CHAPTER 26: GILDED CAGES

Lady Eleanor’s POV

​The afternoon sun spilled across the marble terrace, casting a warm, golden glow over the manicured rose gardens of Valenridge.

​I sat alone at the small iron tea table, listening to the delicate clink of porcelain as I poured myself another cup of dark, fragrant tea. The breeze carried the scent of blooming jasmine, but to me, the air felt stale—heavy with a quiet, hollow silence that had haunted this estate for longer than I cared to count.

​The heavy glass doors behind me swung open, breaking the stillness with firm, unhurried footsteps.

​I didn't need to look up to know it was my husband.

​Duke Arthur De Witt stepped onto the terrace, unbuttoning his fine velvet waistcoat as he took the seat opposite mine. He didn't look at the gardens, nor did he look at me; his eyes were already scanning a rolled parchment in his hand.

​"Good afternoon, Arthur," I murmured, offering a soft, practiced smile. "How was your day in the city?"

​"Tiring," he replied dryly, setting the parchment on the table and signaling a butler to pour him a glass of iced wine. "The merchants in the southern district are pushing back on the new shipping tariffs. I had to spend three hours reminding the guildmaster who owns the ships they trade on."

​I took a slow sip of my tea, watching the sharp, calculated lines of his face. "I see."

​He fell silent again, his eyes returning to the ledger in his hands.

​"Will you not ask about mine?" I asked softly, my voice barely carrying over the rustle of the rose bushes.

​Arthur paused, looking up from his papers with a mild, almost patronizing tilt of his head. "Of course, darling. How was your morning?"

​"It has been quiet," I said, leaning forward slightly as I locked eyes with him. "It has been quite a while since we have done anything romantic, Arthur. Or even talked properly. I barely see you anymore, and when I do... you talk only of your work."

​Arthur’s gaze hardened into that familiar, unyielding wall of stone he wore in the council chambers.

​"This work I talk about, Eleanor," he said, his voice smooth, cold, and entirely unbothered, "provides the fine silk clothes on your back, the food on this table, and the tea you are currently drinking. So yes—I must talk about it."

​I looked down into my teacup, the bitter liquid reflecting the fading light.

​I didn't argue. I couldn't.

​Over the last ten years, the man I had married at sixteen had slowly vanished, replaced by a ruthless titan who measured affection in land deeds and power. I had spent a decade burying my dissatisfaction, putting on a graceful face for the estate, hiding the rotting core of our marriage so the boys would never see the cracks in their foundation.

​"Now," Arthur continued, clearing his throat as he folded his parchment, "for your upcoming birthday gala... have you selected a theme yet?"

​I set my cup back down on the saucer with a quiet clack. "No. In fact... I do not think I want to host a birthday gala this year, Arthur."

​Arthur’s eyebrows shot up. He looked at me as if I had spoken in a foreign tongue. "Nonsense. The anniversary gala is one of the very few events I look forward to every year."

​For a fleeting, foolish second, a tiny spark of warmth stirred in my chest. Is that so? I thought to myself, searching his eyes for some lingering trace of affection. Perhaps he wishes to celebrate my life after all.

​"And why is that?" I asked, allowing a faint, tentative smile to touch my lips.

​"Because," Arthur said plainly, swirling the wine in his glass, "it is the one night of the year we get to showcase to everyone in the province—the lords, the foreign investors, the entire nobility—that we have increased our wealth, our influence, and our stature since the last census."

​The small spark inside me died instantly, leaving behind nothing but cold, familiar ashes.

​I rolled my eyes up toward the high stone canopy of the terrace, pressing my lips into a tight line to keep the bitter scoff from escaping.

​"I will think about the theme," I replied numbly, staring out at the rose bushes.

​"Good," Arthur said, standing up from the table and smoothing down his jacket. "I am going inside to rest before the evening reports arrive."

​He stepped over, bending down to plant a brief, dry kiss against my forehead—a mechanical gesture void of any warmth.

​"Do not stay out in the wind too long, my love," he added offhandedly, turning on his heel and striding back through the glass doors.

​I sat motionless on the sunlit terrace, watching his retreating shadow disappear into the dark hallways of the manor.

​A heavy, aching void settled over my chest. I was surrounded by unmatched luxury, wedded to one of the most powerful men in the land, yet I was entirely, completely alone.

Lucian’s POV

​I unbuttoned my heavy leather riding coat as I pushed open the heavy mahogany doors to my private chambers, my neck aching from a long, exhausting day managing the estate's ledgers.

​I threw my coat across a chair, intending to strip out of my dust-covered work clothes and head straight for a hot bath.

​"You're back early, My Lord."

​I froze.

​Reclining across my velvet-trimmed bed was Genevieve.

​She wore a sheer, whisper-thin silk nightgown that barely covered her chest, her dark hair cascading wildly over her bare shoulders. The flickering candlelight caught the pale curve of her skin, casting a deliberate, seductive shadow over the mattress.

​"Genevieve?" I managed, my brow furrowing into a sharp line. "What... how did you get in here?"

​She swung her legs off the bed, standing up with a slow, deliberate grace. The silk draped loosely around her body as she glided across the Persian rug toward me, her eyes locked onto mine with a predatory, desperate heat.

​"I came to surprise you," she purred softly, stepping into my space. She reached out, her cool fingers running up the center of my linen shirt, trailing over my chest. "You've been so distant lately, Lucian. I thought we could speed up our intimacy."

​A cold spike of discomfort shot through me. I instinctively grabbed her wrist, stopping her hand before gently but firmly pushing her back a step.

​"My Lady," I said, my voice dropping into a formal, icy register. "I do not think this is appropriate."

​Genevieve scoffed softly, a faint, forced smirk touching her lips, though her eyes flared with sudden hurt. "Of course it is. We are to be married soon anyway, Lucian. We might as well get started."

​"No," I replied firmly, taking another step back to put clear air between us. "No, Genevieve. This is wrong. Please... put your clothes on and get out."

​She stiffened, staring at me as if I had struck her.

​"I need to take a bath," I added, keeping my eyes fixed rigidly on her face, refusing to let my gaze drop to her exposed body. "I will meet you downstairs in thirty minutes."

​A flush of deep humiliation rose up Genevieve’s neck, turning her cheeks a vivid, furious red. The bold, sultry confidence she had walked in with evaporated in a single second. Without a word, she snatched her velvet robe from the foot of the bed, wrapping it tightly around herself, and hurried past me out into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind her.

​I let out a long, ragged breath, striding over to turn the brass key in the lock.

​I sat heavily on the edge of the bed, burying my face in my hands.

​It was a dangerously bold move for a noblewoman—one that should have made any man’s blood run hot. Genevieve was objectively a stunning woman, cultured and flawless. Yet as I sat there in the quiet dark of my room, the brutal truth settled in my chest like lead.

​I couldn't force physical attraction for a woman I didn't care for. The thought of touching her felt cold, mechanical, and entirely hollow.