The carriage ride was steeped in heavy, awkward silence, the weight of the night pressing on each of them. The events they had witnessed—the violence, Thorne's raw fury, and the upending of the social order—had left them each with their own tangled thoughts.
Celia, unable to bear the silence any longer, spoke up, her voice low and hesitant. "Your son, huh?" She tried to sound casual, but the question carried a tremble, betraying her conflicted emotions.
Duke Remiro glanced at his wife, then let out a soft, almost tired chuckle. He reached over and took her hands in his, the warmth of his touch a grounding presence. "If Callan is your son," he said, voice gentle yet resolute, "then Thorne is mine, too."
