The Duke's Unwanted Second Wife

Damian sat in the silence of his study, the pale moonlight casting long shadows across the mahogany desk. His jaw remained tight, the echo of Eilika’s defiance still ringing in his ears.

”How dare she call me arrogant?” He was a Duke of Varos; his word was law, and yet she had looked him in the eye without flinching.

The doors creaked open, and Maurice stepped into the room.

”Your Grace, I examined the motorcar as you ordered. The brakes were sabotaged,” Maurice reported. ”The driver was stunned. He had been away from the vehicle, likely conversing with the other chauffeurs when the deed was done.” Maurice paused, a flicker of genuine respect crossing his features. ”Lady Eilika is remarkably sharp. She may have saved your life tonight.”

Damian’s eyes flashed with irritation at the hint of pride in Maurice’s tone. ”Who would have the audacity to strike at me so openly?” he muttered, more to himself than his guard.

”Perhaps someone from the high nobility,” Maurice suggested. ”Many have had their eyes fixed on the Varos fortune and influence lately, Your Grace.”

”You need to uncover the truth behind this,” Damian said. ”Can you manage it without drawing attention?”

”I will look into it immediately,” Maurice stated, his demeanor shifting into that of a seasoned investigator.

”This must remain strictly between us,” Damian asserted. ”And Maurice, vet the backgrounds of every new staff member recruited into this mansion over the last six months. I want no more ’surprises’.”

Maurice nodded, acknowledging the gravity of the command. ”I understand. I shall begin at dawn.” He hesitated for a moment, noticing the weary lines around the Duke’s eyes. ”You should rest, Your Grace. It is late, and you have struggled with sleep these past few weeks. Have you reconsidered the herbal tea I recommended?”

”No. I have no taste for it,” Damian replied curtly. ”But thank you.”

Recognizing the dismissal, Maurice bowed and exited, the latch clicking softly behind him.

Damian lingered in the shadows for a few minutes longer before finally retreating to his bedroom. The sheets felt cold against his skin.

As he closed his eyes, the darkness of the room seemed to shift, bringing forth the hauntingly vivid image of his first wife. He could almost hear her sweet laughter, a sound that used to bring him peace but now only brought a crushing weight to his chest.

”Damian, do you miss me?” the phantom voice whispered in the recesses of his mind. ”But you brought another woman into your life so easily...”

He snapped his eyes open, gasping for breath as he felt strange.

”No. I haven’t. I don’t consider Eilika... Anything,” he mumbled into the hollow silence of the room.

Beads of sweat broke across his forehead, cold and stinging. He tried once more to force his eyes shut, to find the oblivion of sleep, but it evaded him.

Driven to the brink of his patience, he sat up and yanked open the side drawer of his nightstand. He pulled out a small glass bottle. He knew he wasn’t supposed to rely on these pills, his physician had warned him of the dependency, but the desperation for peace outweighed the risk.

He swallowed them with a sharp gulp of water and laid back down. Slowly, they worked, and he finally drifted into a heavy slumber.

But even the drugs could not protect him from the past. In the gray light of dawn, the nightmare returned with visceral intensity. He saw his first wife’s pale face, her life fading beneath his touch. In the dream, he was a broken man, weeping over her body and beating his chest in a futile roar of agony because he couldn’t save her.

”Hah!” Damian’s eyes shot open, his breath coming in ragged hitches. He felt a telltale dampness at the corners of his eyes and quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his bare feet pressing into the cold floor as he tried to ground himself in reality.

A soft knock rapped against the door. ”My lord, are you awake?” the valet’s voice called cautiously.

”Yes,” Damian snapped. The doors swung open to admit the servant.

”Good morning, Your Grace. I have been sent to inform you that Lady Eilika has caught a fever. The Dowager Duchess, your mother, requests that you go and see your wife at once.”

”She has servants to look after her! Do not annoy me with her trivial matters!” Damian roared, his composure shattering like glass. He stood up, towering over the cowering valet. ”I don’t fucking care for her! Do you understand? Do not bring her name before me again. I simply hate her!”

The valet bowed frantically, trembling under the weight of the Duke’s sudden, violent outburst, and scrambled to retreat from the room.

Damian gripped a fistful of his hair, and stumbled toward the bathroom.

He splashed cold water over his face repeatedly, the droplets stinging his skin as he fought for air. He gripped the edge of the marble basin, his chest heaving, and slowly forced himself to look into the mirror.

For a second, the reflection wasn’t his own; he saw his dead wife standing just behind his shoulder, her lips curved into that familiar smile.

A single tear escaped and traced a path through the water on his cheek. He spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs, but the space behind him was empty.

The hallucinations were intensifying, a cruel price to pay for a few hours of drug-induced sleep. He knew the pills were eroding his mind, yet he was a prisoner to the reprieve they offered.

His strength failed him. Damian sank to the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, his knees drawn to his chest. He sobbed silently, the sound muffled by the heavy walls, as he clutched at his shirt right over his heart. The ache was so sharp it felt as though his ribs were cracking.

”Why am I unable to forget you?” he choked out, his voice cracking. ”I don’t want to see you anymore. It hurts... It hurts too much.”