1
EVA
“He’s here,” Millie whispers.
I don’t look. I don’t need to.
The man she’s warning me about radiates a chill so palpable I can sense which door he entered through. The air in Fort Vauclairt’s reception hall, warmed by hundreds of flickering candles and the breath of mourners grows colder by the second.
Of course, Alex would show up!Nothing like a funeral to size up how much of the estate he can have, just because he happens to share the same father as Geoffroy.
I’m being unfair, I know.
After all, Alex is the old duke’s second son. In neighboring France, the math prodigy would’ve inherited half of the duchy when Rodolphe passed.
Then again, there are no dukes or duchies in the Republic of France, nor are we subject to its laws. We’re old school in Mount Evor. Here, the principles of primogeniture and representation still reign supreme. The firstborn takes it all. The child comes before the sibling. With both Geoffroy and Julian gone, Millie’s birthright ensures that she inherits everything.
The only way Alex Castellane gets a chunk of the estate is if Geoffroy named him in his will. Which I know he didn’t. My late husband and his younger half brother had been estranged long before I met and married Geoffroy Castellane, a dashing widower twice my age.
Alex will get nothing or next to nothing. And Millie will be the next Duchess of Rohinn.
He knows this, of course he does. Yet he carries his tall, infuriatingly well-proportioned form with confidence, which lends an air of legitimacy to his potential claims.
Ugh! I truly can’t stand him!
Alex catches me staring. I shift my gaze to the stone wall, where Rodolphe’s portrait, alongside those of the dukes before him, looms over us. It strikes me that Geoffroy’s official portrait will need to move from his office to this wall, next to his father’s.
Am I sad that Geoffroy is gone?
Yes. I was shocked when they told me about the crash. For years, I believed a part of me still loved him, despite everything. But now… Standing here, I must admit Julian’s loss cuts deeper than my husband’s. My stepson might’ve been vain and shallow, but he didn’t have a twisted mind.
Realizing I mourn him more than my husband stirs a pang of guilt. Then I remember the cold contempt in Geoffroy’s eyes after he broke me down, yet again, the night before he died. That bitter memory burns the guilt away completely.
Millie leans against me lightly, her fingers brushing mine. She’s holding up better than I expected. No tears since this morning. She looks fine, too. Sheisfine, I remind myself. Most days, anyway.
Right now, she carries herself with the poise of an adult.
Except, of course, she isn’t. My baby is only fourteen. I wish she didn’t have to “be strong” after losing her father and her beloved half brother. But here in Rohinn, even more so than inMount Evor at large, one learns to suppress emotions from an early age. Especially when one is the future lady of Rohinn.
My delicate little girl has a will of iron. She was only eight when she made me, her father, her grandmother, and her half brother swear on the Bible that no one would ever know about her condition. We’ve honored her wish. Besides her doctors and us, not a soul in Rohinn knows about Millie’s weekly injections or occasional hospital stays.
“My dearest Eva!” Someone touches my arm, pulling me from my thoughts.
Another round of condolences follows. Then another. It’s just like at church this morning, except now, with the burials complete, there are no caskets to focus on during this ritual. Closed caskets, to be precise.
The crash left Geoffroy and Julian so disfigured it was advised that the family not view them. There was nothing recognizable left to see.
The chauffeur’s body fared slightly better. His family agreed to an autopsy before the funeral, which will take place later. I’ll cover the costs, naturally.
Another hand clasps mine—warm, forgettable. I offer a faint smile, nod, and say thank you. I tell them that yes, he was a wonderful husband and a devoted father.
It’s the truth.
Well, the latter part, at any rate.
A hush ripplesthrough the mourners. Heels shift on the marble floor. Fabric rustles against velvet chairs as people rise. Even before I hear the murmurs of “His Royal Highness,” I know who has arrived.
I straighten, locking my spine into place as I prepare to curtsy deeply but gracefully.
