Chapter 2 - The Ashes of the Past
News of the scandal spread through the capital of Oakhaven like wildfire in a dry forest.
By the following morning, every grand salon, teahouse, and royal reception echoed with the dramatic downfall of Lady Blanche Fairmont. The broadsheets published sensationalized accounts: The Mad Heiress of Fairmont, Scandal at the Altar, Cast Out into the Mud.
In the opulent drawing room of the Fairmont Estate, Duke Albert sat behind his mahogany desk, staring blankly at a cup of undisturbed tea. Across from him sat Lord Horus Winfield, wearing a pristine velvet jacket, looking entirely unfazed as he polished his fingernails with a silk handkerchief.
"The wedding invitations have all been recalled," Albert said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual booming authority. "My wife has taken to her chambers and refuses to eat. The entire court is laughing at us."
"Let them laugh today, Duke Albert," Horus replied smoothly, a sneer twisting his handsome lips. "By next month, they will have forgotten her. I have already instructed my father to begin negotiations for a marriage match with the Duke of Vance's eldest daughter, Lady Clara. She has twice the dowry Blanche had, and none of her... troublesome moral absurdities."
Albert flinched slightly. A quiet ghost of memory flashed in his mind—five-year-old Blanche laughing as she ran through the garden, holding a bouquet of dandelions she had picked for him.
Father, look! I picked the gold flowers for you!
He forced the memory back down into the dark, cold cellar of his heart. "She brought this upon herself. A daughter who chooses a nameless gutter-tramp over her own blood and house deserves to taste the gutter."
"Indeed," Horus stood, adjusting his cuffs. "I am only relieved I discovered her unhinged nature before I placed my family crest on her neck. Imagine the embarrassment if she had pulled such a stunt after our wedding."
Meanwhile, miles away in the tranquil libraries of Blackwood Manor, Blanche was waking up to a world she barely recognized.
She awoke in a bed draped in soft goose-feather duvets and crisp linen. Sunlight poured through tall leaded-glass windows, illuminating wood-paneled walls lined with ancient maps and rare manuscripts.
For a terrifying second, she reached for her neck, expecting to feel the heavy sapphire necklace her mother had worn for generations. Her throat was bare. She looked at her hand—the skin was clean, washed, and treated with soothing herbal salves, but the gold signet ring was gone.
A soft knock came at the door.
A gentle maiden entered carrying a tray of fresh bread, sharp cheese, roasted fruits, and warm milk. Behind her walked Julian.
He had traded his riding gear for a dark blue doublet, his dark hair damp from a morning walk. In his hand, he carried a wooden box.
"Good morning," Julian said quietly.
Blanche sat up, pulling the duvet to her chin. "Lord Julian... I don't know how to thank you or your grandmother for your hospitality. But I cannot stay here and consume your food. I have no money to pay you."
Julian let out a low, warm laugh that sounded like the deep notes of a cello. He walked over and placed the wooden box on the small table beside her bed.
"First of all, I am no 'Lord'," Julian said, leaning against the bedpost. "Here, we do not use titles granted by corrupt kings. Second, my grandmother would throw me into the duck pond if I charged a guest for breakfast. And third... you have already paid for your stay ten times over."
Blanche frowned gently. "How?"
"By keeping the only person I love in this world alive," Julian’s expression turned serious, his blue eyes locking onto hers with intense sincerity. "If you had not stopped your carriage on the northern road, my grandmother would have perished in that ditch. Her lungs were filling with fluid. The doctor told me last night that thirty more minutes without warmth would have killed her. You gave me her life, Blanche. There is no gold in this kingdom that can pay for that."
Blanche looked down at her hands, feeling a strange, unfamiliar warmth bloom in her chest. For years, her father had told her that her value lay in her lineage, her grace, and her ability to secure political alliances. Horus had told her that her value lay in her beauty and her obedience.
Never had anyone told her that her value lay simply in her heart.
"What is in the box?" Blanche asked softly.
Julian stepped closer and opened the latch. Inside rested a pair of fine, hand-sewn leather boots lined with soft fur, and a simple, breathtaking dress made of deep burgundy silk—elegant, comfortable, and free from the restrictive iron corsets her mother always forced her to wear.
"A gift from Martha," Julian said softly. "The dress you wore last night was... beyond repair. Though I suspect you don't miss it."
Blanche smiled—a real, genuine smile that lit up her entire face, making Julian’s breath pause for a fraction of a second.
"I don't miss it at all," Blanche said softly. "It felt like armor anyway."
"Then dress," Julian said, turning toward the door. "My grandmother wants to show you the garden. And then... we have work to do."
May you like
"Work?" Blanche called out.
Julian paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder with a sharp, dangerous glint in his blue eyes. "Your father and your ex-fiancé believe they destroyed you, Blanche. They believe you are weeping in a ditch somewhere. We are going to make sure that when you return to Oakhaven... they tremble at your name."
