Victor left.
He did not excuse himself. He did not soften the exit. He walked out into the cold air with the tightness in his chest worsening, not easing.
In the carriage, he braced his hands on his knees, his breathing sharp.
Why did her likeness in that man’s mouth feel like sacrilege?
Why did the thought of her being mocked feel like an insult carved directly into his spine?
Why did his hands still remember the way she trembled beneath them?
He stared out at the lamplight passing in fractured gold. He blamed the lack of sleep. Irritation. The chaos of the day. Anything but the truth.
He thought of her all the way home.
When he reached his study, he dismissed his valet and stood alone in the dim silence until the clock struck two.
Only then did exhaustion drag him to bed.
Victor woke early again, though sleep had given him little rest. The irritation of yesterday had not faded; it had condensed, sharpened, and lodged beneath his breastbone.
He forced himself into routine. A brisk wash. A strong coffee. A short ride on horseback through Hyde Park. The wind did little to clear his head. Every hoofbeat seemed to echo a single, unwelcome refrain.
She would be gone soon.
He returned home, changed, and made his way to the business meeting scheduled with Lord Chadwick and two other minor lords regarding a proposed road expansion between their estates.
Roderick joined him at the entrance, well-dressed as always. His eyebrows arched. “You look murderous. Should I prepare condolences for whoever displeases you today?”
“Save your wit,” Victor muttered. “It is early.”
They entered the meeting room. A map was spread across the table. Figures. Estimates. Projections. All the things Victor normally devoured with precision and pleasure. Today, they irritated him beyond measure.
Lord Chadwick hovered nervously over the papers. “Your Grace, as you see, the cost may exceed the original by ten percent, but the long-term gain?—”
“Your surveyor mismeasured the incline,” Victor cut in. “Your figures are already false.”
Chadwick blinked. “I beg your pardon? They?—”
“Your pardon is irrelevant,” Victor interrupted again. “Correct your numbers.”
One of the other lords attempted a placating smile. “We can discuss?—”
“We will not discuss errors,” Victor snapped. “You will correct them.”
Roderick shot him a look. A pointed one.
The lords grew increasingly uncomfortable as Victor tore apart the flaws in their proposal with a ruthlessness that bordered on cruelty. He called out inconsistencies. He refused excuses. He demanded recalculations.
The meeting, meant to last an hour, was over in twenty minutes.
The lords fled.
Victor remained at the table, his hands braced on the wood, breathing hard.
Roderick finally spoke. “Are you quite finished devouring them?”
“They were incompetent,” Victor bit out.
