The door opened with a soft click. Dominic didn't turn, recognizing his mother's light tread across the threshold.
"If you've come to lecture me, I'm not in the mood," he said, continuing his restless circuit of the room.
Louisa closed the door behind her, her eyes tracking his movement. "I've given you three weeks to wallow in your misery, Dominic. That seems quite sufficient."
"Wallow?" He barked a laugh that held no humor. "Is that what you think this is?"
"What would you call it?" she countered, moving further into the room. "You've barely left this study. You don't eat. You don't sleep. The servants whisper that you're becoming a ghost before their eyes."
Dominic waved a dismissive hand. "Let them whisper. What does it matter?"
Louisa approached cautiously, like one might approach a wounded animal. When she reached him, she placed a gentle hand on his arm, stilling his movement.
"You're destroying yourself," she said softly.
Dominic laughed bitterly, gesturing to the empty room. "What does it matter? I'm already dying."
Louisa's fingers tightened on his arm. He looked down, surprised by the sudden intensity of her grip. Her face had gone very pale, her eyes—so like his own—filled with an emotion he couldn't immediately identify.
"No, Dominic," she said, her voice hardly above a whisper. "You're not."
He stared at her, certain he had misheard. "What?"
"You're not dying," she repeated, more firmly now. "You never were."
The world seemed to tilt beneath his feet. Dominic pulled away from her touch, needing distance, needing solid ground beneath this sudden shifting of reality.
"What are you saying?" His voice emerged raw, strained.
Louisa drew a deep breath, her hands clasped before her as if in prayer—or supplication.
"You don't carry the Blake family illness," she said, each word deliberate. "You never did. You never could."
Dominic shook his head, unable to process her words. "That's impossible. Father?—"
"Your father was not your blood father," Louisa cut in, her voice breaking slightly. "I was already with child when we met—when we married."
The revelation struck him like a physical blow. Dominic staggered back, bracing himself against the edge of his desk as the room swam before his eyes.
"What?" he whispered.
Louisa's face crumpled, years of carefully maintained composure giving way to naked anguish. "Our marriage was one of convenience, Dominic. I was ruined—carrying another man's child. Your father was determined never to sire an heir because of the family ailment."
"You let me believe..." Dominic's voice grew stronger, anger supplanting shock. "You let me believe I was dying? My entire life?"
"I wanted to tell you," she said, taking a step toward him. "So many times. But at first you were too young to understand, and later?—"
"Later what?" he demanded, his voice rising. "Later you thought it convenient to let me believe I carried a death sentence? To let me structure my entire existence around an imminent end that wasn't coming?"
Confusion gave way to rage in a white-hot rush. Every decision he'd ever made—the reckless adventures, the refusal to form attachments, the desperate pursuit of experience over stability—all founded on a lie.
"I didn't want you to feel different," Louisa pleaded. "To know you weren't truly your father's son. And I was ashamed of my past, of the circumstances?—"
"Ashamed?" Dominic slammed his fist onto the desk, sending papers scattering to the floor. "I've carried this burden my entire life! I've avoided connections, pushed people away, lived every moment as if it might be my last—and for what? A lie told by a coward!"
The accusation hung in the air between them. Louisa flinched as if struck but didn't retreat.
"Yes," she admitted quietly. "A coward. I was afraid—of losing your love, of seeing disgust in your eyes. And later, when I realized how deeply the burden affected you, I was afraid of what the truth might do."
