Page 8 of The Duke of Fire (The Dukes of Desire #1)

“Do not speak of my mother!” Amelia shouted, finally losing control. She could endure Octavia’s daily jabs and her constant belittling, but not this . She would not have her talk about her mother like that.

The slap came fast and hard, making her stagger backward. Her hand quickly reached to touch the stinging flesh.

“Octavia is right. Your mother was a servant, a maid! Most of all, she was a whore who seduced my father into marrying her so she could rise above her station. I would not be surprised if she had you on purpose. You are just like her.”

‘We cannot wish for more than we are given.’

Her mother’s words echoed in her ears, as if she had risen from the grave.

Another feeling rose from her chest, as thoughts of the duke came unbidden.

Would he still find her fascinating if he knew about her?

She chided herself quickly. Of course, he found her fascinating. She had not been in his bed yet.

Amelia’s cheek burned. For a moment, the room swayed. Her world had turned upside down. She had been so close to earning the chance to leave this house. So close.

Tears formed in her eyes, but she would not cry in front of them. She had done that enough times the past few years, under Finch’s rule.

Husband and wife left her in her room, their backs straight with triumph.

Amelia sank to the floor as the gravity of her situation fell on her.

Her savings were all gone. She did not believe for one bit that the money would go to her dowry.

Whether she liked it or not, she had to find another way to leave—and soon.

The next morning, Amelia went straight to the publisher’s office, each step a scream her body refused to voice.

Sleep had eluded her. Food had no taste.

She was a body moving by instinct alone, held together with threads of desperation.

It was not until she had rehearsed what she would say to him a hundred times.

She brought along the only thing still left with her—a partial translation. Unfinished work. Normally, she would never set foot in the publisher’s place without finishing her work. She had her pride, but now she was desperate.

“Mr. Geoffrey Fox,” the man addressed her using her pseudonym. His eyes were unreadable, but his voice dripped with disappointment. “You missed your deadline by a few days. That is not acceptable.”

“Please consider the situation, sir,” she begged. “I apologize. I had not been well. Remember that I have delivered timely, excellent work before.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Fox . You are no longer considered reliable. Publishing follows a strict schedule. Our clients have expectations, and so do our readers.”

This time, he did not seem to want to look at her at all. She looked at him, hoping that he would meet her eyes, but she felt it was his way of remaining firm with his decision.

“I will work double within the next schedule. Or, you can halve my pay.” She knew that what she was offering was suicide. She barely had time to do her work now. What would happen with double the task and half the pay? Still, that setup was better than not being employed at all.

“You missed your deadline twice. That is not acceptable.”

He gestured rudely with his hand, basically waving her off.

“Please—”

“We are done here,” he snapped.

His feelings had become clear this time. Amelia realized that publishers never looked at her beyond what she could offer. She was merely a means to an end, a cheaper option as a woman.

She stood slowly, like a woman rising from the grave. “I understand,” she whispered, even though nothing about it felt understandable. She had promised to keep her dignity no matter what, even though it felt shredded and stomped on.

She walked out, the door slamming behind her with cruel finality, like a nail sealing a coffin. She flung herself into the street. She was trembling, and visibly so. She let out gasps for air, trying not to cry but needing some air in her lungs.

She had nothing.

No parents. No money. No home of her own. No future.

Her father and mother were dead. Her source of income was gone, and her savings sequestered by a petty half-brother.

But she had something else now—rage.

Raw, pulsing fury wrapped in the silk of every insult, every theft, every slap. Her feet carried her through the city like a specter. She had no plan. No dignity. Only the memory of one man’s voice. It echoed like a chant in her mind.

‘Anything they ask for.’

Desperation brought her to the front of a wrought-iron gate. It was so easy to find the house of the Duke of Firaine. He had claimed he was good to his women, and she was damned if she did not need anyone who could be good to her.

She knocked on the door, her fingers shaking.

When the butler answered, his eyes scanned her—hair mussed, eyes swollen, dignity in shreds. She did not care.

“Good day. I am here to see the Duke of Firaine. Tell him that the woman who caught fire is here.”

The thing was that Amelia was not only on fire. She was burning at the stake that the world had set up for her.