The Duke's Forsaken Bride

Chapter 3: The Duke Returns

Three months had passed since Isadora Everhart had left the capital, and the weight of disgrace had settled into something else entirely—quiet, unshaken solitude.

The countryside estate was a stark contrast to the bustling grandeur of the city. Here, there were no hushed whispers behind painted fans, no lingering stares filled with pity or amusement. Just endless fields stretching into the horizon, the scent of damp earth after rain, and the rhythmic hum of nature untouched by scandal.

She had come to appreciate the quiet.

Perhaps she had even begun to prefer it.

The world had moved on without her, as it always did. The nobility had found fresh gossip, new affairs and betrayals to feast upon. Killian Blackmoor's name had not graced a single letter sent her way. If he had suffered for what he did, there was no sign of it.

Not that she had searched.

She told herself she did not care. That she had left the past behind her. That she was no longer the foolish girl who had once stood at the altar, waiting for a man who would never come.

She had built walls around her heart, and she had no intention of letting them be torn down.

Then the carriage arrived.

It came without warning, thundering down the long path leading to the estate, a striking black against the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. Isadora stood frozen on the balcony, the sight of the Ravencourt crest painted on its side sending a cold shiver through her veins.

A footman hurried to the front steps, but before he could announce the visitor, the carriage door swung open.

And he stepped out.

Killian Blackmoor.

The Duke of Ravencourt.

The man who had shattered her world.

She had thought herself prepared for this moment, for the possibility that he might one day come crawling back, burdened by regret. But as she looked at him now, standing tall and unreadable at the base of her home, regret was nowhere to be found.

He looked untouched by time, just as she remembered—broad-shouldered, every inch the cold and calculating Duke that had once commanded the admiration of the entire court. His presence was a force, a storm that threatened to shake the foundation of her carefully constructed peace.

The servants hesitated, unsure whether to announce him.

Isadora did not give them the chance.

She descended the steps slowly, controlled, forcing her heartbeat into submission. When she reached the bottom, she met his gaze head-on, refusing to yield an inch.

Killian studied her in silence, as if committing every detail of her to memory. Her dress was simpler than the lavish gowns she had once worn, her hair unadorned, the soft glow of the sunset casting an ethereal light upon her features.

Something flickered in his eyes. It was gone before she could place it.

Finally, he spoke.

"I need you."

The words were low, steady. As if they carried no weight at all.

A bitter laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "You need me?"

She took a step closer, enough for him to see the barely restrained fury in her gaze. "Where was that need when I was standing at the altar, humiliated before the entire kingdom? Where was it when I was forced to leave my home, stripped of my dignity?"

Killian did not flinch. If her words cut him, he did not let it show.

"I had my reasons."

Isadora's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "And I had my faith in you. We see where that got me."

A tense silence settled between them, thick with unsaid words and festering wounds. She waited for an apology, for anything that would explain why he had done what he had done.

It did not come.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together. Then, without another word, she turned and walked back to the manor.

Killian's voice followed her. "Isadora."

She did not stop.

She reached the door, her fingers curling around the polished handle. A cruel part of her wanted to slam it before he could take another step, but she forced herself to move with the same grace she had carried since the day he had left her.

She turned her head slightly, just enough for him to hear.

"You are three months too late, Your Grace."

And with that, she stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

---

She had expected him to leave.

A man like Killian Blackmoor was not accustomed to waiting. He was used to commanding, to people bending at his will.

But as the hours passed and the sky darkened, the servants whispered of a lone figure still standing at the entrance.

Isadora did not go to the window. She did not need to.

She knew he was there.

The fire in the drawing room crackled softly, the only sound accompanying the steady rhythm of her own heartbeat. She tried to read, but the words blurred together. Tried to rest, but her body refused to ease.

Damn him.

Damn him for coming back. For thinking he could waltz into her life with three simple words and expect her to listen.

Midnight struck, and still, he did not leave.

A storm had begun to gather in the distance, the scent of rain thick in the air. She imagined him standing there, his coat dusted with the chill of the night, his expression as unreadable as ever.

She should not care.

But she did.

She pressed a hand against her temple, exhaling sharply. This was not her battle to fight. He had made his choices. He had abandoned her. She owed him nothing.

And yet.

As dawn began to creep over the horizon, Isadora rose from her chair, her resolve unraveling with every step toward the door.

Her fingers hovered over the handle, hesitation gripping her.

Would opening it mean giving him a chance? Would it mean reopening the wounds she had fought so hard to mend?

Another moment passed.

Then, with a deep breath, she pulled open the door.

And there he was.

Killian stood exactly where she had left him, his coat damp with morning dew, his posture unwavering despite the long hours spent waiting. He did not look victorious, nor did he look regretful.

He simply looked at her.

And for the first time since his return, she did not look away.