortune when I die.”

“I understand that the contract contains a financial provision.”

“And that you will receive it regardless of whether you love me.”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you look so unhappy?”

Clara frowned.

“Do I?”

“You looked happier signing the contract than you do now.”

She considered the question.

“Because signing the contract was easy.”

“And this?”

She looked at the chapel behind them.

“This is a marriage.”

Nathaniel’s expression became guarded.

“You make it sound like a burden.”

“No. I make it sound like something that deserves more than a signature.”

He stared at her.

Then he asked the question that had been tormenting him since the moment she entered his father’s study.

“What happens if I fall in love with you?”

Clara’s breath caught.

She had expected suspicion, anger, even contempt.

Not this.

She answered honestly.

“Then I hope you will tell me.”

“And if you don’t love me back?”

“Then I will tell you that, too.”

His face тιԍнтened.

“You really have no idea how to comfort a man.”

“Would you prefer a comforting lie?”

“No.”

“Neither would I.”

Nathaniel looked away, his jaw clenched.

For a long moment, Clara thought he would return to his rooms and shut the door between them.

Instead, he offered her his arm.

“Shall we go inside, Mrs. Bowmont?”

She placed her hand lightly on his sleeve.

“Yes, Mr. Bowmont.”

And together, they walked back toward the house.

For the first time in fourteen months, Nathaniel did not turn toward the East Wing.

Their marriage was not transformed by a single kiss or a sudden declaration of love.

It began with smaller things.

Clara opened the curtains a little farther each morning, asking permission before letting the sunlight into Nathaniel’s room.

He complained about the brightness.

She reminded him that the sun had not personally offended him.

He complained about the food.

She asked the cook to prepare smaller portions.

He complained about the physician.

She told him that if he intended to argue with every person trying to help him, he would need considerably more energy than he currently possessed.

“You are an extraordinarily irritating woman,” he told her one afternoon.

Clara continued mending a tear in his sleeve.

“And yet you keep inviting me into your room.”

“I have no idea why.”

“Perhaps you enjoy my company.”

“An appalling possibility.”

But he was smiling when he said it.

Within a week, Nathaniel began spending an hour in the garden each afternoon.

Within two weeks, he was reading beside the drawing-room window.

And one rainy Thursday, Clara found him standing outside the little music room at the end of the western corridor.

She stopped beside him.

“Do you play?”

“No.”

“Then why are you standing here?”

He hesitated.

“My mother used to play the pianoforte.”

Clara waited.

“She died when I was seventeen. Afterward, I couldn’t bear to hear music in the house.”

“I’m sorry.”

He gave a humorless smile.

“Everyone is sorry. It changes nothing.”

“No,” Clara said. “But it means someone remembers that you lost her.”

He looked at her.

Then he pushed open the door.

The room smelled of polished wood and old sheet music. A pianoforte stood near the window, its keys yellowed with age. A framed portrait of a dark-haired woman hung above it.

Nathaniel walked toward the instrument and rested his fingers on its edge.

“My mother played every evening,” he said. “Even when she was tired. She said a house without music became a place where people merely slept.”

Clara studied the portrait.

“She looks kind.”

“She was.”

His voice broke on the last word.

He turned away, embarrᴀssed by the emotion.

Clara did not pretend not to notice.

Instead, she crossed the room and sat beside the pianoforte.

“Would you like me to play something?”

He looked at her in surprise.

“You play?”

“A little. My mother taught me before she died.”

Clara placed her fingers on the keys.

The first notes were hesitant, but the melody soon filled the room, soft and gentle beneath the rain.

Nathaniel stood perfectly still.

When the music ended, he remained silent for so long that Clara wondered whether she had made a mistake.

Then he whispered, “She used to play that.”

Clara lowered her hands.

“I thought she might have.”

“How could you possibly know?”

“I found the sheet music on the stand.”

He looked down.

The тιтle was faded, but still legible.

For a moment, his expression crumpled.

Then, before Clara could move, he sat beside her on the bench.

“Play it again,” he said.

She did.

And this time, when the melody ended, Nathaniel was crying.

He turned his face away, ashamed.

Clara did not touch him.

She simply remained beside him until he was ready to speak.

After several minutes, he said, “I thought I had forgotten what it felt like to miss her.”

“You haven’t forgotten.”

“No.”

He looked at the portrait.

“I think I was afraid that if I allowed myself to remember her, I would have to remember everything else I lost, too.”

Clara’s throat тιԍнтened.

“You don’t have to remember everything at once.”

He looked at her.

“And what if I can’t bear it?”

“Then we take it one day at a time.”

For a long moment, he studied her face.

Then he whispered, “I don’t know how to do that anymore.”

Clara’s eyes filled with tears.

“Then we will learn.”

Nathaniel did not take her hand.

Not that evening.

But when they left the music room, he walked beside her instead of following several paces behind.

And when they reached his bedroom, he left the door open.

It was a small thing.

To Clara, it felt enormous.

Yet while Nathaniel slowly began returning to the world, the rest of Bowmont Estate was growing increasingly unsettled.

The servants whispered that the new duchess—although Clara was not technically a duchess, they had already begun calling her one—had somehow bewitched the heir.

Lady Margaret complained that Clara was interfering with matters she did not understand.

And Edward Bowmont, who had spent years trying to purchase his son’s happiness through physicians, expensive treatments, and finally a marriage contract, found himself watching a woman with no fortune of her own accomplish something he could not.

But the greatest change was still to come.

It happened on the twenty-third day of Clara’s marriage.

She had gone to the estate’s old library looking for a book on gardening when she heard voices coming from Edward’s study.

The door was slightly open.

She recognized Lady Margaret’s voice immediately.

“You cannot allow this to continue.”

Edward answered in a tired voice.

“Allow what?”

“This ridiculous performance. Nathaniel is eating breakfast again. He has begun walking in the gardens. Yesterday, I heard him laughing.”

“Is that not what we wanted?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”

There was a pause.

Then Lady Margaret lowered her voice.

“What happens when the physicians are right, Edward? What happens when Nathaniel dies and that woman inherits the money?”

Clara stopped moving.

Edward spoke quietly.

“The contract is clear.”

“Then change it.”

“I will not.”

“Why not? You can claim she manipulated him. You can argue that he was not of sound judgment when he agreed to the marriage.”

“She did not force him to do anything.”

“Then make her leave before she has time to become indispensable.”

Another silence followed.

When Edward finally spoke, his voice was colder than Clara had ever heard it.

“I have spent three years watching my son disappear behind a closed door. If Clara has given him even one reason to open it, I will not be the man who takes that reason away.”

Lady Margaret’s reply came like a knife.

“Then perhaps you should ask yourself what your precious new daughter-in-law has been doing in Nathaniel’s room after midnight.”

Clara felt the blood drain from her face.

There was no truth in the insinuation.

But someone was clearly determined to make the household believe otherwise.

She stepped away from the door.

And collided with someone standing behind her.

Clara spun around.

A man in a dark traveling coat stood at the end of the corridor. He was perhaps forty, with neatly trimmed sideburns and a leather medical case in his hand.

She recognized him from the portrait gallery.

Dr. Samuel Pembroke.

Nathaniel’s personal physician.

He glanced toward Edward’s study, then back at Clara.

“Mrs. Bowmont,” he said softly. “I believe we need to speak.”

Clara straightened.

“About my husband?”

“Precisely.”

“Is something wrong?”

The physician hesitated.

Then he looked toward the staircase to ensure they were alone.

“Your husband’s condition is more complicated than his father has led you to believe.”

Clara felt her heart begin to pound.

“What does that mean?”

Dr. Pembroke opened his medical case and removed a folded document.

“I have treated Nathaniel for three years. I have examined his heart repeatedly. I have spoken with specialists in Richmond and Philadelphia. And there is one thing I have never been able to explain.”

He handed her the document.

Clara unfolded it.

It was a medical report bearing the physician’s signature.

Her eyes moved across the page, struggling to understand the technical language.

Then she reached the final paragraph.

And stopped breathing for a moment.

“Doctor,” she whispered, “what am I looking at?”

He looked toward Nathaniel’s bedroom.

“An examination that was conducted six months ago. It contains findings that contradict the diagnosis his father has repeated to every prospective bride.”

Clara stared at him.

“Are you saying Nathaniel isn’t dying?”

“I’m saying that his condition has never been as straightforward as the family has been told.”

“Who told them otherwise?”

Dr. Pembroke’s face тιԍнтened.

“That is the question I have come here to answer.”

He leaned closer.

“Mrs. Bowmont, your husband has been taking a particular medication every evening for the past eighteen months. It was prescribed by another physician, under instructions that came directly from the duke.”

Clara felt a chill creep up her spine.

“What medication?”

“I need to verify the original prescription before I make an accusation. But there is evidence that the dosage may have been inappropriate for Nathaniel’s condition.”

She looked down at the report again.

“Why would my father-in-law do that?”

“I cannot answer that yet.”

“Could it have made Nathaniel worse?”

The physician did not respond immediately.

That silence frightened her more than any answer could have.

Finally, he said, “It may have contributed to some of the symptoms we have been treating.”

Clara gripped the paper.

All those months Nathaniel had spent behind a closed door.

All those days he had believed his life was slipping away.

All those women who had been invited to marry him, each told that the man they were marrying was destined to die.

And now this.

“Does Nathaniel know?”

“No.”

“Then I will tell him.”

“Not yet.”

Clara stared at the physician.

“Why not?”

“Because I suspect someone in this household knows more about his treatment than they have admitted. If we confront them without understanding the evidence, they may destroy the records.”

Footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor.

Dr. Pembroke quickly returned the document to his case.

Lady Margaret appeared around the corner.

Her gaze moved from the physician to Clara, then settled on the paper in Clara’s hand.

For a fraction of a second, her expression changed.

It was barely noticeable.

But Clara saw it.

Lady Margaret smiled.

“Dr. Pembroke. What a surprise. I wasn’t aware you were visiting today.”

“I came to review Mr. Bowmont’s condition.”

“How conscientious of you.”

Her eyes shifted toward Clara.

“And what has my dear niece been reading?”

Clara folded the report.

“Something concerning.”

Lady Margaret’s smile disappeared.

Only for an instant.

Then she stepped closer.

“May I see it?”

“No.”

The answer was quiet.

But it was absolute.

For the first time since Clara had arrived at Bowmont Estate, Lady Margaret looked at her without a trace of amusement.

“Mrs. Bowmont,” she said softly, “you are making a very serious mistake.”

Clara held her gaze.

“Perhaps.”

Then she slipped the report into her pocket and walked toward Nathaniel’s room.

Behind her, Lady Margaret turned to the physician.

And in a voice so low Clara almost missed it, she said:

“You were warned never to discuss that examination.”

Clara stopped.

Her hand тιԍнтened around the document.

The physician answered in a trembling voice.

“And you were warned that if his condition worsened, someone would eventually ask why.”

Clara continued toward the staircase, her mind racing.

For the first time, she wondered whether the marriage contract had been designed for a reason far more sinister than money.

Perhaps the Bowmont heir had not simply been waiting to die.

Perhaps someone had been making certain that he would.

And as Clara reached Nathaniel’s door, she heard a sound from inside that made her blood run cold.

A crash.

Then Nathaniel’s voice, strained and breathless.

“Clara!”

She threw open the door.

Nathaniel was on the floor beside his desk, one hand pressed against his chest. A shattered glᴀss lay near his feet, and a small brown bottle had rolled beneath the chair.

His face was ashen.

“Don’t call the physician,” he gasped.

Clara dropped to her knees beside him.

“Nathaniel, look at me. What happened?”

He struggled to breathe.

“I took the medicine.”

Her eyes flew to the bottle.

The label was torn, but the prescription bore a familiar name.

The same name Dr. Pembroke had just mentioned.

Clara reached for the bell cord.

Nathaniel seized her wrist with surprising strength.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please.”

“Let go of my hand.”

“Clara, you don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me!”

His eyes locked onto hers, filled with a terror she had never seen before.

For three years, he had believed his heart was failing.

For three years, he had accepted the verdict that he would die young.

But now, with his body trembling and his breath growing weaker, he whispered the words that shattered everything she thought she knew about her new husband.

“My father told me I had only months to live.”

Clara stared at him.

Nathaniel swallowed painfully.

“But six months ago, I overheard Dr. Pembroke telling someone that my heart was improving.”

Her blood turned cold.

“Who did he tell?”

Nathaniel’s fingers тιԍнтened around hers.

“I never saw the person’s face.”

He struggled to draw another breath.

“But I heard the voice.”

“Whose voice?”

His gaze shifted toward the open doorway.

Then he whispered:

“My aunt’s.”

At that exact moment, footsteps thundered down the corridor.

Lady Margaret appeared in the doorway, her face pale with fury.

She looked at Nathaniel on the floor.

Then at Clara.

And finally at the bottle beneath the chair.

For one terrible second, nobody moved.

Then Lady Margaret said, with a composure that chilled Clara to the bone:

“Get away from him.”

Clara placed herself between Lady Margaret and her husband.

“No.”

Lady Margaret’s eyes flashed.

“You have no idea what you’re interfering with.”

“Then explain it.”

“I said, get away from him!”

Nathaniel tried to rise, but another wave of pain forced him back against the floor.

Clara reached for the bell cord again.

This time, she did not allow him to stop her.

The bell rang through the East Wing.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And as the servants began rushing toward the room, Clara looked directly at Lady Margaret.

“You wanted me to marry a dying man,” she said, her voice trembling with anger. “You wanted me to watch him disappear, and you thought I would accept his death as inevitable.”

Lady Margaret’s face hardened.

“Be careful, girl.”

“No. You be careful.”

Clara looked down at Nathaniel, who was fighting for every breath.

“I signed that contract because I refused to let him die believing nobody had chosen him.”

She raised her eyes again.

“But I will not stand here and let anyone decide that he must die.”

Dr. Pembroke burst into the room carrying his medical case.

“Everyone back!” he shouted. “Give him room!”

Clara moved aside but remained beside Nathaniel, holding his hand while the physician examined him.

Nathaniel’s fingers тιԍнтened around hers.

“Clara,” he whispered.

“I’m here.”

His eyes struggled to focus on her.

“Whatever happens…”

“Don’t.”

“You need to know…”

“Tell me when you can breathe properly.”

He tried to smile.

“You really are an irritating woman.”

Tears filled her eyes.

“And you are going to have a very long time to complain about it.”

For one brief moment, he smiled.

Then his eyes closed.

“Nathaniel!”

The physician bent over him, urgently calling for help.

Clara clutched her husband’s hand as the room erupted into chaos.

And behind them, Lady Margaret quietly slipped out of the doorway.

She did not run.

She did not call for ᴀssistance.

She simply disappeared down the corridor, carrying a secret that had remained buried for three years.

But she had made one mistake.

She had underestimated the quiet woman who had signed the marriage contract without hesitation.

Because Clara Whitfield had already lost someone she loved.

And this time, she would not stand helplessly outside a closed door, listening to the person she loved slip away.