Chapter 3

"Helena," Cedric said, his voice flat. "Have you made enough of a scene?"

Cedric's voice was ice-cold. There was no warmth in it at all. Anyone listening would never guess that I was his wife, the woman who had shared his bed for three long years.

To him, I sounded no different from a madwoman throwing a senseless tantrum.

I leaned back against the headboard, my eyes dull and distant as they landed on Eliza in his arms. She was crying softly, her lashes wet, her face pale and fragile, like something delicate about to shatter.

"Me, making a scene?" I scoffed quietly. "Cedric, why don't you take a good look. Who's the one wearing the clothes I had made for you, standing right in front of me like she owns the place? And who just happened to knock over the medicine I rely on to stay alive?"

"That's enough!" Cedric cut me off sharply. "I know exactly what kind of person Eliza is. She's gentle and kind-hearted. She would never do something like that."

The way he looked at me was full of accusation.

"When did you become this bitter, resentful woman?" he continued coldly. "You were never like this. You were never domineering. Where is the tenderness you used to have?"

Then his tone shifted, growing stern. "Eliza is in poor health. She has no family to depend on. What's wrong with me taking a bit more care of her?

"Or is it that you simply can't tolerate her? Since when did your heart become so cruel?"

Every single word was meant to defend Eliza. Every single sentence condemned me.

I felt my heart grow colder, inch by inch, until it hardened completely.

And suddenly, I didn't want to explain anymore.

When someone has already decided where they stand, explanations mean nothing.

I closed my eyes and said, drained, "Leave. I'm tired."

To Cedric, my silence sounded like an admission of guilt.

The disappointment in his eyes deepened. Holding Eliza, who was still quietly sobbing, he turned and walked away without the slightest hesitation.

At the doorway, he even paused to pull the cloak more tightly around her shoulders.

"The floor's cold," he said softly. "Take care of yourself."

That tone of gentleness was something I had not heard in three years.

How laughable.

Just then, the household steward hurried in, his expression oddly tense.

"My lord," he said cautiously, "a royal physician has arrived. He says he was sent on the Emperor's orders… to examine the lady."

Cedric stopped in his tracks. He turned around and looked at me with open suspicion.

"Since when do you have connections to the royal court?" he demanded.

I didn't answer him.

Soon, an elderly physician entered the room, carrying his medical case, escorted by a royal attendant.

One glance at the scene, at my bloodless face, and his brows drew together almost imperceptibly.

He took my pulse. His fingers rested against my wrist for a long time. His expression grew increasingly grave.

"The lady has suffered prolonged emotional distress," he said plainly. "Her condition has severely weakened her body. If she does not receive proper care…" He paused. "She does not have much time left."

His words were direct. I felt nothing.

Cedric, however, showed a flicker of emotion I couldn't quite decipher.

Guilt? Perhaps.

But only a trace.

Just as the physician reached for his pen to write a prescription, Eliza suddenly let out a cry. Her body went limp, collapsing straight into Cedric's arms.

"Cedric…" she whispered faintly. "I feel so dizzy… my chest hurts so badly…"

Her face turned deathly pale in an instant. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. She looked even closer to dying than I did.

Cedric's focus shifted to her in an instant.

He held her tightly, panic filling his voice. "Doctor! Hurry! Look at her, now!"

The physician hesitated. "My lord, I was instructed to treat the Duchess—"

"She's fine," Cedric interrupted impatiently. "If anything happens to Eliza, you will answer for it."

Cedric's worry and panic for Eliza were painfully genuine.

So genuine it burned.

The physician had no choice but to tend to Eliza first.

While everyone crowded around them, the royal attendant slipped quietly to my bedside. He pressed something into my hand.

"Lady Vale," he whispered. "This was sent to you by His Majesty."

Lady Vale. Not Duchess. Not Mrs. Hawthorne.

I opened my palm. It was a neatly folded note.

Slowly, I unfolded it. There was only one word written on it.

Endure.