Silence, thick and heavy, fell over the breakfast table. Layla's words hung in the air, a fragile challenge to the immovable wall of family tradition.
Uncle, you cannot do that. her voice trembled, but it held that farm… it is all I have left of my parents. You want to erase them completely?
A displeased frown settled on Lord Benedict's round face. His eyes, usually glazed with commercial disinterest, sharpened. "I cannot, you say? he raised one eyebrow, a gesture of pure condescension. My dear girl, we must. Who would manage the property? Do not concern yourself with such mundane details. Your place is here with us now."
Panic, cold and sharp, clawed it way up Layla's throat. But Uncle, their graves.. they rest on that land. You cannot sell the very ground that holds them!
Oh dear child, Benedict sighed, a performative sadness in his tone. It is a regrettable situation. Had my brother fathered a son, this would pose no issue. A boy could inherit, could manage the estate. But he did not. It is… sad. And as the manager of this family's finances, the decision falls to me. Sentiment cannot guide ledgers."
Uhm, Uncle?" Charles's voice, young and ear nest, cut through the tension. He saw the desperate pallor on Layla's face, the way her knuckles whitened where she gripped the table. "perhaps… perhaps we could let cousin Layla manage the farm herself? I am sure she possesses the capability. Right, cousin?"
Layla seized the lifeline, her gaze snapping toward Charles with desperate gratitude. "Right! I can do it. I have managed everything since father's passing. The ledgers, the crops, the tenants… I know it all."
A sound, sharp and disapproving, came from lady Eleanor. She fixed her son with a glare that promised a later discussion, then turned her icy composure on Layla. "My dear," she began, her voice like chilled silk. "I understand your… rustic upbringing may have fostered certain… independent notions. But here, in this family, a young woman's purview is the household. Not commerce. Not land. It simply is not done."
" Aunt I can do it," Layla insisted, her mind racing, building a desperate defense. "I planned to visit my father;s shop here in the city- the Blackthorn Hearth.' I intended to reopen it, to stock it with goods from our farm. I would run both business together."
The suggestion detonated like a cannon shot.
A wave of laughter erupted from her cousins not joyful, but cruel and derisive. Silvia snorted into her napkin. Liene and Valeria exchanged mocking smiles. Their mothers, Lady Jane and Lady Margaret, did not laugh aloud, but their shoulders shook with silent, condescending mirth, their hands covering smirking lips. The idea was so absurd, so utterly foreign to their world, it bordered on insanity.
The Uncles, however, did not laugh. General Henray's face darkened like a tthunderhead. Lord Alistair studied Layla with a new, cold curiosity, as if she were a strange and potentially dangerous insect. Lord Benedict looked outright offended.
Enough!" General Henry's voice boomed across the terrace, silencing the mockery instantly. The table fell into a hushed, fearful quiet. Charles slumped in his seat, his face flushed with embarrassment and sympathy for his cousin.
Henry turned his stern gaze on Layla, I opened my home to you.I will now be responsible for you. Let your Uncle handle the… cleanup… of the farm. And the city shop already falls under his control. It has for some time."
The words landed like physical blows, each one stealing more of her air, more of her future. The shop too? Her father's proud little piece of the capital, already absorbed into Benedict's impersonal empire? Her eyes stung, her heart a lead weight in her chest. She could not form a single word, her dreams crumbling to ash in her mouth.
You will find happiness here," Henry continued, his tone leaving no rooom for agrument. "when the time comes for a suitable match, we will ensure you marry well. You will want for nothing."
Yes dear,your Uncle speaks true," Lady Margaret chirped, patting Benedict's arm. He excels at business. You must simply trust his judgment."
A girl of this name, of this standing, engaging in trade…" Lady Eleanor added, her voice dripping with disdain. "it
would soil your Uncle's reputations across the entire city. You must understand, such a thing cannot happen. Our daughters must marry into good families, the best families no respectable Lord would align his house with one whose daughter dirtied her hands in the marketplace. It would make us a laughingstock."
A soft, definitive "hmm," of agreement rippled around the table from the other wives.
Across the terrace, Lucia and Livia stood rooted to their spot, their faces masks of horrified disbelief. They watched their Lady, their friend, being systematically stripped of her heritage, her agency, and her dignity, all under the bright, cheerful morning sun and the pretext of familial care.
Layla said nothing. The fight drained from her, leaving a hollow, aching shell. The conversation around her resumed, a low hum of polite chatter that deliberately excluded her. She became a ghost at the feast.
After several long, agonizing minutes, she found her voice, a thin, strained whisper. "Please excuse me. I… I do not feel well." She pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the stone.
"Of course, dear," Lady Jane said, her smile sweet and utterly false. "You must rest. I will have a tray sent to your cottage at noon.
As Layla turned to go, Charles stood abruptly. "Cousin! Wait! The city is holding games tomorrow at the royal field. Races, archery… it promises great fun. I would be… I would like you to come with me.
Lady Eleanor's composure cracked. "Charles, I am certain your cousin has her own pursuits. She will want to explore the city at her own pace. Isn't that right, Layla?
The dismissal was clear, the command unmistakable. Layla met Eleanor's gaze for a fleeting second, then looked at Charles's hopeful face. He was the only flicker of warmth in this cold, gilded prison.
"I must retire now," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "Thank you for the breakfast." The words, directed at Lady Jane, felt like ash on her tongue.