My Fake Husband Burned Our Contract — Then His Cousin Arrived
Part 2
The smell of melting wax and scorched vellum filled the cavernous drawing room, suffocating in its finality.
I stared at the crumbling black ash on the hearth, my mind struggling to process what Arthur had just done.
The fifty thousand pounds, my freedom, my sister’s future—all of it had been reduced to cinders.
“You are insane,” I breathed, yanking my wrist free from his grip as a seismic eruption of fury ripped through me.
I reminded him that he had signed a legally binding agreement to let me walk away in thirty days.
“I realized, rather belatedly, that I find that outcome unacceptable,” Arthur countered, his voice dangerously level.
The erratic firelight danced across his sharp cheekbones, highlighting an obsessive darkness in his eyes.
I let out a harsh laugh, demanding to know how he expected me to save Emma without the promised funds.
Arthur took a deliberate step toward me, the air between us thick with the violent electricity of the storm.
“Emma has been perfectly safe since the day you arrived at this castle,” he stated flatly.
I froze, the revelation striking me like a physical blow.
He revealed that he hadn’t merely paid off my father’s debt; he had dismantled Mercer’s entire operation.
My sister was currently residing at a heavily guarded private estate in Bath, cared for by the finest tutors.
He had arranged her safety three weeks after our wedding, yet he had let me agonize for months.
“I needed you compliant,” Arthur said, his jaw locked tight as he claimed he couldn’t risk me leaving.
I whispered that I hated him, the words trembling with a raw, undeniable truth.
For a fraction of a second, the Iron Duke looked as though he had been struck, but his cold mask instantly returned.
He informed me that I was his wife in the eyes of the law, and there would be no annulment.
For the next three days, the castle became a battleground of silent hostility.
My opportunity arrived when Arthur rode out to inspect a collapsed mine shaft, leaving the castle unguarded.
I slipped into his forbidden private study, hunting for any physical proof of the trust funds.
Behind a false panel in his mahogany desk, I found a stack of intercepted correspondence.
The letters were addressed to his cousin Richard, written by Mrs. Gable, our very own head housekeeper.
She had given Richard the combination to the safe and promised to steal our marriage contract.
If Richard possessed the contract, he could invalidate the marriage and ruin the family legacy.
Arthur hadn’t burned the contract out of spite; he had burned it to destroy the evidence and legally bind me to him.
The sudden sound of heavy carriage wheels crunching against the gravel courtyard shattered my realization.
I rushed to the window and saw a sleek black carriage emblazoned with the Belmont crest pulling up to the doors.
If he had already saved my sister, why was he trapping me here, and who was in that carriage?
Part 3
Clara stared out the window as the sleek black carriage emblazoned with the Belmont crest pulled up to the doors of Penrith Castle.
Arthur had kept her sister safe, trapping Clara here not out of spite, but because Richard Belmont was coming to destroy them both.
Flames consumed the heavy parchment, reducing her only ticket to freedom to ash upon the marble hearth.
Clara stared in horror as Arthur, the man she swore to endure for just 1 year, casually tossed the remaining fragments into the fire.
“Your contract,” he whispered, “no longer exists.”
London in November of 1882 was a city of relentless gray, but the chill in the air was nothing compared to the ice settling in Clara Hayes’s veins.
At 22, she was the daughter of the late Lord Hayes, a man whose appetite for baccarat had vastly outpaced his modest baronial income.
When he perished in a hunting accident on the an Earl’s estate 6 months prior, he left behind no inheritance, only a mountain of scandalous debt and a younger sister, Emma, who relied entirely on Clara for survival.
The true nightmare, however, took the form of Mr.
Silas Mercer, a ruthless financier from the city’s underbelly, who now held the deeds to the Hayes name.
Mercer had given Clara exactly 1 week to produce 12,000 pounds.
If she failed, he promised to sell her father’s remaining debts to men who would ensure Clara and Emma paid off the balance in London’s most unsavory establishments.
Driven to the absolute edge of destitution, Clara found herself sitting in the mahogany-paneled office of Chancery Lane’s most discreet solicitor, Mr.
The solicitor.
She was not there to secure a loan.
She was there to sell her life.
“The Duke of Penrith will see you now,” Mr.
The solicitor announced, his voice hushed with a reverence bordering on fear.
The door opened, and Arthur Croft stepped into the room.
Arthur, the eighth Duke of Penrith, was a man carved from the very Cornish cliffs his family had ruled for centuries.
Broad-shouldered and impeccably tailored in severe black, his sharp, aristocratic features were locked in an expression of absolute indifference.
Society dubbed him the Iron Duke, a moniker earned through his ruthless business dealings and a notorious lack of empathy.
He did not ask for a wife.
He required a highly specific transaction.
“Miss Hayes,” Arthur said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
He did not offer his hand, nor did he take a seat.
He simply stood over her, his dark, calculating eyes stripping away her pride.
“The solicitor has informed me of your rather pathetic circumstances. 12,000 pounds to keep your sister out of the workhouse.”
“It is a temporary embarrassment, your grace,” Clara lied, her chin tilting up despite the tremor in her gloved hands.
“I am seeking an arrangement, not charity.”
“Good.
Because I have no charity to give,” Arthur replied coldly.
He gestured to the thick document resting on the solicitor’s desk.
“My grandfather, the late Duke, was a sentimental fool.
His will dictates that I cannot access the unentailed Croft fortune, a sum of nearly 2 million pounds, unless I am married and residing with a wife at Penrith Castle for one full year.
If I fail to meet this condition by my 30th birthday, the entirety of those funds defaults to my reprobate cousin, Richard Belmont.
Arthur paced toward the window, his back to her.
I despise society’s expectations, and I despise the institution of marriage even more, but I refuse to surrender my birthright to a degenerate who would squander it at the racing tracks.
I require a duchess, temporary pliable unobtrusive.
I have selected you because your desperation makes you dependable.
Clara swallowed the lump of humiliation in her throat.
And the terms?
Arthur turned, his gaze pinning her to the chair.
One year, 365 days of absolute obedience.
You will move to Cornwall.
You will dress as I say, speak when it is required, and play the part of a devoted wife before my cousin and the ton.
We shall share a name, but we will not share a bed.
On the 366th day, you will be granted a quiet annulment on the grounds of non-consummation.
He walked to the desk and tapped a leather gloved finger against the heavy vellum.
In exchange, I will instantly clear your father’s debts to Mercer.
Furthermore, upon your departure next November, you will receive a draft for 50,000 pounds, enough to secure a comfortable independent life for you and your sister on the continent. 50,000 pounds.
It was a sum so staggering it defied reality.
It was freedom, safety, and a future locked behind a single year of playing a prisoner in a gilded cage.
“If I sign this,” Clara said softly, her eyes tracing the intricate legal script, “how do I know you will honor the payment at the end?”
A brutal mocking smile played on Arthur’s lips.
“Because, Miss Hayes, keeping you a moment longer than legally necessary would be a colossal waste of my time.
Sign it or leave and let Mr.
Mercer have his way.”
She picked up the dip pen.
Her hand shook as she wrote Clara Eleanor Hayes on the bottom line.
Arthur immediately took the pen from her, his fingers brushing hers.
They were startlingly warm compared to his icy demeanor, and scrawled his jagged signature beside hers.
Mr.
The solicitor stamped the wax seal.
“It is done, Your Grace.”
Arthur rolled the document, placing it into a silver cylinder.
“Pack your trunks, Duchess.
The carriage leaves for Cornwall at dawn.
Do not be late.”
Penrith Castle was a fortress of isolation, perched perilously on the edge of the jagged Cornish coast.
The wind howled against the stone walls like trapped spirits, an acoustic mirror to Clara’s own existence within the Duke’s household.
For the first 8 months, her life was an exercise in luxurious psychological warfare.
Arthur was not a physically cruel man, but his cruelty manifested in his absolute suffocating control.
He dictated the colors she wore, insisting on heavy emerald silks and sapphire velvets that matched the Croft family crest, completely disregarding her preference for lighter, simpler fabrics.
He forced her to memorize generations of his family’s tedious history, quizzing her over silent, agonizing dinners at a table long enough to seat 30 men.
“Your posture is atrocious, Clara.” he would remark casually as she sipped her soup.
“If Richard sees you slouching like a common barmaid, he will instantly know this union is a farce.
Sit up.”
She endured his biting critiques, reminding herself daily of the 50,000 pounds.
But, the most maddening aspect of her captivity was his public performance.
Whenever guests arrived at Penrith, particularly the vile, suspicious Richard Belmont, Arthur transformed.
The cold tyrant vanished, replaced by a dangerously intoxicating, possessive husband.
He would place his hand on the small of her back, his thumb tracing the curve of her spine through her corset.
He would look into her eyes with a manufactured adoration so intense, it made her breath catch, whispering endearments that were actually vicious instructions.
“Smile wider, my darling.” he murmured against her ear during a grand ball in April.
His breath warm against her skin, while his tone remained deadly flat.
“Richard is staring.
If you do not laugh at my next remark, I will fire your favorite maid tomorrow.”
She laughed, a bright, musical sound that masked the furious pounding of her heart.
But, as the months wore on, Clara began to notice the cracks in his armor.
Seeking refuge from his overbearing presence, she had taken to hiding in the castle’s vast, dusty library.
There, hidden behind rows of theological texts, she stumbled upon Arthur’s private ledgers.
What she read shocked her.
The unentailed fortune he was supposedly waiting to inherit, it had been drastically depleted by his own father’s foolish investments years ago.
Arthur had spent the last decade working himself into an early grave rebuilding the estate’s wealth through shipping lines and textile mills, hiding the family’s near ruin from the vultures in London society.
His ruthless control, his iron grip on every detail, his cruelty, it was all a massive, desperate shield to protect the Windermore legacy.
This realization changed everything.
Clara stopped cowering during their dinners.
When he critiqued her gown, she offered a sharp, witty retort that left him momentarily speechless.
When he demanded she recite the family tree, she deliberately mocked his ancestors’ historical blunders.
To her astonishment, the Iron Duke did not explode in anger.
Instead, a dark, dangerous spark ignited in his eyes, a flicker of actual intrigue.
By the 10th month, the atmosphere in the castle had grown thick, charged with an unspoken, volatile tension.
Arthur’s critiques ceased.
Instead, she frequently caught him watching her.
His dark eyes tracking her movements across the room with a brooding intensity that made her skin flush.
He began seeking her out in the library, initiating sharp, intellectual debates that lasted late into the night.
The lines of their contract were beginning to blur.
Then came the night of the late October storm.
It was exactly 1 month before the contract was set to expire.
The wind was violently thrashing the castle windows.
Clara, unable to sleep, walked into the main drawing room wearing a simple white nightgown and a heavy woolen shawl, only to find Arthur sitting by the roaring fire, a crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand.
“You are awake,” he noted, his voice rougher than usual.
“The storm,” she replied simply, stepping closer to the hearth.
“I was just counting the days, your grace.
Only 30 days left until you are free of your burden, and I may return to London to retrieve Emma.”
Arthur’s hand froze midair.
He lowered the glass slowly, his jaw clenching.
“You are eager to leave.”
“I am eager to begin my life,” Clara corrected, keeping her voice steady, though her heart hammered against her ribs.
“I have played my part to perfection.
Richard believes we are wildly in love, your grandfather’s trust is secured, and our bargain is complete.
You will draft the annulment papers next week, as agreed.”
Arthur stood up, his towering frame casting a massive, flickering shadow across the room.
He walked toward a heavy mahogany safe built into the stone wall.
He input the combination with sharp, violent turns of the dial, pulling open the heavy iron door.
From within, he withdrew the silver cylinder containing their marriage contract.
He turned toward to face her, his eyes blazing with an emotion she had never seen in him, raw, unfettered rage mixed with a terrifying possessiveness.
“You think Arthur said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, “that after a year of occupying my home, haunting my halls, and embedding yourself into every corner of my miserable existence, I will simply hand you a check and allow you to walk out that door?”
Clara took a step back, her breath hitching.
“Arthur, that is the contract.
That is the agreement.”
“The agreement?”
He sneered, pulling the thick vellum document from the cylinder.
He looked at her signature, then at his own.
“The agreement was a necessity, but I find I am no longer interested in necessities, Clara.
I am interested in what belongs to me.”
“I do not belong to you!”
she cried out, panic finally breaking through her composed facade.
“I belong to myself.
We signed a legal document.”
“Did we?”
Without breaking eye contact, Arthur stepped to the marble hearth.
He held the thick parchment directly over the roaring flames.
“No!”
Clara lunged forward, but he caught her wrist with one strong hand, holding her firmly in place as he dropped the document.
Clara stared in horror as Arthur, the man she swore to endure for just one year, casually tossed the remaining fragments into the fire.
“Your contract,” he whispered, his grip on her wrist tightening just enough to pull her flesh against his chest, his gaze burning hotter than the fire beside them.
“No longer exists.
You are my duchess, and you will never leave this castle.”
The acrid scent of scorched vellum and melting wax permeated the vast drawing room, heavy with finality.
Clara stared at the crumbling black ash on the hearth, her mind struggling to process the sheer audacity of what Arthur had just done.
The 50,000 pounds, her freedom, her sister’s future, all of it reduced to cinders.
You are insane, Clara breathed, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a sudden seismic eruption of fury.
She yanked her wrist free from his grasp, stepping back as if his touch burned hotter than the fireplace.
You absolute arrogant monster.
You gave your word.
You signed a legally binding agreement.
An agreement that would have seen you walk out of my life in 30 days, Arthur countered, his voice dangerously level.
The erratic firelight danced across his sharp cheekbones, highlighting the obsessive darkness in his eyes.
I realized, rather belatedly, that I find that outcome unacceptable.
Unacceptable?
Clara let out a harsh, incredulous laugh.
Do you think you can simply bend reality to your will?
I am not one of your textile mills, Arthur.
I am not a shipping route you can conquer.
Without that contract, I have no guarantee of the money you promised.
I have no way to save Emma.
Arthur took a deliberate step toward her.
The air between them felt thick, charged with the violent electricity of the storm raging outside.
Emma has been perfectly safe since the day you arrived at Penrith.
Clara froze.
What are you talking about?
Did you honestly believe I would leave a loose end dangling in London?
He sneered, though the harshness in his tone felt forced, like a shield snapping into place.
Mr.
Mercer is a predator, Clara, a man who collects debts by collecting people.
I did not merely pay off your father’s debt.
I bought Mercer’s entire operation and dismantled it.
Your sister is currently residing at a private, heavily guarded estate in Bath under the care of the finest tutors in England.
I arranged it 3 weeks after our wedding.
The revelation struck her like a physical blow.
She staggered back, gripping the edge of a velvet armchair.
You knew she was safe for months, and you let me agonize.
You let me count the days, desperate for the money to rescue her, while you sat at the head of the table and watched me suffer.
I needed you compliant, Arthur said, his jaw locked tight.
I needed you to play the part.
If you knew she was safe, you might have grown careless.
You might have left.
I hate you, she whispered, the words trembling with raw, undeniable truth.
A muscle feathered in Arthur’s jaw.
For a fraction of a second, the Iron Duke looked as though he had been struck.
But the mask of cold authority instantly returned.
Hate me all you wish, Duchess, but you are my wife in the eyes of the law, the church, and society.
There will be no annulment.
Go to bed.
He turned his back on her, staring into the flames.
For the next 3 days, Penrith Castle became a battleground of silent hostility.
Clara refused to speak to him.
She refused to dine with him.
She paced her chambers like a scorched lioness, her mind churning with desperate plans.
Arthur had trapped her, but she was no longer the frightened, destitute girl who had walked into Chancery Lane.
She had spent nearly a year studying him, >> [clears throat] >> reading his ledgers, understanding the ruthless mechanics of his world.
If she was going to be a Duchess, she would wield the power of one.
Her opportunity arrived on a desolate Tuesday afternoon.
Arthur had ridden out to inspect a collapsed mine shaft on the estate’s borders, leaving the castle relatively unguarded.
Clara slipped into his private study, a room strictly forbidden to her, and began hunting for the key to the iron safe.
She knew Arthur’s mind.
He wouldn’t rely solely on a combination.
There had to be a master ledger, physical proof of the trust funds, or perhaps letters regarding Emma.
Behind a false panel in his mahogany desk, she found a stack of correspondence.
But they were not from Bath.
They were intercepted letters addressed to Richard Belmont, written by one of Penrith’s own staff.
Clara unfolded the crisp parchment, her eyes scanning the hurried scrawl.
My Lord Belmont, the Duke grows careless.
He keeps a silver cylinder in the drawing room safe.
I have overheard them arguing.
The marriage is a sham, bound by a contract of 1 year.
The combination is 4 18 22.
I will secure the document for you before the month’s end.
Your claim to the Croft fortune is entirely assured.
Yours in service, Gable.
Mrs.
Gable, the head housekeeper.
The blood drained from Clara’s face as the pieces violently snapped turned together.
Richard had planted a spy in their home.
He knew about the temporary arrangement.
If Richard possessed the physical contract, he could take it before the magistrate, invalidate the marriage, strip Arthur of the 2 million pounds, and utterly ruin the Penrith legacy.
Arthur hadn’t burned the contract out of mere jealous spite.
He had burned it to destroy the evidence.
He had known Gable was a spy, and he had sacrificed the only document that protected Clara’s payout to protect his family’s empire.
And by extension, to legally bind Clara to him, so Richard could never claim the marriage was temporary.
The sound of heavy carriage wheels crunching against the gravel courtyard shattered her realization.
Clara rushed to the window.
It wasn’t Arthur returning.
A sleek black carriage emblazoned with the Stanton crest had pulled up to the castle doors.
Richard Belmont stepped out, accompanied by two severe-looking men in legal robes.
They were early.
And they were here to destroy the duke.
Clara did not run.
She smoothed the heavy emerald silk of her skirts, lifted her chin, and walked out of the study to intercept the intruders.
She met them in the grand foyer just as Mrs.
Gable opened the heavy oak doors.
Richard, a man with thinning hair and a perpetual sneer, looked momentarily surprised to see her standing at the top of the marble staircase, radiating absolute authority.
“Cousin Richard,” Clara purred, her voice dripping with aristocratic ice.
“What a deeply unpleasant surprise.
To what do we owe this intrusion?
I do not recall inviting you to Penrith.”
“Save the performance, you fraudulent little beggar.”
Richard spat, dropping the veneer of familial politeness.
He gestured to the men behind him.
“This is Magistrate Cole and Mr.
Abernathy, my solicitor.
We are here to seize the estate’s ledgers and the contents of the Duke’s safe.
The charade is over.”
“You have no authority here.”
Clara said coldly, descending the stairs.
“I have every authority.”
Richard barked.
“My grandfather’s will stipulated a true, legitimate marriage.
I have it on excellent authority, from a witness within this very house, that your union is a temporary business transaction, bound by a written contract set to expire next week.
Once the magistrate sees that document, Arthur loses everything.”
“Then it is a pity for you, Richard.”
A dark, lethal voice echoed through the foyer.
The heavy doors swung wider and Arthur stood in the threshold.
He was drenched from the rain, his riding coat plastered to his broad shoulders, holding a riding crop with a grip so tight his knuckles were white.
He looked less like an English duke and more like a Cornish warlord.
He stalked into the room, his dark eyes locking onto Richard with murderous intent.
“You are trespassing in my home.”
“I am claiming my rightful inheritance.”
Richard retorted, though he took a nervous step backward.
“Mrs.
Gable, open the drawing-room safe.
Give the magistrate the silver cylinder.”
The treacherous housekeeper scurried forward, refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes.
She rushed into the drawing-room, followed closely by the magistrate, Richard, and Clara.
Gable spun the dial, 4 18 22, and yanked the heavy iron door open.
She reached inside.
Her hand grasped only empty air.
“It It is gone,” Gable stammered, frantically pulling out velvet boxes and ledgers.
“The cylinder.
It was here three nights ago.”
Richard’s face mottled with purple rage.
He rounded on Arthur.
“Where is it?
Where is the contract, you bastard?”
Arthur walked to Clara’s side.
To the absolute shock of everyone in the room, he gently took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers.
The warmth of his grip was a grounding anchor in the chaos.
“There is no contract, Richard,” Arthur said softly, a deadly smile playing on his lips.
“There is only my wife, a woman who knows the exact yield of our Cornish tin mines, who negotiated our shipping tariffs last month, and who currently shares my name, my home, and my fortune.
You brought a magistrate to audit a ghost.”
“She is a penniless debtor,” Richard screamed, losing his composure entirely.
“She is a temporary you bought from the slums to secure the money.
You don’t love her.”
Before Arthur could react to the insult, Clara stepped forward.
“If you ever,” Clara said, her voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly calm that perfectly mirrored her husband’s.
“Speak to me with such disrespect again, I will personally ensure your gambling debts at the Macclesfield Club are called in tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Richard.
I have read the ledgers.
I know exactly how much you owe the bookmakers in London.
Over 60,000 pounds.
A sum you intended to pay with my husband’s inheritance.”
Richard paled, the blood rushing from his face.
Clara stepped closer, staring him down.
“Arthur and I have a partnership you could never comprehend.
Leave this castle immediately.
If you ever set foot on Penrith land again, or attempt to challenge our marriage, I will send the ledgers detailing your illegal importations to the Crown Prosecutors.
You will rot in Newgate prison before you ever see a penny of the Croft fortune.
Now, get out.”
The silence in the drawing room was absolute.
The magistrate cleared his throat, thoroughly embarrassed.
“It appears, Lord Belmont, that we have made a grave error in judgment.
Good day to you, Your Grace.”
Without another word, the legal men turned and fled.
Richard stared at Clara, utterly defeated, before spinning on his heel and following them out.
The heavy doors slammed shut, echoing through the cavernous hall.
Clara stood completely still, the adrenaline slowly draining from her veins.
She felt a heavy, warm hand land on her shoulder.
She turned to find Arthur looking at her with an expression that shattered the remaining fragments of the Iron Duke.
It was awe, utter, unadulterated awe.
“You read my private ledgers.” he murmured.
“I read everything.” she confessed, her voice shaking slightly now that the danger had passed.
She looked up at him.
“You burned the contract because of Mrs.
Gable.
You knew she was going to steal it.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened.
“I did.
But that was only half the reason.”
He reached out, his calloused thumb gently brushing against her cheek.
It was the softest touch he had ever given her.
“When I held that parchment over the fire.”
Arthur whispered, his dark eyes vulnerable for the first time in his life.
“I realized that if I let it burn, I would be destroying the only legal mechanism that could force you away from me.
I told myself it was to stop Richard.
But the truth, Clara, is that I am a selfish, ruthless man.
I burned it because the thought of waking up in this desolate castle without you was more terrifying than losing the entire Croft fortune.”
Clara’s breath hitched.
“Arthur, I kept Emma a secret because I was terrified that if you knew she was safe, you would have no reason to stay with a monster like me.” he confessed, stepping closer until there was no space left between them.
“I was cruel because it was the only way I knew how to keep order in a world that has always tried to destroy me.
But you, you didn’t cower.
You fought back.
You fought for me.”
He slowly cupped her face in his hands.
“I do not want a temporary Duchess.
I want my wife.
I want the brilliant, fierce woman who just sent my cousin running for the hills.
Stay with me, Clara.
Not for a year, not for 50,000 pounds.
Just stay.
Clara looked into the eyes of the man she had sworn to hate.
She saw the scarred, guarded soul beneath the ruthless exterior.
A man who had secretly protected her sister and sacrificed his ultimate leverage just to keep her near.
The anger that had fueled her for days dissolved, replaced by a consuming, terrifying warmth.
She reached up, resting her hands over his.
You will dismiss Mrs.
Gable.
Arthur let out a breathless, broken laugh.
Done.
And you will never dictate the color of my gowns again.
You may wear burlap so long as you wear it here.
Then, Clara whispered, pulling his face down to hers, I suppose we should make this marriage legitimate, Your Grace.
When Arthur kissed her, there was no hesitation, no cold control, no performance for the ton.
It was a kiss born of fire and salvation, a desperate, passionate promise that sealed their fates completely.
The contract was ashes, the debts were paid, and the Iron Duke had finally fallen.
But as he pulled her tight against his chest in the quiet halls of Penrith, Clara knew she was no longer a prisoner.
She was exactly where she was meant to be.
Wow.
Clara totally turned the tables on everyone.
From the desperate girl selling her freedom to the fierce duchess who saved an empire, her journey with Arthur proves that sometimes the greatest love stories start with a spark of pure spite.
If you loved this historical romance filled with betrayal, secret ledgers, and a wildly passionate twist, hit that like button, subscribe to the channel, and share this video.
What was your favorite moment of Clara’s revenge?
Let me know in the comments below.
THE END
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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: I Thought The Duke Loved Me—Until I Heard His Twisted Plan For My Unborn Baby
Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
