WARNING

This story contains character deaths, sexual themes, graphic violence, swearing, trigger themes and psychological themes.

Please read at your own discretion

CHAPTER 4

The rhythmic clatter of hooves against the cobblestone road barely registered in Jack's mind as his carriage rumbled through the capital streets. The late afternoon light filtered through the windows of his ride, painting golden streaks on the polished wood interior. And yet, his thoughts were far from the scenic view outside.

Anna's words echoed heavily in his mind as if they had been etched into his very soul. Bruised. Injured. Barely recognizable. He could still see the tremor in her hands, the tightness in her voice as she spoke of her sister's ordeal.

He leaned back against the plush seat, eyes closing briefly as a distant memory stirred—a memory he had long buried and thought had forgotten.

He was a boy again, no more than ten, wandering the vast halls of his father's estate. The corridors felt cold, silent in a way that made his very young heart uneasy. That day, whilst playing along the silent hallways, he had stumbled upon a young girl—new, unfamiliar, and hiding in a dark corner of the servants' wing. She had flinched at Jack's presence, her arms wrapped protectively around herself. Her face bore the remnants of a bruise, and her eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and…shame.

Even as a child, Jack had understood enough to recognize pain when he saw it. He had asked her name, but she had refused to answer, only shaking her head as tears slipped down her cheeks. She looked younger than him. Way younger than him.

The carriage jolted slightly as it crossed a rough patch, pulling jack back to the present. He opened his eyes and stared at the ornate crest etched on the opposite seat—his family's emblem. How many people had he overlooked, their struggles hidden behind closed doors? How often has silence been mistaken for compliance or indifference?

Elsa has spoken to him, if only in fragments, and now he realized the significance of those fleeting words. Jack frowned, his gloved hands tightening. I can't let this go, he thought, his determination sharpening. If there was even the slightest chance to help, to bring her back to being herself, to help her heal, he owed it to her—and perhaps to the ghosts of his own past.

The rolling hills outside gave way to the gates of his estate, the towering structure of his mansion coming back into view. As the carriage slowed, he resolved to return to the Bjorgman's Mansion, not out of obligation, but out of something deeper.

"You're back," Jamie greeted him with a curt bow, as Jack stepped down from his carriage. "You were expected here hours ago. What kept you?"

Jack, now brushing the sleeves of his coat, said nothing. His blue eyes flickered to Jamie briefly, but there was no reply, only the sounds of his boots against the flagstones as he ascended the steps into his mansion. Removing his coat and handing it to Jamie, Jack strode towards his study, shutting the heavy oak door behind him with a heavy thunk. The room smelled faintly of aged leather and ink.

Jack made his way to his desk, pulling at his cravat in one fluid motion, loosening it just enough to breathe freely. His fingers brushed the stack of unopened, recent letters left in his absence, their tidy arrangement betrayed by the open one resting atop all others. His gaze lingered on the familiar scrawl of his godmother, Countess Marya Drahl.

With a soft groan, Jack picked up the letter and leaned against the desk, skimming through its contents. Of course she would write now. He thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. The letter was, as expected, a long winded tirade about the burgundy of her visit to his estate, unrelenting opinions on his current affairs—or lack thereof—and…his own marriage.

Has she nothing better to do other than interfere?

Jack's annoyance deepened with each line, her complaints and admonishments about his stalled engagement, and his supposed neglect of family obligations sparking an inner fire. He tossed the letter back onto the desk with a heavy sigh, raking a hand through his hair.

If she weren't my godmother…

The thought trailed off, unfinished but satisfying as he allowed himself a brief smile of defiance. But even that momentary rebellion did not erase the truth to her words.

"Tomorrow," he decided. "I'll deal with her tomorrow."

"Well, it seems I must announce my arrival myself!" The sharp and commanding tone came.

Jack closed his book with a sigh and stood just as the drawing room doors swung open with a loud creak. Countess Drahl entered in a flurry of rustling silk and an air of righteous indignation. Her hat—an extravagant concoction of feathers and ribbons—tilted precariously as she swept into the room.

"I knew it," she declared, pausing dramatically in the doorway. "I knew I would be treated poorly the moment I arrived. But even I didn't expect to be left standing in the hall without so much of an offer of tea." She fixed him with a look of disappointment. "Not even tea, my dear boy. Can you imagine?!"

"Good morning to you too, Countess Drahl," Jack responded dryly, gesturing to a chair opposite his own. "I trust your journey here was pleasant?"

"My journey? Oh, what would you know?" she exclaimed, waving a loved hand. "I was jostled for hours on that wretched road, only to arrive and find myself greeted with—what shall I call it? A distinct lack of hospitality. Is this how you run your household now?"

Jack raised an eyebrow. "You arrived unannounced."

"Unannounced?" she scoffed, lowering herself into the chair with an exaggerated sigh. "I wrote to you, did I not? That letter alone should have had every servant in this house preparing for my arrival."

"I received your letter," he admitted, his tone careful and neutral. "You did not specify a time or day, only that you felt you needed to come here urgently."

Countess Drahl sniffed, clearly unimpressed by Jack's reasoning. "You should have known better. Honestly, I despise this side of you sometimes."

Jack bit back a retort, instead ringing the bell for tea. It wasn't worth the time to argue with his headstrong and stubborn godmother. Countess Drahl was Jack's second mother, a highly respected noble with an equally high reputation in society. When Jack's mother passed away, it was her who raised her as her own and provided protection for him and his younger sister. For some, she was a perfect person. But to Jack and his younger sister, she was far from being perfect. She was a great teacher, indeed. But she was a terrible mother.

At the fresh age of six, when Duchess Overland breathed her last, Jack and his sister still needed someone to care and love them—make them secure. But the Countess did nothing of the sort, and instead, drowned the kids with books and early, harsh education.

As the footman came to take the order, Countess Drahl leaned back in her chair, scrutinizing the room with a critical eye, as she always does. "And what have you been doing, holed up here alone? Brooding, no doubt. A man of your stature should be hosting dinners, managing estates, and securing alliances."

"Or perhaps reading in peace," Jack muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" she demanded.

"Nothing," he replied smoothly.

By the time the tea arrived, Countess Drahl had already launched into the familiar lecture about the importance of appearances, her sharp eyes never missing a chance to assess her surroundings. Jack endured it with practiced stoicism. He was much too used to this, to actually care. He inwardly questioned how long this visit might last, and wondered whether it was too late to feign some urgent business somewhere. Perhaps he could make an excuse about going to the Bjorgman's mansion…which he actually had an afternoon visit.

As she sipped her tea, Countess Drahl's expression softened slightly while her tone remained critical. "You know, you might yet redeem yourself if you listen to me for once. A ball, perhaps? Something to remind society you exist. It's unbecoming for a man of your age and title to fade into obscurity."

"Fading into obscurity sounds remarkably peaceful," he replied, earning a sharp and disapproving glare.

Countess Drahl set her cup down with a resolute clink. "You have never changed, Jackson—"

"Duke."

The Countess frowned at him. "You are still as ungrateful and rude as before. Truly, the son of your father."

The morning sun had climbed higher in the sky, casting beams of light through the tall windows of the drawing room. The conversation between Jack and his godmother had shifted from polite pleasantries to criticism.

Countess Drahl set her empty cup aside with a loud clatter, her sharp gaze fixed on Jack. "I cannot ignore the whispers I've been hearing, dear boy. Rumors about a certain…residence downtown and a lady who resides there."

Jack's jaw tightened as he leaned back in his chair, regarding his godmother with calmness. "I see that rumors travel quickly, as always."

"So, you admit it?" she exclaimed, her voice rising an octave, eyes wide in disturbed shock. "Do you not care about how this reflects on your name? On your position?"

"There is nothing to admit," Jack replied. "Yes, I have visited the mansion, but they are not for the reasons you presume."

"Oh, spare me," she said with a dramatic wave of her hand and a roll of her eyes. "It's always 'not what it seems.' You're engaged to Lady Fischer, a match that will secure the future of your house and your business. Yet you jeopardize it by gallivanting about with some—some—woman."

Jack's eyes narrowed slightly, his patience fraying. "My engagement to Lady Fischer remains intact, and will proceed as planned. Whatever you've heard, I can assure you, my visits have nothing to do with romantic interests. I am simply assisting the lady with a matter of importance."

The Countess let out a laugh of disbelief. "Assisting her? How noble of you. Tell me, does this…assistance involve candlelit conversations and stolen glances? Or perhaps something more…compromising?"

Jack's voice hardened. "Tread carefully, Countess. You know nothing of the circumstances."

"What I know," she snapped, her face reddening, "is that this behaviour is unacceptable for a man of your status! You cannot serve two mistresses, your grace—your fiancée and this …this woman."

"There is nothing improper about my actions," he said, his tone low. "And I resent the implication. The lady in question is managing a difficult situation, one I chose to help her navigate out of the goodness of my heart. That is all."

The Countess' mouth twisted into a sneer. "Difficult situation? She's likely a conniving social climber who's wrapped you around her finger. Women like that are always finding ways to elevate themselves, and you've foolishly played right into her hands."

Jack stood abruptly, the scrape of his chair loud against the marble floor. His expression, which had been tightly controlled, now betrayed simmering anger. His hands clenched until his knuckles turned white, nails digging into his skin. "You will not speak of her like that," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Countess Drahl blinked, momentarily stunned by his outburst. "Have you lost your senses?" she demanded.

"No," he said sharply. "But I will not stand by while you insult someone you've never met. She is neither a schemer nor a fool, and she deserves better than your baseless assumptions."

"You defend her?" she gasped, feeling scandalized by his actions. "Do you even hear yourself? This is precisely why rumors swirl about you, because you allow sentiments to cloud your judgement. Just like your father once had!"

"My judgement," he said firmly, "is intact. And if you believe my assistance to her jeopardizes my engagement, you're mistaken. The political arrangement will go forward, regardless of who I choose to help in my personal time."

Countess Drahl rose from her seat, her hands trembling with indignation. "You will regret this, mark my words. One cannot dance on the edge of a scandal without falling in. And when you do, don't expect me to clean up your mess."

Jack's lips curled into a tight smile, though his eyes were cold. "I wouldn't dare dream of burdening you with such an inconvenience."

The room fell into tense silence, Countess Drahl gathered her skirts and swept towards the door, pausing to throw one last barbed comment over her shoulder.

"Whatever happens, I hope you're ready to face the consequences of your choices. You might have not noticed it, Jackson, but seeing how you defend that woman…" her words trail off, not finishing what she was trying to say and instead huffed.

As the door closed behind her, Jack exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His anger has not subsided, not yet. And his thoughts turned, uninvited, to the woman in question.

A conniving social climber? He thought bitterly. She doesn't know the truth.

Jack crossed to the window, staring out at the estate grounds as his godmother's carriage passed through the gate, her words echoed in his mind. Beneath his anger, there was a flicker of something else—something he couldn't quite name. And he wasn't sure if he wanted to.

Two days later, Jack found himself once again at the Bjorgman mansion downtown, standing in front of Elsa's bedroom door accompanied by Anna, who had requested him to call her by her first name. His thoughts were a jumble of conflicting emotions. It had been two days after his godmother's visit, and yet her words still lingered like a stubborn echo in his mind. Like gum stuck to your shoe.

Jack told himself that he was here out of duty, out of sheer concern—but he couldn't ignore the curling apprehension in his chest.

"Thank you so much for your help, your grace," Anna said softly, her voice kind. But there was some semblance of tiredness in her eyes. "She's been in better spirits, I think."

Jack nodded, offering her a polite smile, though he doubted it reached his eyes.

"She started looking into my eyes recently, I think talking to you helped." Anna smiled, as she gestured for him to enter. "I trust you with her today again, your grace." With a small curtsy, Anna stepped back and watched him open the door.

Jack took a deep breath, his hand lingering on the doorknob for a while longer. Then, after gathering his resolve, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Good afternoon, Lady Elsa." he began, his voice steady, but quieter than usual.

She turned her head slightly, eyes locking with his, her expression neutral. "Good afternoon," she replied, her tone polite but distant.

Jack moved further into the room and took the chair opposite hers, feeling the weight of her aloofness pressing down on him. "Your sister mentioned you've been in better spirits," he ventured. "I'm glad to hear that."

Elsa nodded, her gaze shifting back to the window. "I've been…managing."

"I can see some of the improvements you've made to the house," he said, gesturing to the vase. "The flowers, for instance. A fine choice."

"Jasmine," she said softly, after a short moment of silence. "Mother's favorite."

There was a pause, the silence stretching between them. Every now and then, she would drift, her gaze sliding past him to some distant point only she could see. Jack found himself unsettled by her elusiveness. He wanted to ask her what she was thinking, what troubled her so deeply. But he held back, knowing instinctively that pressing her would only drive her further away from him.

He wasn't going to do something so reckless. Not when they had this much of an improvement.

He glanced at her again, noting the way the sunlight caught the strands of her hair, the way her fingers rested lightly on the arm of the chair. There was something about her presence that stirred a strange mix of emotions within Jack—curiosity, protectiveness, and something deeper. Something he refused to name.

"I wasn't sure if I should come," he admitted. "I didn't want to impose."

Her gaze flickered back to him, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. That was a first. Jack thought.

"And yet, here you are."

Jack offered a faint smile. "Yes, here I am."

Elsa didn't reply immediately, and her attention returned to the window. He felt the distance between them acutely, as though an invisible barrier separated them, one he didn't know how to cross.

Why does this feel so difficult? He wondered, his fingers tightening slightly on the arm of the chair. I've faced much more difficult situations with ease than this.

"I wanted to make sure you were well," he continued, his tone more tentative. "After everything—"

"I'm fine," she interrupted, her voice quiet but firm. Something in Jack tells him she was being defensive. "I'm managing."

Her words were polite, but they carried an edge of finality, as if she were drawing a line he shouldn't cross. But, despite her guardedness, he noticed small signs of change: the way she held his gaze for a moment longer than before, the softening of her posture, the faint trace of emotion in her voice.

"You seem more at ease today," he said gently, hoping to keep the conversation alive.

Elsa hesitated, considering her reply. "Perhaps," she said finally. "But it's…difficult. Some days are much harder than others."

He nodded, sensing the weight behind her words. "If there's anything I can do—"

"There isn't," she said, much too quickly for Jack's liking. Though her tone lacked the sharpness he expected, she looked at him then. Her eyes searched his face for something he couldn't quite identify. "But thank you."

He leaned back slightly, unsure of what to make of her response. Her aloofness hasn't disappeared entirely, but there was a vulnerability beneath it, one that tugged something deep within Jack. Pulling at the strings slowly and then harshly,.

Why does she affect me like this? He thought to himself, his chest tightening as he observed her face. She's so distant, so closed off…but I keep coming back. I keep wanting to break through.

The silence stretched again, but it felt less oppressive now, as if her acknowledgement had created a sliver of understanding between the two of them.

"I know you had a hard time…you can tell me, open up—" Jack trailed off, cautiously approaching the subject. "You can tell me when you're ready…when you've trusted me more. I—"

"Your grace," she said suddenly, cutting him off with her soft voice. "Why do you keep coming back here?"

The question caught him off guard, and he hesitated, searching for an answer that wouldn't betray the depth of his growing confusion. "Because I want to help," he muttered. "Because I—I care."

Her lips parted slightly, as if his words had surprised her. She looked at him for a long moment, but her expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, she turned back to the window.

"I see," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Jack watched her, a mix of frustration and longing clashing inside him. He wanted to say more, to ask her what she was thinking, what she was feeling…but he held it back. He shouldn't pry much further.

"I should go," he said, rising to his feet. "But if you ever need anything, you know you can always ask ."

She didn't reply immediately, but as he reached the door, Elsa spoke again. Her voice was soft and almost hesitant.

"Thank you."

Jack turned back, their eyes meeting for a brief moment. There was something in her gaze—a glimmer of emotion that both intrigued and unsettled him. As he left the room, his thoughts churned with uncertainty. What are you doing Jackson Overland? This was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to be an obligation, a favor he needed to do for Madam Bjorgman, for Anna—and yet, somewhere along the way, his purpose had shifted.

He exhaled sharply as he stepped into the hallway. And yet he can't seem to stay away. God help me, I don't think I want to.