Page 47 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

T he next morning, after breakfast, the guests depart one by one, their carriages rolling down the long drive as the hired servants begin the daunting task of cleaning up.

Dorian and Selene stand in the foyer, offering polite farewells, the grand doors opening and closing with every new departure.

“Now, I don’t mean to dismiss your efforts,” Dorian says, his voice low with amusement, “but we didn’t find out a single thing.”

Selene watches the Lord and Lady Quillringer step into their carriage before turning to him with a knowing smile. “No, but we’ve shown everyone what wonderful, charming hosts we are,” she counters. “Which means, when we invite them back one by one, they’ll be far more inclined to accept. ”

Dorian grins. “You are so clever.”

“Why, thank you, darling husband, I am.”

Something flickers in his expression. He drops his gaze briefly before glancing around. “No one’s here right now,” he murmurs. “You don’t—you don’t have to call me that.”

Selene tilts her head. “Do you not like it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Slowly, she begins to extend her fingers toward his. She barely brushes against his hand before—

“Lord Nightbloom. A word.”

Lady Duskbriar stands in the foyer.

Dorian stiffens before stepping away toward the parlour, casting a fleeting, uncertain look back at Selene before disappearing through the door.

A moment later, Lord Duskbriar arrives, lingering in the foyer like a storm cloud that refuses to break. His expression remains as impassive as ever, but his sharp eyes scan the room with an air of faint disapproval.

“Ebonrose looks… better than I expected,” he says at last.

Selene meets his gaze evenly. “Thank you.”

His attention shifts to the crest above the staircase, where the shield remains bare. “The family emblem needs restoring,” he mutters. Lord Gideon had chiseled away the old motto—it did not align with his principles.

“I have some ideas,” Selene replies.

A pause stretches between them, brittle and uncomfortable.

“You seem happy,” he remarks.

“I am.”

“You could have been happy with the Duke.”

Selene stills, her breath turning to steel in her lungs.

“No,” she says firmly. “I couldn’t have been.”

Not in this timeline. Not in any timeline .

The parlour door opens, and Dorian steps out, followed closely by Lady Duskbriar. He’s smiling, grinning, even. He looks like a schoolboy.

Her parents make their goodbyes, and as they step out into the morning light, Selene turns to Dorian.

“You look pleased with yourself,” she observes.

“Your mother said some nice things.”

Selene stares at him. “ My mother?”

Before she can ask more, the Duke arrives.

For once, he isn’t glowering. He looks almost—pleasant.

“Lord and Lady Nightbloom,” he says smoothly. “Last night was a delight. I would not be averse to more like it.”

Dorian eyes him warily, as if trying to decipher some hidden message within the words. “I… thank you?”

The Duke extends a hand. Dorian hesitates before shaking it, his expression still wary.

The Duke leaves.

Selene watches his retreating figure. “Did Soren put something in the wine?”

“Hardly,” Dorian mutters, flexing his fingers with a wince. “He nearly broke my fingers.”

Selene frowns. “Is your hand bleeding?”

Dorian glances down, noticing the thin scratch across his skin. “Snagged it on one of his rings. Don’t worry, it’s just a scratch.”

Without another word, he heads off to deal with it, leaving Selene with a growing sense of unease.

By the time the last guest departs, Selene exhales a slow breath of relief. The house has been restored to order—the grand hall cleared of its revelry, the hired servants dismissed, and the usual hush of Ebonrose settled back into place.

Dorian spends most of the day in his study—of course. She catches glimpses of him in passing, deep in thought, fingers pressed to his temple as he reads some letter or another.

But he does emerge for lunch, looking gaunt and pale.

Soren, reclining lazily in his chair, eyes him with an amused smirk. “Tired, my lord?”

Dorian raises an eyebrow but says nothing, helping himself to the bread and fruit laid out before them.

Selene, however, flushes. She remembers the warmth of him last night, the weight of him, the way he had whispered her name like a prayer.

Dorian doesn’t react to Soren’s teasing, doesn’t acknowledge it at all. He simply eats, and part of her feels foolish for expecting anything else.

The rest of the day passes pleasantly enough. With Marta given the day off and the weather turning brisk, Selene spends most of the afternoon curled up in her room, reading by the fire. She wonders, idly, if Dorian will remember their nightly game tonight.

And then she wonders—what if she doesn’t want to play anymore?

She wants to stop pretending.

She wants him .

The thought settles in her chest like a decision already made.

Selene closes her book, smoothing down her skirts as she rises. Her heart is a steady, determined rhythm as she crosses the halls, making her way to his room.

Tonight, she will tell him .

Tonight, she will be his wife for real.

If he wants her. And he must—right?

She will not know until she asks.

Selene hesitates for only a moment before knocking on Dorian’s door. When no answer comes, she pushes it open.

He’s at his desk, as expected, though he looks utterly exhausted. One hand is braced against his forehead, the other loosely gripping a half-empty glass. Papers are scattered before him, some bearing his neat script, others blank. A candle flickers low, its wax pooling.

“You look awful,” she says, stepping inside.

He exhales, a weary sound, but before he can respond, she presses on. She has to say it—has to tell him before she loses her nerve.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” she says, her voice harder than she intends. “I want—Dorian, I want this to be real. I want—”

She stops.

His expression is strange. Glazed. Unfocused. He blinks at her sluggishly, as if trying to make sense of her words.

“Dorian?”

“Sorry,” he murmurs thickly, his voice slurred. “I feel... I don’t feel so well…”

He slides to the floor.