Nora's breath turned shallow, each inhale struggling to fill her lungs as she stared at the sight before her.
Lacey sat in a chair near the hearth, her golden curls catching the dim glow of the firelight. The flickering embers cast soft shadows over her delicate features, making her look ethereal—almost saintly. And in her arms, nestled against her chest, was a sleeping boy. A boy whose features bore an undeniable resemblance to Caspian.
It was true.
Every word, every horrible prediction in that stupid book—it was all true.
Her knees threatened to give way beneath her, but she bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay upright. The bitter, metallic taste of iron spread across her tongue, forcibly grounding her in reality, but it did little to stop the sharp pain that clenched at her chest.
Her vision blurred, her body swaying as she gripped the doorframe for support. The rational part of her screamed to turn away before she was seen, before Lacey or the child noticed her presence, but her feet remained rooted to the floor like she was a statue.
She shouldn't be surprised. Hadn't the signs been there all along? Caspian's distance, his excuses, the way he had forbidden her from meeting his so-called nanny. The way he had immediately tried to usher her away earlier that day, the hesitation in his voice when she pressed for answers.
And yet…
He still looked at her with concern. He still held her like she was something fragile, something precious. He had kissed her forehead just hours ago and asked her to trust him.
Had all of it been a lie?
A sudden rustling from inside the room snapped her back to her senses. Lacey shifted slightly in her chair, adjusting the child in her arms. If she lingered any longer, she would be seen.
Nora turned swiftly, her breath catching in her throat as she hurried back down the hall, her slippered feet barely making a sound against the polished floors. She did not stop, did not allow herself to slow down until she was far enough away that she could no longer hear the faint crackling of the fire from the room she had left behind.
Only then did she press a trembling hand against her chest, trying to steady her erratic heartbeat.
What was she supposed to do now?
Confront Caspian? No, she couldn't. She couldn't—not yet. The moment she saw him, she would want to believe him again, would want to believe that there was some reasonable explanation for all of this.
And that terrified her more than anything.
She wasn't ready to let go of the man she had fallen in love with—the man who had once held her hand so gently, who had whispered reassurances into her ear when she had been too weak to stand on her own.
She wasn't ready to accept that he had already chosen someone else.
A sharp ache bloomed behind her ribs, and she pressed her fingers against her shawl, gripping the fabric tightly.
She needed to get back to her room.
Her hands were cold, her body moving sluggishly as she navigated the hallways, the weight of her discovery pressing down on her like an unbearable burden. Each step felt heavier than the last, and by the time she reached the east wing of the manor, her vision was beginning to swim.
She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't notice the approaching figure until she nearly collided with him.
A pair of strong hands grasped her shoulders, steadying her before she could fall. "Nora?"
Her head snapped up, her heart stopping in her chest.
Caspian.
He was still dressed in his evening attire, his dark cloak draped over his broad shoulders. His deep blue eyes studied her with immediate concern, his brows knitting together. "What are you doing out here so late?" His hands remained firm on her shoulders, his warmth seeping through the fabric of her gown. "You should be resting."
For a fleeting moment, she thought about telling him. About looking him in the eyes and demanding to know the truth.
But when she opened her mouth, no words came out.
She could see the worry in his expression, the genuine care in his gaze. The way his fingers lightly squeezed her shoulders, as if ensuring she was real, as if grounding her.
Was this how a man looked at a woman he had already discarded?
Was this how a man treated a wife he did not love?
She wanted to believe it wasn't. She needed to believe it wasn't.
"I…" She swallowed thickly, lowering her gaze. "I couldn't sleep."
Caspian sighed, his expression softening. "You shouldn't be wandering around in the middle of the night." Without another word, he slipped his arm around her waist, guiding her back down the hall.
His touch was warm, steady—just as it had always been.
The familiarity of it nearly shattered her resolve.
"Are you feeling unwell?" he asked quietly. "Your hands are freezing."
"I'm fine," she whispered, though her voice wavered.
He stopped in front of her bedroom door, turning to face her fully. His eyes searched hers, his jaw tightening as if he could sense that something was wrong.
"Nora," he said her name like a plea, his hand coming up to brush a stray silver strand from her face. His touch lingered against her cheek, his thumb tracing lightly over her skin. "You seem… distant."
Distant?
She nearly laughed. If only he knew.
But instead, she simply shook her head. "I'm just tired."
Caspian studied her for a moment longer before exhaling. "Rest, then." He hesitated, as if debating whether to say something more, before finally stepping back.
"Goodnight, Caspian," she murmured, her fingers curling around the edge of her shawl.
"Goodnight, Nora."
She slipped inside her room before she could let the warmth of his presence fool her again.
As soon as the door closed behind her, she pressed her back against it, her chest rising and falling unevenly.
She had been right. Seeing him had only made it worse.
Because even now, when everything pointed to the truth, her heart still longed to believe in him.
She let out a shaky breath, her fingers trembling as she reached for the novel on her bedside table. The one that had warned her of what was to come.
With hesitant hands, she flipped to the next page.
If the past had been written so accurately, then perhaps the future was etched in truth as well.
And if that was the case…
How much time did she have left before she, too, was written out of the story?