Chapter 4

The human mind is a remarkable thing. It can find a way out of the most difficult situations, anticipate several moves ahead, and conceal emotions behind a mask of indifference. But sometimes, even the most perceptive people find themselves at a loss. That was exactly what happened to Jack.

The Duke of Hartess’s secretary was a composed man, accustomed to handling financial reports, conducting business correspondence, and keeping his master’s schedule in order. But none of his skills could help him now.

A child. A member of the Hartess family. Or perhaps an impostor?

The thought circled in Jack’s mind, refusing to let him rest. He tried to predict what Damian’s next move would be, but as always, the duke remained unreadable. Sitting in his office, he silently drank bourbon, gazing absently into the darkness beyond the window.

“What is he thinking? What decision will he make?”

Jack didn’t know. But he knew one thing: when Damian stayed silent for too long, it never led to anything good.

Charles, however, was an old servant—but not a blind one.

Years spent within these grim estate walls had taught him to notice what others overlooked. He had seen how Damian’s expression changed as he listened to the young lady’s statement. He had noticed how his fingers tensed around his glass when the child’s name was mentioned. He knew—the news had struck the duke, even if he didn’t show it.

“But isn’t that wonderful?” Charles thought, sweeping the long corridor, though his mind was far from his task.

A child. A girl. The greatest surprise the Hartess family had ever seen.

This house, cold and lifeless, had always reminded Charles of a stone crypt. Its walls held the secrets and pain of past generations—but never a child’s laughter. How wonderful it would be if this gloomy mansion were filled with light steps, a ringing voice, joy…

“And if Isabella became the lady of this house?”

Charles allowed himself a small, knowing smile, mentally picturing her features. Determined, proud, noble—a rare combination. She would not yield to the duke in stubbornness or character, but most importantly, she had a kind heart. She would bring warmth to this place.

“Yes, she is a most worthy woman.”

It was only a pity that, as always, Damian would resist what fate had clearly intended for him. Perhaps Charles was being too hasty in his hopes?

Who knew?

Isabella had always considered herself a composed person.

She could listen to gossip about herself with a smile, respond to rudeness with calmness, and even, when necessary, hold back tears.

“But as she left the Duke of Hartess’s house, she felt, for the first time, a tight knot forming inside her.”

She was proud of herself. Of course, she was. She hadn’t let that arrogant man unsettle her, hadn’t backed down, hadn’t allowed him to doubt the truth of her words. She hadn’t even flinched when he stepped too close, disregarding all propriety. Yes, she had carried herself with dignity.

“Then why did her stomach tighten with every step home?”

She hadn’t expected that meeting with Damian Hartess would leave such an imprint. Yes, he was dangerous. Yes, he was a predator. But Isabella wasn’t afraid of him.

“She was afraid of silence.”

That very silence that could stretch on. That could mean rejection.

With every street she passed, with every turn bringing her closer to home, the anxiety only grew. After all, she had staked too much on this.

“But now, all she could do was wait.”

And waiting, as everyone knows, is the worst part of any game.

Waiting is one of the most agonizing things to endure.

Isabella had always considered herself a patient person. She could bide her time, suppress her emotions. But as it turned out, when it came to her future, patience suddenly became a luxury she could no longer afford.

The first day was filled with reasonable justifications.

“He’s busy. Of course, he’s busy. He has affairs to manage, meetings, perhaps even a ball he must attend. A letter like that is not something to respond to in haste.”

Isabella convinced herself that there was nothing strange about Damian not replying immediately. She continued her daily routines, even allowed herself to smile, but deep down, she was waiting…

The second day brought mild irritation.

“He couldn’t have simply forgotten. That’s not his style. He must be toying with me, drawing out his decision on purpose.”

She could no longer distract herself. She found herself constantly glancing out the window, flinching at every knock on the door. Perhaps a messenger? Perhaps the reply had finally arrived?

But the postman only brought bills and letters of no importance.

The third day was colored with disappointment.

“What if he has no intention of replying at all?”

The thought took root in her mind from the moment she woke up, gnawing at her. What if she was wasting her time? What if her pride wouldn’t let her see the truth?

While Jane slept peacefully in her little bed, Isabella could barely contain her anxiety.

She began to reproach herself. Perhaps she should have phrased things differently? Perhaps she had pushed too hard?

The fourth day brought dreadful unease.

“What if I made a mistake?”

That thought burrowed deep inside her, gripping her heart with an icy hold.

She hadn’t slept that night. She tossed and turned, tormented by the fear that she had ruined everything. Should she have been softer? Should she have pleaded?

She despised this feeling. Despised herself for the weakness.

“But most of all, she despised the waiting.”

Because with each passing day, it became more unbearable.

Some people prefer to respond with letters. Others choose to appear in person. The choice of response often speaks volumes.

On the fifth day, Isabella was woken by a firm knock at the door. She wasn’t expecting visitors. At this time of day, few ever climbed to the third floor of their old, dilapidated house. And who would even think of visiting her?

She pulled a worn wool shawl over her shoulders, shivered from the morning chill, and opened the door.

Damian stood on the threshold.

He did not look like a man who had arrived at the wrong address. On the contrary, his gaze confidently swept over her face, then past her, taking in the narrow corridor behind her. He noted the peeling plaster, the dim light filtering from a small window, the creaking floor. Everything here spoke of a lack of money and an abundance of perseverance.

Isabella said nothing. She wasn’t prepared.

“I expected something… more modest,” he finally said, stepping inside without invitation. “But not this.”

Isabella quickly shut the door behind him.

“What brings you here, Your Grace?” she asked, striving to conceal her unease.

Damian glanced around. In the corner stood a battered wooden table, beside it a bed covered with an old patchwork quilt. Near the window, a small child’s dress hung to dry.

“You should find a new place to live,” he said calmly, as if discussing the weather.

Isabella raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“And why is that?”

Damian turned to her, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Because this place is not suitable for you.”

“I make do with what I can afford,” she replied, crossing her arms.

He smirked.

“I reviewed the financial records,” he continued, as if unfazed by her stubbornness. “You were right. Michael did provide for your sister. Every month. Not generously, but enough for a respectable life.”

Isabella remained silent.

“Furthermore, judging by the letters he sent to his housekeeper, he showed Joan attention… and a respect no other woman had received from him.” Damian tilted his head slightly, watching her reaction. “Perhaps she truly meant something to him.”

Isabella swallowed.

“I knew that,” she said quietly.

“Now I know it too,” he nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”

She met his gaze.

“And what does that mean, Your Grace?”

“It means we have something to discuss,” he replied smoothly. “But not here.”

Sometimes people wait for an answer, not knowing what it will be. But sometimes, waiting ends with something they never could have imagined.