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Chapter 2
"Pregnant?" Robert repeats, his voice filled with shock as he sinks onto the edge of his wife's bed. He struggles to process the moment, his thoughts swirling. His wife couldn't possibly be pregnant; it had been over two decades since Mary was born—21 years, to be exact. Ever since then, they hadn't shared that kind of intimacy. The idea seemed absurd, leaving him grappling with disbelief and confusion as he tried to make sense of it.
"You don't have to be so shocked!" Isabella Crawley yelled, her voice sharp as she jabbed a slender finger dangerously close to her husband's face. Her expression was a mix of frustration and defiance as she continued, "Not every man is as blind as you, Robert Crawley. Some men actually notice my beauty and wit without needing a reminder. And unlike you, those men understand what it takes to keep a woman like me happy!" Her words hung in the air, cutting through the tense silence between them.
Robert caught the double entendre in her last word. A slow burn of anger and nerves started to build within him, a quiet storm he could feel creeping up his spine. Isabella Crawley, formerly Lady Isabella Grason, had always been this way—manipulative, vain, and determined to get whatever she wanted, regardless of the cost. In the earlier years of their marriage, he overlooked her flaws. He wasn't without fault himself and, at the time, her perfect curves and bleach blonde hair, making her seem angelic, were enough to blind him. The irony, of course, was not lost on him now.
But as the years passed, he began to notice how cruel she could be—not just to him, but to their servants and even their only daughter, Mary. Robert had always suspected that his wife needed some kind of outlet for her sharpness, just as he did. Still, after all these years, he couldn't shake the feeling of disgust when he thought of her with another man, bearing his child. It was a strange, gnawing jealousy that had settled deep within him, one that left him both sickened and strangely powerless. Though their marriage had fractured long ago, the feeling lingered.
"Who's the father?" he asks gruffly, both wanting and dreading her answer. She only shrugs and looks down at her feet, the silence hanging heavy between them. "I've my suspicions…" Her voice softens, and he catches the faintest hint of embarrassment in her tone. "You don't know?!" He stands up, turning away from her, walking to the roaring fire in the Mercia bedroom. The flames crackle, but his mind is clouded with frustration. He hears her sigh, and with a mix of impatience and anger, he stomps toward her, unable to keep his thoughts bottled up any longer.
"How could you not know?!"
Again, he was met by her silence.
"With how many men did you share your bed during our marriage?!"
"Only three…" She whispered with tears in her big brown eyes.
"THREE?!"
Isabella quickly wiped her tears away as their eyes met, hers burning with rage. "Oh, don't be like that, Robert. Tell me—how many women did you sleep with? We both know you're not an innocent party in this. Or am I to believe that the great Earl of Grantham couldn't get a woman to bed him? Please, Robert, spare me the criticizing tone and just help me." She looked at him, her voice softening as she begged him at last, the weight of her plea clear in her eyes.
Robert chose to ignore the first two questions and sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. He may not have been the perfect husband over the years, and she certainly hadn't been the perfect wife, but he still considered himself a gentleman. And the most gentlemanly thing to do right now, he thought, was helping his wife, even if he didn't particularly want to. He paused for a moment, looking at her, then muttered, "We could pretend it's mine…"
She looks at him for a moment, her eyes still wet, then nods slowly, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "Thank you," she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. He watches her for a second before turning his back and walking toward his bedroom. The door creaks softly as he enters, closing it behind him. Robert sits down on the edge of his large mahogany bed, his fingers instinctively reaching for a card lying on the nightstand. He picks it up, turning it over in his hands absentmindedly.
The letter weighs heavily in his it is an elegant card embossed with gold letters. It's an invitation to the Emberfall's annual winter ball. The thought of the ball reminds him of the life that awaits him. He sighs, his mind drifting to Isabella and their daughter, Mary, who will join them there. But as he stares at the invitation, his thoughts shift, and he begins to think of her—the woman who has always been in his heart. Cora. The love of his life. He smiles faintly, the weight of his emotions stirring quietly beneath the surface. He wishes she could be there with him, as his wife, but the circumstances are far from perfect. Still, he holds onto the hope that one day things might be different.
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