The words fell between them like ice. Lady Eleanor Ashkam stood motionless in the candlelit corridor of Blackthorn Manor, still wearing the ivory gown in which she had become the Duchess of Blackthorn less than an hour earlier. Beyond the tall windows, Christmas Eve snow covered the estate in flawless white. Inside, however, there was no warmth in her new husband’s eyes.

Midnight at Blackthorn Manor brought a profound, freezing silence. The blizzard had finally arrived, hurling sheets of powdery snow against the manor walls, burying the lower windows in white drifts. Inside, the massive stone hearths had burned down to glowing beds of embers, casting long, dancing shadows across the mahogany panels of the library.

Adrien Ashford sat at his heavy oak desk, a half-empty glass of amber scotch resting beside a stack of overdue tax notices and mortgage extensions. He hadn't changed out of his black wool coat. He didn't need to; the cold in the room matched the cold in his blood.

He stared at a small, framed miniature portrait sitting on the edge of his desk.

Catherine.

Her painted eyes smiled back at him—gentle, bright, and filled with a warmth he hadn't felt in three agonizing years.

“You’re locking yourself away, Adrien,” her voice echoed in his memory, sharp and scolding, just as she had sounded the night before she collapsed. “You can’t build a wall high enough to keep the world out without keeping yourself in a tomb.”

“I had to,” Adrien whispered into the empty room, his voice raspy and broken. “To protect them.”

He picked up the glass of scotch and took a burning swallow, letting the alcohol numb the dull, constant ache in his chest. He had done everything she asked, yet everything had still crumbled. The railway investments had collapsed, the creditors were circling like vultures, and the only reason Blackthorn Manor hadn’t been seized by the crown was because he had traded his name and his freedom to a bankrupt baronet’s daughter in exchange for a silent, desperate bailout of his liquid capital.

Eleanor Ashkam.

A woman he had vowed never to love. A stranger wearing his dead wife’s halls.

A soft click at the heavy library door broke his trance.

Adrien stiffened, instantly setting the glass down and snapping his posture upright into the rigid mold of the Duke. He expected Mrs. Higgins with late tea, or perhaps a servant tending the dying fire.

Instead, the heavy door slowly swung open, revealing a small figure wrapped in a dark woolen blanket.

Julian.

Adrien’s brow furrowed in sharp irritation. He stood up, towering over the desk. “What is the meaning of this? It is past midnight. You should be in bed.”

Julian didn't flinch. He walked into the library, his footsteps echoing softly against the Persian rug. In his hands, he held the heavy, leather-bound ledger they had found in the attic.

“I couldn't sleep, Father,” Julian said, his voice remarkably steady for a fourteen-year-old boy confronting the most feared man in the county.

“That is not my concern,” Adrien barked, stepping around the desk. “Go back to your room before I have the footman escort you.”

“You should look at this first,” Julian said quietly. He didn't drop his gaze. Instead, he raised the ledger and placed it squarely on top of Adrien’s stack of tax notices.

Adrien stared at the book. A cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck. He recognized that worn leather binding instantly. It was Catherine’s private estate ledger—the one he had sworn he locked away in the estate vault the day after she was buried.

“Where did you get this?” Adrien’s voice dropped into a lethal whisper, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides.

“The attic trunk,” Julian replied unflinchingly. “We were looking for old winter blankets, and we found it. Along with the bank notices. And the newspaper clippings about the railway failure.”

Adrien lunged forward, grabbing Julian by the upper arm with a grip that was far too tight. “You had no right! That is private! Put it back and go to your room immediately!”

“You’re drowning, Father!” Julian shouted back, finally breaking, tears of frustration spilling over his eyelashes. “You’ve been drowning for three years, and you’re dragging all of us down with you! Mother tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen! And now you’ve married a stranger just to keep the lights on, treating her like a ghost in her own home!”

Adrien’s breath hitched. The words struck him like a physical blow to the chest, knocking the wind straight out of him. He stared at his eldest son, seeing the raw, unadulterated pain mirrored in Julian’s eyes—the exact same pain Adrien felt every time he looked in the mirror.

Before Adrien could find his voice to suppress the rebellion, a soft voice interrupted from the darkness of the library doorway.

“He’s right, Adrien.”

Adrien and Julian both whipped their heads toward the sound.

Eleanor stood in the doorway, wearing her simple navy dressing gown, her long dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She had not been sleeping. She had heard the raised voices echoing up through the old floorboards.

She walked slowly into the room, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor. She stopped beside Julian, gently placing a reassuring hand on the boy’s trembling shoulder.

Adrien released his grip on Julian’s arm, stepping back as if burned. He looked at Eleanor, his face pale, his defenses completely shattered.

“You have no business here, Eleanor,” Adrien muttered, his voice hollow. “This is a family matter.”

“No, Adrien,” Eleanor said, her voice carrying a quiet, devastating strength that pierced straight through his armor. “As of yesterday, I am your family. And if you think you can hide behind closed doors and pretend the world isn't burning down around us, you are a fool.”