Regret

Claude sat motionless beside Amelia's bed, the flickering candlelight casting sharp shadows across his face. His mind was a battlefield, torn between his cold pride and the foreign ache of guilt settling deep in his chest. He had always prided himself on his ability to command respect, to control every aspect of his life. And yet, here he was, staring at his injured wife, powerless against the damage he had caused.

A quiet knock at the door broke the tense silence. Mrs. Thimble entered, her ever-disapproving eyes assessing the room before stepping aside to let another figure through.

Grace.

Claude recognized her immediately—the duchess's personal maid. She had been away tending to a sick relative for weeks, but now she was back, and she wasted no time assuming her role. Without waiting for permission, she strode past Claude and went straight to the bedside, her sharp eyes scanning Amelia's pale face.

"My lady," she murmured, her voice softer than he expected.

Claude's jaw clenched at the blatant disregard for his authority. It was unthinkable for a servant to ignore him, let alone brush past him as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture in the room. And yet, he said nothing.

For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to rebuke her.

With brisk efficiency, Grace adjusted Amelia's pillows, checking the fresh bandages with the skill of someone who had done it countless times before. She worked with a quiet urgency, her movements filled with a devotion that made Claude feel like an outsider in his own home.

"I will take care of her from here," Grace said without looking up. "Your Grace."

Claude narrowed his eyes but still did not argue. Perhaps if he had, he might have regained some sense of control over this situation. Instead, he exhaled sharply, pushing himself up from his seat. "Fine."

Grace barely acknowledged his departure, already focused on cooling Amelia's forehead with a damp cloth. Claude hesitated before leaving the room, but he knew he would not be welcomed here—not yet.

Time passed in a haze. The manor was quiet, save for the occasional sounds of servants moving through the halls. Claude lingered just outside Amelia's room, unable to bring himself to leave entirely. He told himself it was only to ensure her recovery, to oversee the staff. But deep down, he knew better.

Finally, when the night stretched into its darkest hours, he heard movement within.

Claude stepped forward just in time to hear a soft, hoarse whisper. He turned back into the room, watching as Amelia's eyelashes fluttered before she slowly opened her eyes.

For a moment, she seemed disoriented, blinking up at the dim ceiling. Then, her gaze shifted, settling on Grace, who was already at her side with a cup of water.

"My lady, drink this," Grace coaxed, sliding an arm beneath Amelia's shoulders to help her sit up just enough to sip from the cup.

Amelia's lips barely parted as she drank, her throat working with difficulty. Claude waited, tense, expecting her to acknowledge him, to speak, to glare at him—anything.

But her gaze never sought his.

Instead, the brief moment of consciousness slipped away as her body relaxed again, sinking back into the pillows. Within moments, she was asleep once more.

Claude stood still, watching her, but the hollowness inside him only grew.

The cold resentment of the staff, the way Grace had taken over without hesitation, the brief, fragile moment Amelia had opened her eyes—and not once had she sought him.

For the first time in his life, Claude Everthorne wondered if he had finally lost something he could not win back.