In the study, sunlight poured in through the tall windows, slanting at a sharper angle now, gilding the floor with long, golden stripes. The weight of the day pressed in as the silence settled deep between the walls.
The Duke leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Outwardly composed. Inwardly, a storm.
King Lucien must be told, came the first thought, pragmatic, cold and precise. Duty pressed upon him like iron, familiar and unrelenting.
If Acacia truly bears Grey blood, if her swordplay and instinct carry the echo of Valeriath's royal line, then withholding this truth is no better than treason.
His oath to the crown demanded loyalty. Demanded clarity.
And yet…
When he closed his eyes, he saw not a princess, not a claimant to a throne. He saw a frightened child, fragile, a single question away from breaking.
To present her now in front of the king, unready, unguarded, would not only break her trust but possibly destroy her.
And worse, it would entangle them all in the delicate, dangerous theater of royal politics.
His jaw tightened, every part of him taut with calculation.
To speak was to cast her into fire.
To remain silent was to gamble everything, the trust of the King, the future of their House.
For the Ashcrofts, silence could be ruin.
For her, the truth could be cruelty.
No… not yet, he decided.
Though the decision felt like swallowing glass, he would hold the truth a while longer.
He would guard her, keep it a secret now for her sake, and for the sake of weighing the storm that would surely come.
When the time comes, he would take it himself to King Lucien. Whether as a loyal subject… or as a father who had grown to care.
Until then, he would wait.
Watching. Guarding.
When its time reveal, he would face it with resolve, he would face it standing beside her.
A soft knock broke the quiet.
The Duke opened his eyes. "Come in."
The door creaked open, and Dominic stepped inside, his usually sharp features etched with worry and something heavier, guilt.
The Duke's eyes rested on his son, reading the turmoil there. Dominic crossed the threshold slowly, stopping only when he was a few steps from the desk.
His voice was hoarse. "What should I do now? I've hurt her…"
He swallowed hard. "How do I fix this?"
The Duke didn't speak right away. His gaze softened, just slightly.
"Speak with her. Directly." His voice was calm but sure. "Apologize, without any excuses and with honesty."
Dominic looked away, jaw tightening, then gave a short nod.
The bell tolled faintly in the distance, signaling the midday meal.
He seized the excuse, grateful for it.
"I'll bring her something. Lunch," he murmured.
The Duke didn't stop him. "Go."
Moments later...
Dominic stood outside her door with a tray in his hands. On it, warm bread, a silver pot of tea, and a delicate bowl of soup, still steaming. He'd assembled it himself, despite the curious looks from the staff.
His hand hovered over the door for a moment before he knocked. once, twice.
A pause. Then the faint sound of rustling blankets. Soft footsteps. The click of a latch.
The door opened slowly.
Acacia blinked at him, eyes still heavy with sleep. Her hair was loose, slightly tousled, one side of her braid unraveling as if she'd only just stirred from dreams. The room behind her was dim, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. She squinted slightly at the light from the hallway.
Her expression wasn't closed, just disoriented. Raw.
Dominic's breath caught. "I… I thought you might be hungry."
She looked down at the tray, her brows lifting faintly in confusion. Then, wordlessly, she stepped aside.
Dominic entered the room quietly, trying not to disturb the hush that still clung to her space. He set the tray gently on the small table near the window, then turned back to her.
Acacia rubbed a hand over her eyes, her voice groggy. "What time is it?"
"A little past midday."
She nodded slowly, crossing her arms, not defensively, but as if trying to wake herself fully.
Dominic hesitated, watching her. "I'm sorry."
Acacia looked at him, properly this time.
Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, but there was something else there now, clarity breaking through the fog. A flicker of remembered pain. She didn't speak right away.
Instead, she sank slowly into the cushioned seat beside the window, the long hem of her dress brushing the floor. The tray of food remained untouched.
She didn't tell him to leave.
Dominic took that as something.
"I shouldn't have doubted you," he said softly, standing across from her, arms at his sides, unguarded.
Her gaze lifted, cool and steady now.
"But you did," she said. Not angry. Just the truth.
He nodded once, swallowing hard.
"I know."
A pause.
"I was scared... Of what it would mean if… if everything changed."
Acacia tilted her head slightly, studying him. "It has changed."
He looked down.
"I know."
The room was still, the only sound the faint ticking of a small clock near the bed. The kind of silence that made everything feel louder, every breath, every heartbeat.
"I remembered everything, Dominic," she said quietly. "Who I was. Where I came from. What was taken from me."
Her voice didn't tremble, but her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of her dress.
"It didn't make things clearer. It just made them heavier."
Dominic stepped closer. "Then let me help carry it."
She looked up at him again, eyes narrowing just slightly not out of anger, but hurt.
"You didn't believe me when I needed you to. Why should I believe you now?"
He exhaled, slow and unsteady.
"Because I'm not here... as your brother. I want to help you "
Silence.
Something in her jaw tightened. She looked away, toward the window, where the light was slowly softening into the warmer glow of late afternoon.
"You're not my brother, Dominic."
The words landed heavy.
"You never were."
Dominic flinched but didn't argue.
She turned back toward him and her voice, while steady, held a quiet ache.
"But you were the one person I thought, might see me… accept me after the name came back."
He stepped forward again, kneeling slightly so they were on the same level. He didn't touch her, just met her gaze.
"I'm sorry, let me earn that trust back. Not because of your name. Not because of what you are. Just… because of who you are."
Acacia didn't reply right away.
Then, slowly, she reached toward the tray and poured herself a cup of tea, hands still slightly unsteady from sleep and maybe, something else.
She took a sip, eyes on the window.
"You can sit, if you want."
It wasn't forgiveness. Not yet.
But it was something.
Dominic sat beside her in silence, the warmth between them not yet mended but no longer cold.
And for now… it was enough.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the kind that didn't press too hard but didn't let go either.
Outside the window, the wind stirred the garden trees. The afternoon light moved slowly across the floor. Inside, time softened.
Acacia wrapped her hands around the warm teacup. She didn't look at him when she spoke.
"When the memories came back, I thought it would feel like coming home."
Dominic glanced at her, his posture still. "Did it?"
She shook her head faintly.
"No. It felt like mourning someone who lived inside me and died the moment I remembered her."
A pause.
"I don't know now how to be her. Chrysanthia Grey."
His voice was gentle. "Maybe you don't have to be her. Maybe you are already her. Or ... Maybe you just… get to be Acacia. With the truth in your hands now."
She let the silence hang between them, then turned to look at him, finally.
"Your words hurt me," she said. Quiet. Clear.
Dominic didn't flinch this time. "I'm sorry and I'm reflecting deeply on that. I don't want to be that kind of person again."
Her gaze lingered on him, searching for something. When she didn't find a lie, her shoulders relaxed slightly, like a thread that had been held too tight finally giving way.
"It still hurts," she murmured.
"I... " His voice broke a little. "I'll carry it if you let me."
Acacia looked back down at her tea, then toward the tray again. She reached for the bread, tearing off a piece absently. The smallest sign that she was letting the world back in.
"I don't know what will happen next," she said softly.
"Whatever it is," Dominic replied, "you won't face it alone."
She didn't answer. But she didn't push him away either.
And in the quiet, in that fragile space between resentment and forgiveness, something old began to mend in stillness, in staying.
He stayed.