The irony stings. Pauline and I used representation to argue that, despite the entail, Millie was Geoffroy’s rightful heir.
“Yes,” Brigitte says. “Without the cover-up, the estate, the title, everything would’ve gone to Alex. The principle of representation put him before Julian.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “So, everything we have should’ve been Alex’s.”
“Don’t you dare pity him!” she snaps. “He survived. He thrived. He doesn’t need the dukedom.”
“Except it’s his by right,” I say, “And he’s worthy of it.”
She slams her hand against the dashboard, startling me. “And what about my son? I protected him as any mother would. You’d do the same. Don’t act like you’re above it.”
The words slam into me. She’s not wrong.Would I protect Millie if she killed?God help me, I might.
“I’m not judging you,” I whisper.
“Oh, good,” she grits out. “Because you want Millie to keep what you fought for her to have, don’t you? We both do. This must stay buried, Eva. Don’t let your misguided honesty strip our little girl of her birthright.”
My hands shake. “I don’t know if I can lie and pretend for the rest of my life, knowing Alex is the rightful heir.”
“Millie is the Duchess of Rohinn,” she barks. “And you will not take that from her.”
Her voice cracks at the end. She clamps her lips shut, lifts her chin, and turns toward the mountains.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and cold.
34
EVA
The smell of hay and leather hits me as I step into the stables. It’s warmer than the gardens, the air alive with the shuffle of hooves and the creak of wood. I grab a brush and start on Comète, Millie’s mare, with long, steady strokes down her glossy flank. My body moves, but my mind is elsewhere.
If I stop moving, I’ll start thinking. And if I start thinking…
“Morning, Your Grace,” the stable boy says.
He’s seventeen, with freckles under a layer of dust.
“Morning, Étienne,” I reply.
“Will Millie be riding later?”
“Maybe. If she finishes her homework.”
“Oh. Right.”
I stifle a smile. Étienne hated school and longed for the outdoors so much that Stéphanie let him drop out last spring. She figured that after a summer of shoveling manure and fixing fences, he’d beg to start chef training in the fall. Instead, he announced in late August that this was his true calling. School and homework? Ancient history to him now.
He shifts his rake from one hand to the other. “Think she’ll ride in the Autumn Parade this year?”
“I don’t know,” I snap.
The mare flicks an ear, unsettled by my tone.
Millie’s been talking about the parade for weeks. With her treatment working well, her doctor allowed the public ride with the usual precautions—helmet, vest, no galloping off alone. I nodded, agreed, pretended I was fine with it. Because what’s the point of life if she can’t live it?
Still, my stomach knots.
The image that stalks me is Millie riding through Aymon, proud and fearless… then tumbling onto the cobblestones and bleeding out. And now it isn’t just that familiar fear that haunts me; it’s the shadow of everything else she could lose. Her horse. The estate. The duchy.
