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Killian chuckled, but his gaze flickered toward Yvette. She remained quiet, her fingers lightly gripping the edge of her plate.

“So,” Fiona began, clearly attempting to ease the tension, “what’s the plan for today? Will we be attending Lady Wimbledon’s garden party this afternoon?”

Yvette finally looked up, her eyes meeting Fiona’s. “Yes, you must go. It’s important for you to make an appearance.”

“And ye’ll be going as well, I take it?” Killian asked, directing the question toward Yvette.

Her eyes snapped to his, surprise flickering across her features. It was the first time he had addressed her directly in days. Fora moment, she seemed unsure how to respond, but she quickly regained her composure.

“Yes,” she replied curtly.

Their exchange was brief, but it left further unspoken tension in its wake. Killian felt a pang of regret, though he wasn’t sure what he regretted more—asking the question or the strained silence that followed.

The rest of breakfast passed in awkward silence, broken only by Maisie’s chatter and Fiona’s occasional attempts to keep the conversation flowing. Killian couldn’t help but feel the weight of Yvette’s absence, even though she was sitting right across from him, and it seemed even Maisie had had enough.

“Papa, I haven’t seen you and Duchess smiling at each other like you usually do,” she said, her small voice cutting through the strained atmosphere like a sharp blade.

Killian’s hand paused in mid-air, his fork hovering above his plate. His eyes darted to Maisie before unconsciously flitting to Yvette, who didn’t miss a beat as she continued eating, her expression calm and composed.

“You should focus on your food, Maisie,” Killian said firmly, his voice low but strained.

Maisie’s little brows furrowed, her lips forming a small pout. “But?—”

“Yes, Maisie,” Fiona interjected smoothly, a playful smile on her lips. “You should focus on your food and let them handle it.”

Killian nearly sighed in relief, sending Fiona a brief glance of gratitude. Yet, as he returned to his meal, he noticed Maisie’s quiet disappointment and something in Yvette’s poised demeanor that made his chest tighten.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, though the tension remained, swirling in unspoken words and unreadable glances.

Later that evening, as Killian climbed the stairs to his chambers, Fiona intercepted him, blocking the doorway with her arms crossed and an inquisitive tilt of her head.

“Ye’re not getting away so easily, brother,” she said, her voice laced with curiosity and concern.

Killian stopped, frowning at her.

“What are ye talking about, Fiona? Move aside.”

Fiona didn’t budge. “There’s something going on between you and Yvette. Don’t deny it. Even Maisie’s noticed.”

Killian clenched his jaw, his frustration mounting.

“It’s nothing for ye to worry about,” he replied gruffly, brushing past her to open his door.

Fiona stepped in front of him again, this time leaning against the doorframe, her arms still crossed. Her eyes softened, and her voice dropped a notch, losing its teasing edge.

“Is it fixable?” she asked gently.

Killian let out a low groan, running a hand through his hair.

“Fiona, it’s complicated. Leave it be.”

She didn’t move, her concern unwavering.

“Complicated doesn’t mean impossible, brother. If it’s worth fixing—and I know it is—you should try. Talk to her. Yvette always says that to me, and she’s right. Communication works wonders.”

Killian’s temper flared at her insistence, though he knew it was born of love. Still, he didn’t want anyone prying into his marriage, not even his sister. He exhaled sharply, his voice clipped as he replied.

“Go to bed, Fiona. I’ll handle my matters as and when I see fit.”