Three days since I walked out of the cottage. Three days of avoiding Domnall, of replaying his mistress proposal in endless loops, of wondering if I made the right choice ending things.
The doubt gnaws at me constantly—maybe I was too harsh, maybe I should have listened to his full explanation, maybe there was a compromise I didn't see.
But every time I circle back to that possibility, I hear his voice again: Be my mistress. I'll provide everything.
As if security and a comfortable house could replace dignity. As if my children wouldn't notice their mother was hidden away like something shameful.
I wander the estate corridors without real purpose, just needing to move. My mind is so consumed with what-ifs and should-haves that I'm not paying attention to where I'm going.
The hallways all look similar—portraits and polished wood and carpets that muffle footsteps.
I've been teaching Isla, organizing lessons, maintaining the careful professional distance I promised myself. Yesterday he tried to speak to me after the lesson ended. I walked past him without acknowledgment, and the hurt in his eyes nearly broke my resolve.
Nearly.
I take a turn I don't recognize, then another. The corridor narrows, becomes less ornate. Fewer portraits, more closed doors. The servants' passages, maybe, or the administrative wing where household business is conducted.
I should turn back. Should retrace my steps to familiar territory. But I'm lost in my own head, and my feet keep moving on autopilot.
A door stands slightly ajar at the corridor's end. I push it open without thinking, step inside.
The room is clearly an office—papers and ledgers scattered across every surface, maps pinned to walls, correspondence stacked in careful piles. Not a sitting room or parlor. Somewhere private, functional. Somewhere I definitely shouldn't be.
I'm backing toward the door when I hear voices. Close. Getting closer.
"—completed the verification you requested, my lady." A man's voice, formal and deferential. "The investigation was thorough."
"And?" Catriona's voice. Sharp, impatient.
My blood goes cold. I freeze mid-step, hand still on the doorknob.
They're coming from an inner chamber. Through a doorway on the far side of the office. And they're heading this way.
Panic floods my veins. I've just had two brutal interrogations with Catriona. Being found in what's clearly a private office, eavesdropping on a conversation with—did he say verification? Investigation?—would be catastrophic.
She'd use it as proof of scheming, of overstepping, of being exactly the threat she's been claiming I am.
The voices are getting louder. I have seconds.
The desk. Large, ornate, with enough clearance underneath for—
I drop to my knees and scramble beneath it, pulling my skirts in just as footsteps enter the main office. My heart pounds so hard I'm afraid they'll hear it. The space is cramped, musty. Dust tickles my nose and I fight the urge to sneeze.
"She is indeed the girl you initially suspected," the man says. "Confirmed through multiple sources."
I press myself against the back panel of the desk, trying to make myself smaller. Through the narrow gap between desk and floor, I can see their feet moving across the carpet.
"You're certain?" Catriona's voice is tight. Controlled fury barely leashed. "Orlaith Carraig's daughter?"
Orlaith Carraig. The name means nothing to me. They're discussing someone, some girl. An investigation into—
"Without question, my lady."
The man's footsteps move closer to the desk. I can see his boots now—black leather, expensive, stopping just inches from where I'm hiding.
"The physical resemblance to Lady Orlaith is unmistakable once you know to look for it. The timeline aligns perfectly—born twenty-seven years ago, shortly before House Carraig's fall."
Twenty-seven years ago. My age.
A cold feeling starts in my stomach. But that's absurd—I'm not the only person, the only girl born twenty-seven years ago. Hundreds of girls would fit that description. It shouldn't bother me.
But it does.
"After everything I did to eliminate that bloodline."
Catriona's voice drips with bitter irony.
"The lengths I went to, the risks I took to ensure Orlaith and her child were erased from history. Permanently erased. And now she appears here, in my own house, under my own roof. The universe has a cruel sense of humor."
Here. In this house. Twenty-seven years old.
The cold spreads to my chest. No. They can't be talking about—
Papers rustle above my head. Catriona has moved to the desk, is shuffling through documents directly above where I'm hiding. I hold my breath, terrified that any movement will give me away. My legs are already cramping from the awkward position.
"What would you have me do, my lady?" The advisor's voice is careful. Too careful. "If her identity becomes known, if anyone discovers she's Orlaith Carraig's legitimate daughter…"
“The entire succession becomes complicated," Catriona finishes. "House Carraig had direct ties to the old royal line. Blood ties going back six generations. Stronger bloodline claims than most of the current nobility."
My chest is tight. I'm pressing one hand over my mouth to keep from making sound. The other hand grips my skirt so hard the fabric cuts into my palm.
"If the girl learns who she is," Catriona continues, "if she finds allies who would use her name for political gain, who would champion her claim..."
"It would undermine everything you've built for Lord Morvaine," the advisor says quietly.
"Everything." The word is sharp. "Years of careful positioning, strategic marriages and political alliances. All potentially destroyed by one girl who doesn't even know what she is."
One girl. In this house. Twenty-seven years old. Legitimate daughter of Orlaith Carraig.
The pieces are assembling themselves in my mind with horrible clarity. But I don't want to see the picture they're forming. Can't let myself see it.
Silence. Long, terrible silence.
Then the advisor asks: "Shall I arrange for her quiet removal?"
My blood turns to ice. Removal. Does he mean..?
The pause stretches. I hold my breath, terror flooding every nerve. My whole body has gone rigid with fear.
"No." Catriona's voice is measured. Deliberate. "Removing her now would raise questions, especially after I've already hired investigators to look into her background. People would wonder, connect dots I don't want connected."
Relief crashes over me, but it's short-lived.
"Besides," she continues, "she's ignorant of her heritage, completely ignorant. As long as she remains the bastard tutor she believes herself to be, she's harmless. A nobody with no knowledge of her bloodline and no resources to pursue answers even if suspicions arose."
Bastard tutor. The words land like a physical blow.
They're talking about me. About me.
"And if she discovers the truth?"
"Then we reassess." Catriona's tone goes cold. "But for now, keeping her close, where I can watch her, monitor who she speaks to, control what information she accesses—is safer than eliminating her and potentially creating a martyr."
"Very wise, my lady."
"Wisdom has nothing to do with it. This is survival." Papers rustle again. "Ensure the records stay buried. Anyone who knew Orlaith personally is either dead or bought. The midwife who attended the birth is in the ground. Lord Dunmore took my coin and kept his mouth shut. The trail is cold."
Lord Dunmore, my father. He took her coin, he knew who I really was and never told me, sold his silence for Catriona's money.
"Yes, my lady. I'll maintain surveillance on the remaining threads."
"See that you do. I don't want surprises."
Footsteps—the advisor is leaving. A door opens and closes. I'm alone with Catriona now, just a desk panel between us.
She doesn't leave, I hear her moving around the office, gathering papers, muttering to herself. Probably thinking she's alone.
"All these years." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "All the work, the planning… And it could unravel because one bastard child survived when she was supposed to die with her mother."
She moves to the inner chamber doorway. I can see her skirts, pale blue silk trailing across the floor.
"If anyone discovers that Orlaith Carraig's daughter survived and is living under this very roof..." She pauses, as if testing the words. "The entire succession becomes vulnerable. The girl has a stronger claim to the throne than my son himself."