FATE: Sweet little cheat

The man sat with his long legs crossed, leaning back into the black leather chair.

Fingers gloved in white tapped rhythmically against the armrest while the young girl standing before him nervously fidgeted with the hem of her newly purchased blue dress—bought specifically for this visit to the duke’s estate.

Damian, however, sitting there and waiting for something remotely interesting to happen, was bored to death.

The girl had likely imagined that she would quickly voice all her grievances, complaints, and indignations, take her monetary compensation, and just as swiftly leave the estate. But the moment she stepped into Damian’s study, accompanied by the butler, and laid eyes on the striking, stately, and undeniably charismatic man before her, she instantly forgot why she had come.

“Well?”

Damian looked at his uninvited guest with a questioning gaze, his eyes betraying a complete lack of interest in the entire situation.

“Well… well. I wanted to…”

Damian cut her off with a casual wave of his hand, as if beckoning someone closer. For a brief moment, the girl thought he was calling her, but the butler quickly stepped forward instead, lighting a cigar and bringing it to Damian’s slightly parted lips. She blinked in surprise, perhaps even exhaling in relief, silently praising herself for not rushing toward him like an obedient pup at his slightest gesture. Another second, and she might have done just that.

“So, you came to discuss compensation because my brother supposedly took advantage of you and discarded you like a stray dog?”

“W-what? I…”

“How exactly did it happen? Did he force himself on you? Were you his mistress for a time? Or perhaps he used your body to entertain his dim-witted friends?”

“N-no, I mean… actually, yes. He took advantage of me after a theater performance… about two years ago.”

“And why have you come only now?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why didn’t you go to him while he was alive? Why come to me two years later?”

“Well… to be honest, I heard that you compensate—rather, that you apologize to his victims with money, and I thought…”

“And you thought I’d offer you some gold as an apology?”

“Y-yes.”

“Don’t get confused, miss. Your forgiveness means nothing to me. I wasn’t the one who committed those vile acts—that was my dead brother, a former duke who wasn’t even deemed worthy of burial in the family crypt.”

A haze of smoke filled the room as their conversation dragged on, and Damian grew increasingly disinterested. He despised meaningless discussions—especially ones that led nowhere.

“But, Miss Meredith, you did provide a bag of gold just last autumn.”

“I’m sure I did.”

Damian barely remembered which of his brother’s women had received what. He didn’t recall their faces, their names, or the supposed “wrongs” he had been compensating for.

Compensating.

Not quite the right word.

The truth was, Damian had never understood Michael’s actions. He had always considered his brother immoral, debauched, and utterly lacking in principles. Even amidst wartime hardships, while the nation suffered, all Michael cared about was his lust and his drinking. He had ultimately met his end from an infectious disease he contracted during one of his reckless escapades. And with no direct heirs, the title of Duke of Hartess had passed to Damian, the only remaining brother and, much to the country’s delight, its war hero.

Damian had returned from war a year and two months after Michael’s death. Now, all that remained was for him to embrace a life of wealth, peace, and luxury.

His life had never been a quiet one, from military school to the battlefield. Of course, he didn’t miss the war. He never would. Those were the darkest times for the Empire and beyond. But what he did miss was the company of his comrades. He had been the first among them to leave the capital, citing estate matters as his reason. No one was surprised. They had all longed to escape. They had all craved silence.

And so, after a year of tranquility in Lancaster Manor, his only remaining burden was the mess left behind by his dead brother.

Exhaling a slow stream of smoke, Damian studied the girl in front of him, watching as she scrambled for another lie—one that might actually convince him.

It was obvious she had, indeed, been with Michael. After the rumors, Damian had taken it upon himself to investigate his brother’s past, and Lucy Barnes had been on the list of his many lovers.

However, in Jack’s reports, she wasn’t listed as a victim but as a long-term mistress.

Not that Damian cared to sort through yet another of Michael’s messes. He was bored beyond belief—something Jack noticed immediately.

Jack had been Damian’s personal secretary since he officially received his title. Though he hadn’t served long, he was confident he understood his employer better than most.

“Let’s end this here,” Damian said, rising from his chair.

“But I’m not finished!” Lucy protested. “What about the harm I suffered?”

“From now on, you’ll be dealing with me,” Jack interjected smoothly, stepping between them. “This way, please.”

With a polite yet firm gesture, Jack led the girl out of the study.

As they exited, Damian, now standing by the window, turned toward the butler, who was silently awaiting further instructions. The silence stretched longer than expected, forcing the man to speak first.

“Your Grace, another visitor awaits you,” the butler finally announced.

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

“Another one of Michael’s problems?”

“I assume so, sir.”

Charles had served at Lancaster Manor for over forty years. No one knew this estate better than he did. Over the decades, not only had the household staff changed, but the title of Duke had passed through four different masters—three of whom were now dead.

And all he could hope for now was that Damian would hold the title longer than his predecessors.

Gruff though he was, there was something good in him.

Descending the staircase to the first floor, Charles halted the moment he laid eyes on the young woman waiting below.

Despite what he had just told Damian, she did not seem like one of Michael’s usual women.

Her posture, her composure, the way she carried herself—all unmistakable signs of nobility. She was neither an opera singer, nor a stage actress, nor a barroom dancer.

But after a year of entertaining nothing but scandalous guests, he had simply assumed.

“My apologies, my lady. His Grace is feeling unwell today,” Charles said, watching her carefully.

“What a shame.” A note of disappointment tinged her voice. “Please send him my regards. I hope he recovers soon.”

“I shall certainly convey your message, my lady,” Charles replied with a slight cough.

She inclined her head politely. “Thank you.”

“If you could provide your name, I could arrange a meeting for you when His Grace is available.”

“Oh, of course! How terribly rude of me to forget introductions.” She let out a small, self-conscious laugh. “My name is Isabella Alliste. Daughter of the late Baron Alliste.”