The East Wing of Croft Manor had been transformed into a museum of repentance.
When Victoria woke, the heavy velvet drapes had been pulled back to reveal a nursery that had appeared overnight. It wasn’t just furnished; it was curated. A hand-carved crib of Italian walnut, a mountain of cashmere blankets, and a rocking chair that looked like a throne.
A knock at the door preceded a trolley. A maid wheeled in a silver platter.
“Mr. Croft sent this,” the maid murmured, keeping her eyes low. “He remembered you craved strawberries and dark chocolate from… before.”
Victoria looked at the food. It was a specific memory from their honeymoon in Florence, weaponized into a peace offering.
“Take it away,” Victoria said, sitting up in the massive four-poster bed that felt more like a raft in the ocean.
“Victoria,” William said from the doorway. He was dressed in a suit, but his tie was loose, his face haggard. The “Territorial Patriarch” looked desperate. “You have to eat. For the baby.”
“I am eating,” Victoria said, picking up an apple from the nightstand. “I just don’t want *your* food. You think you can fill this room with expensive things and I’ll forget that your grandmother threatened to take my child?”
William walked over to the crib, running a hand along the rail. “I didn’t know she would do that. But… she’s right about one thing. You are safer here. I can protect you here.”
“You’re not protecting me, William,” Victoria said, her voice hollow. “You’re keeping me. These aren’t gifts. They’re the furnishings of a gilded cage.”
William gripped the crib rail until his knuckles turned white. He had spent millions in the last twenty-four hours, trying to buy back the trust he had liquidated, only to realize the currency he held was worthless to her.