We strolled toward my father's study, the silence between us heavy with unspoken tension—my lingering anger and his calculating amusement. His valet, Baron Sanders, bowed respectfully as he opened the heavy mahogany door for us.
My father walked straight to his massive leather office chair, the seat of his authority. I proceeded to the study sofa, settling in and watching as he gazed at me, his hands interlaced under his chin, his expression suddenly solemn.
"What's the matter with you, Eli? Didn't you like today's performance?" my father inquired, fishing for my reaction to his dismissal of Countess Leonie.
I glanced at him, a grimace on my face. How could he so casually turn the topic of my potential stepmother into a joke? "Was I meant to be pleased by the fact that you were being overly touchy with the Countess right in front of me, Papa?" I questioned him, my tone calm but edged with genuine reproach.
He chuckled, a short, deep sound, and rose immediately, walking to his study window. He stood there, watching the raindrops scribble nicely on the window glass, his back to me. "You know, when your mother died, my heart died as well," he said, the lightness gone from his voice.
He turned to face me, his hands crossed behind his back, his expression now completely serious. "I will never push someone into your life if you do not want them to be there. Never. I'm simply glad you handled the Countess so nicely, even if the show wasn't very lengthy. I felt a little letdown by her poor theatrics." He concluded with a small, affectionate grin. "I'm curious, how did you know about her affairs? That was the most impressive part."
"Well, I guessed, and based on her extreme reaction to the implication, it turned out to be correct," I confessed, shrugging slightly. "But really, Papa, you might have just moved her hand away from you. Why did you put up with her clammy flesh on yours and her cloying, strong perfume?"
"I knew you'd manage her, and you did," he stated, a half-shrug dismissing the countess entirely.
He then walked to his massive mahogany bookshelf and pulled out two seemingly insignificant volumes. The shelf—a wall of books I had assumed was solid—suddenly retracted and swiveled inward, revealing a dark opening behind it. I was astounded, struck with awe. I had no idea my father's study held such a mystery. My immediate curiosity was immense, overshadowing my earlier anger.
"Follow me, Eli," he said, stepping into the dark passage behind the bookshelf.
I followed immediately. There were gold spiral steps that led us down into the mystery room, each step creaking softly under our weight. I followed my father closely until we arrived at a plain wooden door, which was secured with a sturdy lock. My father pulled a small, tarnished key from his pocket and opened the door.
I stepped inside, my breath catching in my throat. I had no idea that such a secret chamber existed in our Grand Ducal Palace.
The walls were a serene breezy blue with delicate gold linings. The room contained a large Queen bed, two matching bedside drawers, and a closed travel trunk. The room was unnervingly tidy, meticulously kept as if someone lived there, yet clearly uninhabited.
My father moved directly toward what appeared to be a covered section of the wall, where a large object was hidden beneath white linen sheets. He lightly stroked the covers before turning to face me, a profound sorrow etched across his features.
"Come here, Eli," he said softly. "I need to show you something that should have been shown to you long ago."
I approached my father, standing in front of the covered object. He diverted his eyes back to the sheets, running his hand over the fabric before meeting my gaze. "Could you kindly pull these sheets out for us, Eli?"
I laid my hands on the linen before pulling, feeling the enormous size of the object underneath. It appeared to be a large picture frame. I slowly pushed the sheets apart to reveal what was hidden.
What I saw astounded me into silence.
It was a magnificent portrait of a woman: fair-skinned, with striking, vibrant turquoise eyes and cascades of natural blonde hair. She possessed a beauty that was both fierce and gentle. My gaze zeroed in on the grand-ducal coat of arms engraved on the ring she wore on her left hand's ring finger.
"Who is this, Papa?" I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.
My father smiled, a sad, distant look in his eyes, and gently stroked the painted cheek of the woman before responding.
"Meet Aida Yeager Devensian... your mother, Eli."
*************
The rest of the conversation with my father was a blur—the raw confession of my mother's illness, the painful details of her last moments, and the final, crushing revelation that her only chance of survival was to abort me. The knowledge that I was the cause of her death, though a sacrifice made out of love, felt like a physical weight settling over my chest.
I left the study, overwhelmed, needing physical release to ground myself. I walked straight to the private training fields, stripped off my formal gown, and remained in the tight, simple training clothes I had discreetly donned beneath, knowing I was alone. I found my own sword, a weapon sized for a woman, and began slashing the air.
—"Her only chance of survival, my dear, Eliana, was to abort you."
Tears blurred my vision as I swung the blade. The thought kept ringing in my brain, crushing my concentration. I swung harder, faster, trying to drive the paralyzing guilt out of my mind through sheer physical exertion.
I was swinging my sword fiercely, blindly, when I sensed some sudden movement close by. I stopped instantly, checking who it was. I saw Sir Reiner, one of our most capable knights, who had graduated from the academy early and sworn his oath directly to my father, His Grace the Grand Duke.
He was training alone, without a shirt, his torso glistening with effort. I couldn't take my gaze away from his heavily muscled chest, the play of sinew and muscle beneath his tanned, ivory skin. I approached him carefully, seeking the cover of a nearby oak tree.
"Oh, it's you, Lady Eliana," he replied, continuing his intense sword practice without even looking around to see who was hidden behind the tree.
That shocked me. He possessed such acute senses that he didn't take long to detect my presence.
"How did you figure out it was me?" I expressed my surprise, stepping out of concealment. "Is it possible you have eyes on the back of your head?"
I approached him. His mahogany hair was pulled back with a straw rope, and he maintained his customary solemn demeanor. I was quite sure I had never seen this man smile—or even slightly deviate from his serious expression.
"It's simple to tell who's approaching me," he said, finally pausing to lean on his sword. "And in your case, I'm used to both your heavy breathing and your footsteps. Don't forget about the overwhelming mint perfume you always wear."
"Did you just say my footsteps are heavy?" I flared up, stung by his bluntness. "How dare you, Sir Reiner! I walk like a princess!"
"It's not my fault you don't walk like a lady," he returned, utterly unfazed. "Why are you upset with me for stating the obvious?" He gave a brief shrug as he bent to pick up his scabbard, which lay on the grass.
"I must strike you today for your unforgivable rudeness to me," I declared, pulling out the wooden training sword given to me by my father.
Sir Reiner turned to face me. After a brief, loaded silence, he burst out laughing—a short, explosive sound that was almost as jarring as his insult. His body was magnificent; he worked hard to maintain his chiseled physique. His tanned ivory skin gleamed with sweat, reflecting the light. He wasn't bad-looking; he simply lacked any hint of manners or respect. Compared to his towering, sculpted form, I looked to be a child confronting a giant due to our significant height mismatch.
"Please put that toy away, Lady Eliana," he mocked, waving a dismissive hand. "Why would you bother training with me when you can hardly lift a genuine sword, let alone swing it correctly?"
He turned back and picked up his damp shirt, which was hanging from one of the trees, before starting to walk away from me. I wasn't shocked by his reply. He was only a year older than me and had long gotten into the irritating habit of being too casual, too insulting, whenever we were alone.
I followed him, pouting my lips, momentarily forgetting the solemn purpose of my training. I was in simple training gear—a fitted tunic and breeches—not my elaborate dress. Sir Reiner kept walking without looking back at me until he came to a wooden water barrel and began washing himself, pouring the cold water over his head and shoulders. With his solemn, focused demeanor, he was devastatingly attractive. He would be an ideal husband choice if it weren't for his nasty, disrespectful manner.
He shook his head sideways in an attempt to minimize the amount of water trapped in his mahogany hair. I cocked my head to the side, trying to shield my face from the water spraying from his head. He then turned to face me as he passed me by, pulling on his shirt, which immediately darkened, absorbing water droplets from his torso, emphasizing his muscularity. I couldn't take my eyes off him, momentarily forgetting why I had followed him. What could I possibly do? It's not my fault that I've always had a fascination for tall, attractive, well-built men, I thought in frustrated resignation.
"You're still here, Lady Eliana?" he asked, pulling his shirt down.
"I still have an issue with you, Sir Reiner," I insisted, my voice tight. "You were being impolite to me, and you should apologize for calling my footsteps heavy." My face was completely flushed, heat rising from my chest, though I wasn't sure if it was from anger or simple, unwanted attraction. He was far too attractive, and I wondered why I hadn't become accustomed to his appearance despite the fact that we had known each other for years.
I observed a small, almost imperceptible shift in his typically rigid face as he glanced at me, his eyes lingering on my flushed cheeks.
"Are you sure you're all right, Lady Eliana?" he asked, a hint of genuine concern finally piercing his usual scorn.