Chapter 4: The Solar and the Silk Bed
The attendant fumbled with the heavy iron latch, his fingers slipping once on the cold metal before the door creaked open, revealing the count's solar beyond.
It was a room of polished dark wood and burnished brass, lined with shelves stacked high with leather-bound ledgers and rolled maps, the air thick with the scent of ink and beeswax.
Sunlight slanted through a single leaded window, gilding the edges of a massive oak desk where the count sat, his shoulders hunched over a spread of papers, a quill paused mid-sentence.
He did not look up immediately.
The silence stretched, broken only by the distant caw of a raven outside and the faint crackle of the hearth in the corner.
Hannah stepped over the threshold, her bare feet silent on the wool rug covering the stone floor, and closed the door behind her with a soft click.
The attendant's judgmental gaze vanished, leaving just the two of them—father and daughter—trapped in a room that smelled of his prosperity and her neglect.
Finally, the count set down his quill.
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, and lifted his eyes to meet hers.
They were the same storm-gray as William's, but colder, stripped of all warmth, all softness, sharpened by years of ruling, hoarding, and turning a blind eye.
His gaze lingered on the bump on her head, on the tattered gray dress hanging loose from her bones, on the smudge of charcoal on her fingers and the faint bloodstain on her palm from the vase shard.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he nodded at the empty chair across his desk—carved oak, upholstered in velvet, a seat she had never once been allowed to take.
"Sit," he said, his voice gruff, with no trace of warmth or surprise left.
Just a flat, bored command, as if he were humoring a stray dog that had wandered into his study.
Hannah did not sit. She stood where she was, her back straight, her hands curled into fists at her sides, the rolled parchment digging into her sleeve.
The herbs she had chewed were bitter on her tongue, but they had dulled the throb of her fever and cleared the fog from her mind.
She looked at him—the man who had let his wife starve her, let his servants beat her, let his children mock her—and felt no anger, not anymore.
Only a cold, empty resolve, sharp as the shard of glass she had held to the maid's throat.
"You know why I'm here," she said, her voice steady, without tremor or plea.
The count's jaw tightened. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, his gaze pinning her in place.
"I saw the commotion in the dining hall," he said.
"The maid was blubbering like a child. You attacked her. Dragged her in front of the family. Made a spectacle of yourself." He paused, his eyes narrowing.
"What do you want? Money? A new dress? A softer bed? Name it. But make it quick. I have better things to do than listen to a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum."
Spoiled brat. The words hung in the air, bitter and absurd. Hannah laughed—a short, hollow sound that echoed off the wood-paneled walls. The count flinched, as if he had not expected it, as if he had forgotten she was capable of any sound other than a whimper or a plea.
"I don't want your money," she said, her voice cold, cutting through the silence. "I don't want your dresses or your beds. I don't want anything from you. Or from this family."
She pulled the rolled parchment from her sleeve and tossed it onto his desk. It hit the wood with a soft thud, rolling open to reveal her messy, slanted handwriting—words she had scrawled in the quiet of her room, words that burned like fire on the page.
The count's eyes flicked down to the parchment. His posture tightened. His fingers curled into fists on the desk.
"It's a renunciation," Hannah said, her voice final, unflinching. "Of the Bennington name. Of any claim I have to this manor, to your wealth, to your blood. I am not a Bennington. Not anymore."
The room went dead silent.
The fire in the hearth crackled. A raven cawed outside.
The count stared at her, his storm-gray eyes wide, his face drained of color, and for the first time in her life, she saw him truly falter—not just a flicker of surprise, but a crack in the mask, a chink in the armor.
"You can't do that," he said, his voice sharp, desperate now, as if he were grasping at a thread.
"It's a chain," she cut him off, her voice rising just enough for the cold resolve to crack and reveal the fire underneath.
"It's a noose around my neck. You think I want to be tied to a man who let his daughter starve? To a family that thinks I'm nothing but a stain on their perfect legacy? If you want to keep a Bennington, you should treat me like one. I'd rather die in the streets than call myself a Bennington any longer."
The count's face went dazed, startled, but his noble upbringing held his expression steady.
"So please… kick me out of this family," she pleaded, her voice low and broken.
The count blinked. For the first time since she had stepped into the room, his bored mask slipped, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion.
"Kick you out?" he repeated, as if the words were foreign. "Go where?"
"Anywhere," Hannah said. The words burst out of her, sharp and desperate, the first crack in the icy resolve she had built around her heart.
"To a convent. To the streets. To a village where no one knows the name Bennington. I don't care. I just want to be free of this house. Free of you. Free of Stephanie and her brats and the way they treat me like something scraped off the bottom of their shoes."
She uncurled her fist to show him her knuckles, scraped raw from scrabbling for crumbs on the kitchen's dirt floor, and her wrist, ringed with faint purple bruises from where Stephanie's servants had bound her to the larder wall.
Her voice tore out of her, ragged and raw, no longer steady or cold—just a howl of years swallowed down.
"Starved," she spat, the word thick with the taste of moldy bread and the ache of empty nights where her stomach gnawed at her bones.
"Beaten—when I dared to ask for a scrap of cheese, when I tripped over Layla's gown, when I breathed too loud in your precious dining hall. Locked away—for hours, for days, in the larder where rats scurried and the cold seeped into my bones, because Kael thought it was a game. Forgotten."
The word cracked, and she could feel tears burning her eyes, hot and humiliating.
"Forgotten by the cook who fed your hounds better than me. Forgotten by the servants who turned their backs when Stephanie's ringed hand met my cheek. Forgotten by you."
She took a step forward, her bare feet slamming against the velvet rug, and he flinched—actually flinched—as she screamed the rest, the words a blade honed on every moment of agony.
"I've slept on straw pallets while your children curled up in silk beds.
I've worn rags that reeked of sweat while Layla paraded in gowns stitched with silver thread.
I've watched you feast on swan and honey cakes while I snuck apples from the kitchen, terrified of being caught, terrified of the beating that would follow.
And you—you've walked past me a hundred times, a thousand times, and never once looked at me like I was your daughter. Never once asked if I was hungry. Never once cared."
Her throat was raw, her chest heaving, and she stared at him, at the way his storm-gray eyes widened, at the way his hands tightened into fists on the desk—finally, finally showing something other than boredom.
"That's what you've let happen to me. That's the life you've given me."
"You never told me," he said finally.
His voice was quieter now, less gruff, less bored. There was something in it—guilt? Regret? Hannah did not care. It was too late for any of that.
"I told the servants," she said.
"I told the cook when she refused to give me a crust of bread. I told the stable boy when he found me hiding in the hayloft, shivering from the cold. I told anyone who would listen. But no one ever told you, did they?"
She laughed again, a sound more pain than humor.
"Because no one cares about the Bennington bastard. Not even you."
The count's jaw tightened again. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the leaded window, where the raven cawed again, a harsh, lonely sound.
"You are a Bennington," he said, the words a mantra, the same thing he had said a hundred times before, as if it were supposed to be a comfort, as if it could make up for everything.
"You belong here."
"I don't belong anywhere," she said. The words were quiet, but they hung in the air, heavy and final.
"Not here. Not with people who let me starve while they feast on swan and honey cakes. Not with a father who doesn't even know my favorite color. I want you to renounce me. Disown me. Let me take my mother's name and never look back."
The count's eyes snapped back to hers.
For a moment, she thought she saw something like pain in them—a flicker of the man he might have been, once, before her mother died and Stephanie moved in and turned his house into a prison.
But then it was gone, replaced by that same cold, hard resolve.
"I can't do that," he said. His voice was firm, unyielding. "The Bennington name is not something to be cast aside lightly. You are my daughter, whether you like it or not. And you will stay in this house."
The world tilted.
One moment, she was standing in the middle of the solar, her back straight, her gaze locked on his.
The next, the floor rushed up to meet her, the scent of ink and beeswax fading to black, the sound of the raven's caw growing faint and distant.
She heard the count shout her name—sharp, surprised, as if he had not expected her to fall. She felt his hands on her, rough and calloused, lifting her off the wool rug.
She tried to speak, to tell him to let her go, but her lips would not move. Her eyes fluttered shut.
When she woke, it was to the soft glow of candlelight and the scent of lavender and chamomile.
She was not in the servants' quarters.
She was in a bed draped in silk sheets, the fabric soft against her skin, the pillows stuffed with goose down so fluffy she felt as if she were lying on a cloud.
The room was large, with high ceilings and tapestries hanging on the walls—tapestries of the Bennington crest, a stag with antlers spread wide, standing proud against a field of blue.
A wooden wardrobe stood in the corner, its doors carved with roses and thorns, and a vanity table sat by the window, its surface polished to a shine, a silver brush lying on top.
The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting warm shadows on the walls, and a tray of food rested on the nightstand: bread still warm from the oven, a bowl of soup, a slice of apple tart.
Her head throbbed, her tongue thick with thirst.
The room was familiar, even though she had never been in it before.
It was the children's wing, the floor where the Bennington heirs had once slept—where Kael and Layla had slept, before they grew up and moved into their own rooms.
The rooms down the hall were empty now, their doors hanging open, their beds made up but unused, as if the servants were waiting for someone to come home.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, and the manor's gardens stretched out below: rows of roses, a fountain that sparkled in the fading light, a hedge maze where she had once gotten lost as a child, crying until a gardener found her and carried her back.
She remembered that day, remembered the way her mother had hugged her tight, her lavender perfume filling her nose.
She remembered the way the count had smiled at her, a real smile, not the cold, distant one he wore now.
That was before Stephanie came. Before everything changed.
A noise from the hallway startled her.
Her heart pounded, half-expecting to see Stephanie standing in the doorway, her lips curled into a sneer, ready to drag her back to the servants' quarters.
But the door stayed closed.
The noise came again: a low, angry voice, followed by a high-pitched shriek. The count and Stephanie. They were arguing, their voices muffled by the thick oak door, but she could hear the words clearly enough.
"You let her starve!" the count shouted. His voice was raw, furious, a sound she had never heard from him before.
"You let her sleep in the servants' quarters, let your children torment her, and you never told me! How could you?"
"It's not my fault you don't pay attention to your own daughter!" Stephanie shrieked. Her voice was shrill, defensive.
"She's a burden, Richard! A reminder of her mother, of the woman who stole your heart before I could! I did you a favor by keeping her out of your hair!"
"A favor?" the count roared.
"You made her a prisoner in her own home! You let her get so sick she collapsed in my solar! If the doctor hadn't said she was suffering from malnutrition and exhaustion—"
"The doctor doesn't know what he's talking about!" Stephanie said. Her voice was quieter now, almost pleading.
"She's just a brat, throwing a tantrum to get your attention. You don't have to care about her. You have me. You have William, Kael, and Layla. They're your real family."
The sound of a fist hitting wood echoed down the hallway. Hannah flinched. She heard Stephanie gasp, then cry out.
"Get out," the count said, his voice cold and dangerous.
"Get out of my sight, and don't come back until you can learn to treat my daughter with the respect she deserves."
The sound of footsteps faded down the hallway. The count sighed, a deep, weary sound. Then there was silence.
Hannah buried her face in her hands.
Tears burned her eyes—tears of anger, tears of relief, tears of a grief she had been carrying for years.
She cried for the little girl who had lost her mother, for the girl who had been starved and beaten and forgotten, for the woman she had been in her past life, who had burned to death in loneliness, screaming for help that never came.
She cried until her throat was raw and her eyes were red and swollen, until the sun had set and the moon was rising, casting a silver glow over the gardens below.
The silk sheets were soft against her skin, and the lavender scent filled her nose, making her sleepy. But she did not close her eyes.
She stared at the ceiling, at the shadows cast by the candlelight, and made a vow.
The count might not let her leave. Stephanie might not stop tormenting her. Kael and Layla might not stop mocking her.
But she would not be a prisoner anymore.
She would not be the forgotten Bennington bastard.
She would find a way out of this house, one way or another.
She would take back what was hers—the Bennington name, the manor, the life that had been stolen from her. She would make them all pay for what they had done.
And if she couldn't leave?
Then she would burn this house to the ground.
She closed her eyes, and this time, when she slept, there were no nightmares of fire and screaming.
There were only dreams of freedom: of a village where no one knew her name, of a life where she could be Hannah, not the Bennington bastard. Of a future where she could finally be happy.
When she woke again, it was to the sound of a knock on the door.
She sat up, her heart pounding, expecting to see the count or Stephanie or one of the servants.
But when the door opened, it was a man in a dark coat, a leather satchel slung over his arm, standing in the doorway.
He was tall, with gray hair and a kind face, and he smiled at her as he stepped into the room.
"Good morning, Miss Bennington," he said. His voice was warm, gentle, a sound she had never heard directed at her before.
"I'm Doctor Hale. The count sent for me. He said you've been very ill."
Hannah stared at him, her mouth hanging open.
Doctor Hale—the family doctor, the man who tended to the count's gout and Stephanie's headaches, the man who had never so much as glanced at her when she had stumbled through the halls with a fever the previous winter. He was here for her.
The doctor set his satchel on the vanity table and pulled out a small vial of amber liquid.
"This is a tonic," he said, holding it out to her.
"It will help with the fever and the exhaustion. Drink it twice a day, and you'll be back on your feet in no time."
Hannah took the vial from him, her fingers trembling. The glass was cool against her skin, and the liquid inside smelled of honey and herbs.
She uncorked it and drank it down, the sweet taste bursting on her tongue. It was warm, spreading through her chest, making her feel lighter, stronger.
The doctor watched her, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners. "The count told me what happened," he said. His voice was soft, sympathetic.
"He's very sorry, Miss Bennington. He had no idea how you were being treated."
Hannah said nothing. She did not care if the count was sorry. Sorry would not bring back the years she had lost. Sorry would not make the pain go away.
The doctor sighed. He pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down, his satchel open on his lap.
"I know you don't trust him," he said.
"And I don't blame you. But he's trying, Miss Bennington. He's really trying."
Hannah looked away, staring out the window at the gardens.
The sun was rising now, painting the sky in shades of gold and orange, and the birds were singing, a cheerful sound that felt like a mockery.
"It's too late," she said. Her voice was quiet, but firm, unyielding. "It's always been too late."
The doctor nodded.
He did not argue.
He just sat there, quiet and patient, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, as the birds sang louder, as the world outside the window woke up to a new day—a day full of possibilities for everyone but her.
But as she sat there, the tonic warming her chest, the lavender scent filling her nose, she realized something.
It wasn't too late.
Not yet.
She still had time. Time to plan. Time to prepare. Time to take back what was hers.
She looked at the doctor, her eyes hardening with resolve. "Thank you," she said. Her voice was steady, strong. "For the tonic. For coming."
The doctor smiled.
"You're welcome, Miss Bennington," he said. He stood up, slinging his satchel over his arm.
"I'll be back tomorrow to check on you. Rest today. Eat the food on the tray. And… give the count a chance. He's not the monster you think he is."
Hannah did not answer.
She just watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him.
Then she picked up the slice of apple tart from the tray, took a bite, and stared out the window at the gardens.
At the future waiting for her. At the revenge that would be hers.
No matter what it took.