Henry
The birthday party was in full swing.
Laughter drifted like perfume through the open doors of Ashbourne Manor. The gardens were strung with soft lanterns, music played from the terrace, and children darted between pillars and flower beds in a flurry of ribbons and cake crumbs.
Henry stood at the edge of it all, a glass of brandy in hand, surveying the world he had built — no, won.
His son.
His home.
His wife.
He had everything. And yet, he knew… not one of them was truly his.
Adele moved like light in a storm. Composed. Untouchable. Impossibly lovely.
Guests admired her, envied her, whispered about her elegance. They said she was lucky. They said she had everything.
And she did — except freedom.
Henry's mouth tightened.
He had tried.
God, how he'd tried.
In the early months of their marriage, he'd convinced himself she would come to love him. That his wealth, his name, the security he provided — all of it would wear down her coldness, chip away at the distance in her eyes.
But Adele had only grown quieter. Smaller. More like a ghost in the home that bore her name.
She gave him a son — a miracle, really. But no daughter came after, and he often caught her flinching when he approached her bed. She never said no. She never pushed him away. But he could feel it — the way she endured him. Her body compliant, her soul miles away.
The shame of it ate at him in the dark.
And in that shame, he found excuses to leave her alone.
Other women. Silk-clad distractions. One in particular — a widow with soft thighs and no conscience — was a balm for his wounded pride. Their affair had become an open secret in London. Adele never spoke of it.
She didn't need to.
Her silence was louder than any accusation.
The guilt never left him, but he smothered it with wine, pride, and the occasional lie he told himself:
She's lucky to have me.
She'll come around eventually.
She's just difficult. Cold. Too proud to surrender.
But on the worst nights — the ones he drank too heavily — the mask would slip. Rage would take root, and he would become something else. Something dark.
A few times he saw the fear in her eyes. On those nights, she'd retreat to their son's room and bar the door. He would wake the next morning with a sore head, a quiet house, and a silence that grew heavier with every passing year.
And still, despite it all, he loved her — in his own twisted, broken way.
He wanted her. Needed her.
And hated her for never choosing him.
And then—
He saw them.
Across the garden, near the stone archway.
Adele.
Charles.
And him.
Jason.
Henry's blood turned cold.
There was no mistaking that figure — taller now, scruff-shadowed, but still carrying that same brooding silence like a weapon.
A ghost from his past.
A threat he had buried.
A brother who once dared to say he loved his wife.
Henry's grip tightened on the glass until it cracked.
He remembered every word of that long-ago fight.
The confrontation.
The threat.
The promise that if Jason ever told Adele the truth — about his love, or about his lineage — Henry would destroy him without hesitation.
Jason had left. Without a word.
And now he was back. Standing beside his wife and his son like he belonged there.
Henry's chest constricted, a hot flush rising beneath his collar.
Adele looked toward the manor, her expression unreadable. Jason remained close behind, protective — familiar — and Charles held both their hands.
A perfect picture.
A family.
And for the first time in years, Henry — Lord Ashbourne, the man who had everything — was utterly, completely lost for words.