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“I must confront my mother,” she said. Her voice was calm, but the steel beneath it rang clear. “I cannot return home pretending this hasn’t happened. I cannot rest until I hear the truth from her own lips.”

“You’re certain?” Philip asked gently, though he already knew the answer.

“I am.”

He nodded, and with a single word to the driver, the carriage turned, veering away from home and toward the confrontation that waited ahead.

Blanche stared out the window, her gaze vacant, unseeing. Familiar streets passed in a blur, but she saw none of them. Her mind was a tempest of thought and emotion—grief, betrayal, disbelief—each one pulling at her until she scarcely knew where one ended and the next began.

The artefacts her father had so dearly cherished were now scattered to strangers, reduced to cold transactions.

They had been more than objects—they were fragments of memory, symbols of his passion and the bond they had shared.

That they had been sold, cast off as if meaningless, was a cruelty Blanche could hardly comprehend.

Philip remained silent beside her, sensing she needed stillness more than words. Yet he could feel her retreating, folding inward, the agony coiling tighter with every turn of the wheels. At last, he reached across the carriage, his hand tentative as it moved toward hers.

“Blanche,” he said quietly, his voice laced with concern, “perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding—a miscommunication among the staff, or something misplaced unintentionally. Let us not leap to conclusions. We will uncover the truth together. I will be with you, every step.”

She did not meet his gaze. She merely shook her head, a slow, pained motion.

“You don’t understand her, Philip,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

“You’ve not lived with her. You don’t know the years I spent trying to justify my passion for the past, only to be told, again and again, that it was unbecoming.

She never approved of my interest in antiquities—she saw it as eccentric, even improper.

And now… now I believe she has betrayed me because of it. ”

He drew back slightly; the hand he had offered left hovering in the air before settling silently on his lap. No more words followed. None could soothe the wound she bore, raw and fresh, not until the truth was laid bare.

Outside, the streetlamps cast fleeting shadows across the carriage, light dancing in golden streaks over her pale face. And still, she did not cry.

Lost in the labyrinth of her thoughts, Blanche wrestled with the revelation of her mother’s betrayal.

The artefacts—once sacred remnants of her father’s cherished collection—no longer represented antiquity alone.

They now stood as symbols of fractured trust, of a bond between mother and daughter splintered beyond recognition.

Philip’s words, though gently spoken and meant in earnest, felt like echoes fading into a distant chamber, unable to penetrate the storm of anguish that had taken root within her. How could he possibly understand?

He had Evelyn—a mother of compassion and integrity, a woman who honoured the memory of her late husband with every grace she extended to her son.

Blanche had often marvelled at their bond.

And in doing so, she had become increasingly aware of the painful chasm between herself and the woman who had raised her.

Tears welled unbidden, but she refused to let them fall.

If her mother had truly done this—had knowingly sold the relics that once belonged to Blanche’s father, and lied to her face—then she did not deserve the tears. She did not deserve a single flicker of her daughter’s pain.

She had known how deeply Blanche loved her father. And still, she had chosen to dismantle his legacy in secret.

The carriage came to a slow, deliberate stop.

As the door was opened, the cool air met Blanche’s cheeks, but it could not soothe the fire burning within.

The sight of her family home, tall and dignified in the waning light, struck her like a blow.

It no longer looked familiar. It looked like a place where truth had gone to die.

In the quiet stillness of the carriage, Philip's concerned eyes met hers. Tentatively, he reached out to her again, a gesture of solidarity, but Blanche recoiled from the offered comfort once more. Her voice, when it finally emerged, was choked and strained.

"This is something I must do alone," she said at last, her voice low, but firm. Her eyes, though rimmed with unshed tears, held the unmistakable glint of resolve. "I know you wish to help me. And I’m grateful. Truly. But I must face her on my own."

More than anything, she was ashamed.

Ashamed that he might see how twisted and complicated her family truly was. That the woman who had raised her could commit an act so cold and calculating. Philip, with his kind mother and steady home, deserved better than to be dragged into this mire.

Their marriage was just beginning to blossom—she could not bear for this to be the thing that cast a shadow over them both.

Philip’s hand dropped to his lap. His knuckles whitened where they gripped the edge of the seat. Though he said nothing, the tension in his frame betrayed the strength of the emotion within him. Frustration. Helplessness. Anger on her behalf.

Blanche hated to leave him behind. She knew how fiercely he wished to stand beside her. But this was her battle. One she had been drawn into without consent, and one she could only win by confronting the truth head-on, while the wound was still raw enough to speak from the heart.

As she stepped down from the carriage, the chill of the stone beneath her feet grounded her. The grandeur of the house rose around her like a cathedral—but there was no comfort in its looming beauty.

It was no longer home.

It was a place of reckoning.

Drawing a breath that trembled at its edges, Blanche lifted her chin and fixed her gaze on the heavy front door. Her hands were cold, her heart unsteady—but her resolve had never been clearer.

It is time to answer for your sins, Mother , she thought, her steps echoing across the stone as she walked forward with all the strength she could summon. You will tell me the truth—whether you like it or not.