Emilio stormed through the marbled corridors of Wycliffe Manor like a man possessed, his riding boots thudding against the polished floors, fists clenched at his sides. Servants scurried out of his path, heads bowed, as the fury rolling off him curdled the air.
He didn't stop until he reached the southern parlor, his mother's domain.
Lady Rosalind looked up from her embroidery, her needle pausing mid-stitch. She sat like a carved figure of dignity in her high-backed chair, dressed in a pale dove-grey gown trimmed with muted lavender.
Her silver hair was pinned in an immaculate chignon, and her eyes though lined with age were still as sharp as ever. At the sight of her son, she arched a brow but said nothing, waiting.
"Emilio," she said coolly. "What is the meaning of this noise?"
Emilio slammed the door shut behind him. "I won't be humiliated like that again," he seethed.
Lady Rosalind let out a cool breath and placed her cup on its saucer. "Do elaborate, darling. Which of your many missteps has wounded your pride this time?"
His nostrils flared. "Juliana. She reprimanded me. In front of the servants. Over a stable boy."
"Ah." Lady Rosalind leaned back in her chair, her tone turning brittle. "So, you struck someone beneath you and now you're offended someone noticed?"
"I've had enough!" he barked, striding across the room. "I'm offended that I'm treated like I'm beneath him in his damned house!"
"How infuriating," he snapped, " what makes him betterthan me."
Lady Rosalind's lashes lowered slightly. "You mean your brother."
"He's not my brother," Emilio growled, pacing. "He's the bastard heir to a title that should've been mine. If my father hadn't been a fool..."
"Enough!" lady Rosalind hissed, standing swiftly. She moved to the door, checking it, then turned the lock before speaking in a hushed, venomous voice. "You will not speak so freely under this roof. If even a wall heard you say such a thing, Nathaniel would have you flayed and buried before sunrise."
Emilio stopped pacing, his jaw tight.
Lady Rosalind crossed her arms, eyes sharp and unreadable. "We live comfortably here only because he allows it. This manor, this name, this privilege, he extended it to us out of... familial pity. That does not make him merciful. It makes him calculating. He would destroy us for even thinking treason."
Emilio paced like a caged animal. "If I had power... real power, a seat at court like him. I wouldn't have to endure this humiliation. I wouldn't have to grovel or..." he turned, face twisted in resentment "be reprimanded in front of servants by my own cousin!"
Lady Rosalind's voice cut through the room like the edge of a blade. "Enough."
He stopped.
She stood slowly, smoothing her skirts. Her voice was low and precise, a whisper sharpened to command. "Do you know what you sound like?"
He clenched his jaw. "Like a man tired of being nothing."
"You should watch what you say."
Emilio's eyes flared. "I am blood."
Lady Rosalind stepped forward, now only a breath away. "Not his."
There it was.
That ancient truth he hated hearing.
His late father, Lord Edmund Vane, had been a distant cousin of the Wycliffes, a second son of a second branch, a gentleman of modest standing with no real title or inheritance. He had married Lady Rosalind after his fortunes collapsed in a failed investment scheme tied to the navy's trade route. When Lord Vane died penniless, Rosalind, left with her son Emilio turned to the Wycliffes for shelter.
The old Duke, ever dutiful to kin, had offered them residence in the manor out of familial obligation. And when he died, Nathaniel honored that arrangement without question, letting them remain, maintaining their comfort without ever truly embracing them as equals.
Emilio hated that.
Emilio's lips curled in frustration. "It's time someone else was Duke."
Lady Rosalind gaze flickered, dangerous now. "And you believe that someone is you?"
"Why not?" he snapped. "I have his blood. My father was a Wycliffe too. Nathaniel may be the legitimate heir, but he's cold, hated, and childless. No sons. No heirs. If he died tomorrow, who would inherit? You think the King's court would happily hand power to him forever? He's not even trying to secure a future. I could be that future."
Rosalind's face remained a mask, but her fingers tensed around the folds of her gown.
"My father was tricked into marrying you," Emilio continued, voice bitter. "And then left you for the title's legitimate line. You think I don't remember growing up in that crumbling townhouse while Nathaniel grew up here? With land, influence, everything handed to him? And now he lords it over us as if we're his dependents."
Rosalind's eyes turned glassy for just a moment. Old, buried pain flickering beneath the surface but it vanished quickly, replaced by a calculating coldness.
"You forget your place too easily, Emilio," she said. "You forget how quickly everything could be taken from us. We were permitted into this house because Nathaniel's father had a thread of conscience left. And while the blood in your veins may be Wycliffe, you are not the heir."
"Yet," Emilio muttered, jaw clenched.
Rosalind narrowed her eyes.
"I should be Duke," he growled. "Why should he hold it all, just because he's the bastard with the right last name?"
"Because the title is his by law and legacy," Lady Rosalind said firmly. "And whether you like it or not, Nathaniel Wycliffe is no fool. He's respected, feared, and lethal. If you're recklessly plotting something..."
"I'm not plotting," Emilio snapped, though his jaw was too tight for it to be true. "But I swear I will get what I deserve. The title. The respect. I'm tired of bowing my head like a dog."
Lady Rosalind stepped closer. "You speak treason."
"You think he'll let me do anything else?" he bit out. "As long as he breathes, I'll always be the poor cousin who overstayed his welcome."
She seized his wrist, an uncharacteristic show of emotion. "You listen to me, Emilio. You are angry now, but if Nathaniel catches even a whisper of your ambitions, he will not forgive. He will not forget. And unlike you, he doesn't speak his warnings aloud. He acts."
He yanked his hand away.
"You're scared of him," Emilio said bitterly. "You all are."
"I respect him," she corrected coldly. "And you would do well to remember how your father ended up with nothing but the kindness of this house. Do not make me watch my son fall lower."
He didn't respond.
She watched him, her breath shallow.
For a long beat, Lady Rosalind said nothing. Then she moved slowly to her writing desk, opened a small drawer, and pulled out a vial of clear liquid.
"Power," she said softly, placing the vial in her palm, "is a game of patience. You don't seize it like a sword. You lure it to you like a serpent to a fire."
"What is that?" Emilio asked.
"An option," she replied. "But not yet. Not until the time is right."
He stared at her, then stepped forward, speaking low. "You want him gone as much as I do, right."
She tilted her head. "Wanting and doing are not the same. We survive because Nathaniel tolerates us. And because we don't make ourselves threats. But yes," she added quietly, "I have not forgotten who I am... nor what was taken from me."
"Swear to me," she said. "No more of this nonsense."
Emilio turned away, his fists clenched at his sides.
"I swear…" he said through gritted teeth, "I'll get the title someday."
They shared a long, understanding look. Mother and son. Bound not by affection but by ambition.