My Aristocrat Husband Said He Never Loved Me — He Had No Idea I Was Secretly Paying Off His Massive Debts
Part 2
The carriage wheels splashed violently through the muddy, rain-soaked streets as we fled the city.
I did not look back at the towering town home even once.
Craig slept late the following morning, entirely unaware of my departure.
When he finally descended the grand staircase at noon, the house felt strangely serene to him.
He walked into the dining room expecting to see me sitting silently at the far end of the long table.
Instead, the seat was completely empty.
Dan, the elderly, stoic butler who had served the family for four decades, stood nervously by the sideboard.
He held a silver salver tray, his expression noticeably grim and incredibly tense.
Craig took his seat, casually unfolding his morning paper.
“Where is my wife?”
He assumed I was simply sulking in the morning room after our argument.
“She is not in residence, sir.”
Dan stepped forward, presenting the silver tray with trembling hands.
Resting upon it was my heavy sapphire ring and the small piece of folded parchment.
Craig stared at the ring, a cold prickle of deep unease starting at the base of his neck.
He snatched the note from the tray and flicked it open aggressively.
It contained only two sentences written in my elegant, sweeping hand.
“You have your truth, and now you have your freedom.”
He blinked, reading the words again in stunned disbelief.
“I release you from the burden of my presence entirely.”
He scoffed, assuming I would return by nightfall when the harsh realities of the world became too difficult.
But nightfall came, and I did not return.
A week passed, then two, and my absence became the prime gossip of every drawing room in the city.
Craig threw himself recklessly into his bachelor habits, drinking heavily and frequenting his gentleman’s club.
He tried to convince himself he was happy and unburdened.
Yet, as a month dragged by, the vast town home began to feel less like a sanctuary and more like a mausoleum.
The true shock arrived on a dreary Tuesday morning when Mr. Clark, his frantic-looking solicitor, urgently requested a meeting.
Craig’s late father had left the estate teetering violently on the edge of utter bankruptcy.
He expected to be told they would have to sell off the ancestral lands to cover the mounting debts owed to Tyler Jenkins, a ruthless money lender.
“We have an urgent matter regarding the Jenkins accounts.”
Mr. Clark wiped nervous sweat from his brow with a wrinkled handkerchief.
“How much time do we have before he attempts to seize the northern properties?”
Craig snapped, feeling the crushing weight of his financial ruin closing in.
Mr. Clark blinked in utter, profound confusion.
“Seize them?”
The solicitor swallowed hard, looking absolutely terrified.
“The debt to Mr. Jenkins was entirely settled three weeks ago.”
Craig froze, the expensive pen slipping from his fingers and clattering loudly onto the polished desk.
“What are you talking about, Clark?”
Craig leaned forward, his heart pounding violently against his ribs.
“Who paid it?”
Mr. Clark looked horrified at his own indiscretion.
“Your wife, sir.”
The solicitor adjusted his spectacles, his hands shaking visibly.
“She liquidated her own personal dowry trust and has been systematically paying off all your father’s creditors for two years.”
Craig felt the blood rapidly drain from his face as a roaring sound filled his ears.
He had broken my heart and I had secretly saved his legacy, but when he finally tracked me down to the coal mines of Yorkshire, would I even let him speak?
