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“I saved us all!” Isabella snapped. “You speak of sacrifice? Do you think I enjoyed it? Do you think I haven’t lost everything too? I did what I had to do for this family.”

“For this family?” Blanche’s voice trembled, rising with each syllable. “You stole from me. You lied to me. You watched me search for Father's artefacts while you sold them off in secret. You humiliated me before society. And now, you stand there in your silks and jewels and call it sacrifice?”

Isabella’s face flushed with a rare fury. “You ungrateful child. You’ve never understood what it takes to survive in our world. You think your books and your ancient urns will protect you from disgrace? From ruin?”

Blanche’s lips parted, but for a long moment, no words came. She felt as though the very air had been pulled from the room. Everything she had believed about her marriage, about her past, about her place in the world—it had all been warped by her mother’s hand.

When she finally found her voice, it was soft, but razor-sharp.

“You may have saved our name, Mother. But you’ve destroyed everything else.”

She turned away, her steps slow, but resolute.

The drawing room, once gilded with the illusion of security, now felt like a mausoleum of betrayal. And her mother, sitting so regally among the ruins, had no words left to say.

At least, Blanche thought so.

Until Isabella scoffed behind her. “Well, my dear. You may not have orchestrated the thing, but you did play your part in this and don’t act as though it didn’t serve you just as well as it did the rest of us.

You gained a title, a handsome husband, and a place in society you never would’ve secured clinging to your dusty relics. We all came out ahead.”

Blanche froze.

The words hit her like ice water down her spine—but before she could turn, before she could refute the venom, a sharp intake of breath echoed from the doorway.

She spun around.

Philip stood there.

His eyes, wide and stricken, locked onto hers. His face was ashen, his breath uneven, and Blanche knew—knew in an instant—that he had heard enough to wound him.

“Philip…” she started, desperate to speak, but the look in his eyes silenced her.

“I cannot believe this,” he said, voice hoarse, as he glanced between the two women. “I trusted you.”

“Philip, no—whatever you think you heard—” she reached for him, but he stepped back.

"I cannot believe that you would do this to me," he stammered. “Can I trust no one? I have already had my heart toyed with by a woman who did not truly love me, and now—now it seems history repeats itself.”

Blanche's heart stalled as his gaze locked on hers, fury and betrayal blazing in his eyes.

"Was it all a performance?" he demanded, his voice shaking. "Did you willingly trap me? Was this marriage nothing more than a scheme to restore your family’s fortunes? If so, I must commend you, Blanche—you played your part to perfection."

Blanche, stunned by the accusation, stepped forward instinctively, but the pain in Philip’s expression halted her. She had never seen such devastation in his eyes. She had never wished to be the cause of it.

"I knew nothing of my mother’s vile machinations until this very moment,” she said, her voice tremulous but steady with conviction. “Philip, I swear to you—I am as much a victim of this as you.”

But her words seemed to glance off him, as though they couldn’t pierce the wall rising swiftly around his heart.

“I don’t believe you,” he bit out, his voice a ragged whisper. “How can I?”

“You must not have heard the full conversation,” she pleaded. “Please, allow me to explain—”

But he recoiled from her, as if her very presence wounded him. “No,” he said, hoarse. “I will not be made a fool of again.”

The silence between them stretched like a chasm.

"You are no longer welcome at my family’s estate," he said finally, the sentence as sharp and final as a blade. “Not now. Not ever.”

The words tore through her like a storm. Blanche stood motionless as Philip turned and strode from the room, the weight of his devastation dragging behind him like a shadow. The door slammed with a force that made her flinch.

Her knees buckled slightly beneath her, the sting of rejection anchoring her in place. She wanted to scream, to run after him, to make him hear her. But he was gone.

“Spare me this agony, Philip,” she whispered into the emptiness. “Please don’t leave me.”

But only silence answered.

She sank to her knees, her tears falling unchecked as the world blurred around her. The drawing room—once the heart of her childhood—felt cold and cruel now. The fine furnishings, the glittering chandeliers, the perfectly arranged vases—all mocked her with their emptiness.

And then came her mother’s voice, sharp and scornful.

"You ruin everything you touch," Isabella hissed from behind her. "Do you understand what you’ve done? The only useful thing you ever did was secure that marriage—and now, just look at the state of things."

Blanche pressed trembling hands to her ears. She could not listen. Not now. Not after this.

Isabella’s voice rose, grating and shrill. “Now I must keep you and your brother under my roof again, with no money and no prospects. You’ve destroyed everything. Do you understand the scandal this will bring down upon us? The whispers, the disgrace—what am I supposed to do now?”

But Blanche could not respond. Her heart was broken, and for the first time, she truly feared it might never be mended.

Unable to bear another moment beneath her mother’s roof—where each word fell like a blade and every glance was laced with scorn—Blanche stumbled from the drawing room.

Her footsteps echoed through the hushed corridors, ghostly remnants of a home that once offered refuge now transformed into a prison of betrayal and grief.

In the dim candlelight of the hall, her breath trembled. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, but her resolve grew sharp. She could not stay here. Not now. Not tonight.

She packed with haste—just a single valise of essentials, hands trembling with every item she tucked away.

The past had grown too heavy to carry. As she crossed the threshold, the night air wrapped around her, cold and bracing.

The stars above blinked with indifferent light as the door closed behind her, the final sound of a chapter ending.

Blanche walked blindly, driven only by the ache in her chest and the memory of the one person who had never turned away from her. She needed shelter. Safety. Someone who would believe her. Someone who would not ask her to explain why her heart was breaking.

By the time she reached Penelope's townhouse, her cheeks were streaked with salt, her limbs weary, her heart raw.

The glow of a lantern near the door revealed the tear stains on her cheeks, mirroring the storm that raged within her.

As Penelope opened the door, concern etched across her gentle features, she ushered Blanche inside with a warmth that promised solace.

"Blanche, dear, what has happened?" she asked softly, drawing her inside with the kind of embrace only true friendship could offer.

Blanche allowed herself to be led into the warm embrace of the drawing room. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. She sank onto the sofa as if her bones could no longer carry her weight.

Taking a trembling breath, she tried to speak. "It is my mother," she whispered. "We had a terrible row. I—I can’t stay there anymore. Not after what she’s done."

Penelope sat beside her, her hand folding gently over Blanche’s. "What has she done?"

Blanche closed her eyes, the words sticking in her throat. “Philip took me to Mr. Munroe’s auction tonight… and I saw them—my father’s artefacts. The ones we believed were lost. But they weren’t lost. She sold them.”

Penelope gasped, but Blanche pressed on before she could respond.

“And when I confronted her… she blamed me. Said I was the reason for our family's misfortunes. That I was the one who had failed—because I loved books more than balls, history more than titles. And then she admitted…” Blanche’s voice faltered, but she forced the words through.

“She admitted that she orchestrated the scandal with Philip. That she tipped off the gossip columns herself. She arranged it so he would have no choice but to propose.”

Penelope’s face paled in stunned silence. “She... forced the match?”

“She did,” Blanche whispered. “I never knew. Not until tonight.”

The room fell quiet, save for the soft crackling of the fire. Penelope reached for her again, this time gripping Blanche’s hand firmly in hers.

“Oh, Blanche,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I cannot fathom the pain you must be carrying. But you are not alone. Not now. Not ever. You are family to me. You always will be.”

Blanche’s throat tightened with gratitude, but the ache had only deepened.

“What did Philip say?” Penelope asked gently.

Blanche looked down at her lap. “He overheard part of the argument. Not all of it. And he… he thought I was complicit. That I had known all along. He looked at me as if I had betrayed him.”

Penelope’s expression darkened with outrage. “That is monstrous. He should know you better than that.”

“I tried to tell him the truth, but he wouldn’t hear it.” Blanche’s voice broke. “He told me I was no longer welcome in his home. He walked away.”

Penelope rose at once. “Then he is a fool. And until he comes to his senses, you are staying right here. We shall have a room prepared for you at once, and you need not fret over a thing. All shall come right in the end—you’ll see.”

Blanche managed a fragile smile, her fingers clutching Penelope’s as though she were a lifeline. She did not know what tomorrow would bring. She did not know if Philip’s anger would ever soften—or if the man she had come to love might return to her.

But for tonight, she was not alone.

And for now, that was enough to keep her heart from breaking completely.