My Sister Left the Duke at the Altar—His Revenge Changed My Life
Part 2
Craig stared down at the meticulously calculated numbers, his dark eyes tracing the undeniable proof of Brian’s massive theft.
He did not yell or throw the heavy leather book across the room as my father would have done in a fit of rage.
Instead, he looked slowly up from the damaged page, truly seeing me for the very first time since we had stood rigidly at the altar.
He asked me in a quiet, dangerous voice how I possibly understood the complex intricacies of his vast estate management so thoroughly.
I met his intense, searching stare, telling him calmly that I understood numbers and absolutely despised thieves who preyed on the vulnerable.
I stated firmly that this remote fortress was my home now, and I flatly refused to stand by and watch it be ruined by greed.
The terrifying Duke of Rothmere did not unleash his legendary fury; he simply nodded once, a subtle gesture of profound, silent respect.
Brian fled out into the cold night in a panic, and the entire hostile atmosphere within the gothic walls shifted dramatically the very next morning.
Craig stopped barricading himself in his lonely wing and began intentionally seeking out my quiet company during the long, freezing Yorkshire evenings.
We sat together in comfortable silence by the roaring hearth in the grand library, a carved wooden chessboard resting purposefully between us.
He was a master strategist who had never been defeated in his elite London clubs, but I routinely dismantled his defenses with unorthodox, unpredictable maneuvers.
He did not seem to mind losing to me; he watched my face in the flickering firelight with a growing, fierce intensity that made my pulse race.
I took full control of the sprawling estate, fairly adjusting the high tenant rents and personally walking the muddy paths to deliver medicine during a harsh winter fever outbreak.
The grateful villagers completely ignored my scarred face and heavy limp, choosing instead to respectfully call me the guardian angel of the moors.
The fragile, beautiful peace we were slowly building together shattered completely on a violently stormy evening in late November.
The grand stone stables, housing Craig’s prized Arabian thoroughbreds, suddenly caught fire, sending thick, choking black smoke billowing directly into the freezing rain.
I rushed inside the blazing, crumbling inferno without a second thought, determined to save the terrified, trapped animals from the rapidly collapsing roof.
Craig sprinted blindly into the agonizing heat just as a massive, burning wooden rafter cracked loudly above my unprotected head.
He tackled me violently to the straw-covered floor, shielding my body entirely with his own as the heavy beam crashed exactly where I had been standing.
He carried me out into the torrential rain, collapsing onto the wet grass and pulling me tightly against his rapidly heaving chest.
His strong hand trembled as he reached up, not pulling away from my severe scars, but gently tracing the raised, rippled skin along my jawline.
He whispered fiercely that he cared nothing for the expensive horses, confessing in a raw, broken voice that he only cared about me.
I had finally found the quiet, powerful love I had been unfairly denied my entire life, but our hidden sanctuary was about to be viciously invaded.
The heavy oak doors of the manor flew open the very next afternoon, letting in a flurry of freezing wind and a shrill, hauntingly familiar voice.
As my perfectly beautiful sister stood dripping in the doorway, offering herself to the husband who had once chosen her, I had to wonder—would he send me back to the shadows now that his prize had returned?
