Lady Kendrick hesitated only a heartbeat before nodding. “Ye … yes, perhaps we should.”
The servants began placing dishes before them.
Roasted pheasant with winter herbs. Braised carrots and pearl onions scented with cloves.
A warm loaf of crusty bread still steaming faintly from the oven and a delicate soup of leek.
Under normal circumstances, Isabella might have appreciated the meal, but her appetite had fled days ago. Ever since Cassian began haunting his study like a restless spirit, refusing her, refusing everyone, choosing solitude like a curse he welcomed.
She barely lifted her spoon. Lady Kendrick watched her closely; Isabella felt her peering eyes on her. And so, but only because she refused to give the impression of weakness, Isabella forced herself to take small, mechanical bites.
She chewed without tasting anything. She couldn’t even see the meal she was eating.
Cassian was injured. She knew that much. The housekeeper had told her, whispering anxiously, that blood had dripped from the Duke’s hand as he refused all help and sent servants scurrying from the kitchen like frightened mice.
And now, he locked himself in his study, claiming he needed to ‘focus on work’ as though she could not see through that brittle, transparent lie.
He was avoiding her. Cowardly so, and she had had enough.
The moment Lady Kendrick finished her soup, Isabella placed her spoon down with a soft, decisive click.
“If you’ll excuse me, Grandmama,” she said, rising, “I believe I have something to do.”
Lady Kendrick paused mid-reach for her napkin. “My dear… do not overwhelm yourself.”
“Of course, I dare not,” Isabella said tightly.
She made her curtsy and left the dining room before she could be further pitied.
Isabella marched through the corridor, gathering her skirts in one hand so the hem would not slow her determined strides. Every breath fueled her anger, her frustration, her disbelief at the childish obstinacy of the man she had married.
When she reached her husband’s study, she did not merely knock; she pounded on the door.
“Cassian.” Her voice was sharp, unwavering. “I believe we must talk. If we do not communicate, we lose the progress we have achieved thus far.”
Silence.
Not even footsteps or even a breath. Only the hollow stillness of a man refusing to exist.
Isabella drew in a slow breath through her nose, her hands trembling slightly.
Fine. She thought.
If he wanted to behave like an obstinate wall of stone, she would not break herself banging against him. Not tonight.
But her anger simmered dangerously as she turned away.
Two days passed. Two long, suffocating days in which nothing changed.
Every meal was shared between Isabella and Lady Kendrick alone. No Cassian. Not even his shadow or the echo of a footstep in the corridor.
Michael avoided her eyes when she asked for updates. The servants whispered every time she entered a room. A cold dread settled inside her ribs, cold enough to make her question everything.
Should she not have walked away from him that night? Should she not have said what she said?
Should she have stayed and fought harder?
Or would that have only pushed him further?
