Alfred studied her before finally breaking the silence. “Your father kept many secrets, secrets that nearly destroyed your family.”
She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I am painfully aware of that fact.”
“It would be best,” Alfred continued, “if you let things lie as they are. It is much safer for you and for everyone if you stop asking questions.”
“Safer for me?” she repeated, her voice laced with suspicion. “Why would my safety be at risk simply for asking questions?”
“You must trust me on this,” Alfred replied.
A humorless laugh escaped her lips. “Trust you?” she echoed. “You cannot seriously expect me to do that.”
His features softened, or perhaps they feigned softness, as if he were genuinely concerned. “I only want what is best for you and your mother,” he offered.
Elsbeth felt a surge of anger rising within her, her hands tightening into fists on her lap. “Please don’t insult my intelligenceby pretending you care about me,” she said, her words biting.
He blinked, clearly taken aback, though whether by her words or the truth of them, she couldn’t tell. “Of course I care for you. You are my—” he hesitated before finishing awkwardly, “stepdaughter.”
Her lips twitched with the urge to roll her eyes. The word sounded forced, as if it didn’t sit comfortably in his mouth.
“I know we got off on the wrong foot,” he started. “But I had hoped we might forge a cordial relationship, if not something more.”
Her anger flared again, and she leaned forward, her voice trembling with restrained emotion. “You mean because you married my mother mere days after the mourning period for my father was over?”
Alfred’s sigh was heavy, his shoulders sagging slightly. “We waited until the appropriate time for mourning.”
“And what of the scandal it caused?” Elsbeth countered. “You think that was appropriate?”
Alfred arched a brow. “I daresay the scandal pales in comparison to what your father’s secrets unleashed upon your family.”
Her back went rigid. “Perhaps,” she admitted, “but marrying my mother didn’t improve anything. If anything, it only fanned the flames of gossip and judgment.”
Alfred leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable again. “I am merely a merchant, Elsbeth,” he said, his tone quieter now. “But I do love your mother. You must believe that.”
She regarded him with a mix of skepticism and weariness. “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” she admitted.
He rubbed his temple as if her words had struck a nerve. “I know what your mother sacrificed to be with me,” he remarked. “And I pray every day that the good in our union outweighs the bad.”
Elsbeth’s chest tightened at his words. Was he being genuine? Or was this another carefully constructed act?
“You speak of love and sacrifice,” she said slowly. “But what does that mean when shrouded in secrecy?”
Alfred’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second, a crack in his otherwise composed demeanor. “Some truths,” he said carefully, “are more dangerous than lies.”
A sharp knock echoed through the room, interrupting their conversation.
“Enter,” Alfred ordered, his eyes locked firmly on hers, as if daring her to look away.
The door creaked open, and Charles stepped inside, his gaze immediately finding Elsbeth. “I came to inform Elsbeth that breakfast is ready to be served,” he said.
Breakfast?
Was that the best excuse Charles could come up with?
Elsbeth rose gracefully from her chair, masking her irritation with a polite smile. “I do enjoy a good breakfast,” she said. “Thank you for informing me.”
Alfred stood as well, buttoning his waistcoat with measured movements. “Please inform your mother that I will be skipping breakfast this morning. I have pressing matters to attend to,” he said, gesturing towards the desk.
Elsbeth tipped her head in acknowledgment. “Very well.”
