~DUKE SILAS~
I watched Layla sit down in the chair next to . I noticed how slow and gentle she moved, as if she might break easily. The dark circles under her eyes showed she hadn’t been sleeping. Her pale skin told she hadn’t been eating enough either.
"How does it feel?" she asked in a quiet voice. "You know, returning from the dead."
I leaned back in my chair, considering the question. "Strange," I admitted. "Like waking from a very long dream, or like a ghost watching his own life from the outside. But tomorrow, I reclaim my identity."
"Are you nervous?"
"Terrified," I said honestly. "Not of Isabelle’s reaction... she deserves everything that’s coming. But of seeing people’s faces when they realise I’ve been alive all this ti. The judgnt, the questions."
Layla nodded slowly. "People will understand once they know the truth. Once they know what Isabelle did."
"Perhaps." I studied her face carefully. "But death gives you perspective on what truly matters, Layla. When you’re stripped of everything... your na, your wealth, your position... you discover what’s real. Love, family, truth... everything else is just noise."
She looked down at her hands. "I wish perspective ca easier."
"Is that why you’re sitting here with instead of talking to your husband?"
Her head snapped up, eyes widening slightly. "I don’t know what you an."
"Yes, you do." I kept my voice gentle. "You’ve been avoiding Axel for days. Hiding here when you should be at ho, pretending you are here for . I have Pennysworth for that. I may have been ’dead,’ but I’m not blind."
"It’s complicated," she whispered.
"Love usually is." I leaned forward, resting my hands on my knees. "Layla, I’ve told you what I can tell you as your grandfather. Plus, I’ve seen the way he looks at you."
"How do I know there’s nothing more?" she asked, her voice breaking slightly.
"Because revenge may have brought you together," I said firmly, "but love keeps you together. If Axel only wanted revenge against Charles, he could have gotten it a dozen different ways. He didn’t need to marry you. He didn’t need to protect you. He certainly didn’t need to look at you like you hung the moon and stars."
Layla wiped at her eyes quickly. "He used ."
"At first, perhaps. But people change, Layla. Intentions shift. A marriage that begins for one reason can evolve into sothing far more beautiful." I paused. "You’re angry with him, and you have every right to be. But you’re also terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of forgiveness," I said gently. "Of giving him a second chance and risking being hurt or trust being broken again. So you’re hiding, avoiding the confrontation, keeping yourself protected behind walls of anger and righteousness."
She stared at , tears spilling over now. "What if I forgive him and he hurts again?"
"What if you don’t forgive him and spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been?" I countered. "Layla, my dear, I’ve lived a long ti. I’ve made mistakes, held grudges, and refused to forgive when I should have. And I can tell you with absolute certainty... regret is far more painful than risk."
"I don’t know if I can," she whispered.
"You don’t have to decide today. Or tomorrow. But you do need to talk to him. Like really talk, not these stilted conversations in hallways." I reached over and took her hand. "Tell him how you feel. Let him explain. Then decide if this marriage is worth fighting for."
Layla squeezed my hand, nodding slowly. We sat in comfortable silence for a mont before I spoke again.
"There’s sothing different about you," I said, studying her face more carefully. "You have a glow about you despite the sadness. I can’t quite place it."
Her hand went instinctively to her stomach before she caught herself. "It’s just stress. Everything with Isabelle, with Axel, it’s exhausting."
I didn’t believe her, but I let it pass. If she had a secret, she’d share it when she was ready.
"Are you worried about tomorrow?" she asked, clearly deflecting.
"Yes and no," I admitted. "I’m worried about the execution, so many moving parts, so many things that could go wrong. But I’m not worried about the outco. Tomorrow, Isabelle’s lies co crashing down."
"What if she fights back? What if she has so trick we haven’t anticipated?"
"Then we adapt." I smiled slightly. "That’s the advantage of being underestimated, Layla. People think because I’m old, or I was ’dead,’ that I’m weak. But I have more than one smart mind planning this for weeks. Every contingency, every possible move she might make, we’ve thought it through."
"Do you hate her?"
"No," I said honestly. "She is my daughter, and even if I wanted to, I can’t. I pity her, though. She’s gained everything: money, status, control, and lost everything that matters. She has no real friends, no genuine love, no peace. Just an empire built on fear and manipulation."
"Tomorrow, you take it all away from her."
"Tomorrow, I reclaim my life," I corrected. "There’s a difference. This isn’t about exposing Isabelle... it’s about setting things right."
My phone buzzed on the side table. I picked it up, seeing Prince Leopold’s na on the screen.
"Leopold," I answered. "Everything arranged for tomorrow?"
"Every detail," Leopold’s smooth voice ca through. "Your return will be the scandal of the decade, Duke. Isabelle won’t know what hit her."
"Good," I said firmly. "Thank you, Leopold. I know this puts you in an awkward position."
"Nonsense," he said warmly. "What are friends for if not to help orchestrate spectacular returns from the dead?"
We finalised a few more details before ending the call. I set the phone down and looked at Layla, who was watching with a mixture of apprehension and determination.
"Are you ready for this?" I asked her.
"I think so," she said. "Are you?"
"As ready as I’ll ever be." I stood slowly, walking to the window. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. "Tomorrow, we end this Chapter. And perhaps begin a better one."
Layla joined at the window, slipping her hand into mine. "Thank you, Grandfather. For everything. For coming back."
"Thank you for being brave enough to help ," I said, squeezing her hand. "Now go. Get so rest. Tomorrow will be a long day."
She nodded, hugging tightly before leaving.
After she left, I walked to my dresser and picked up the frad photograph sitting there: my late wife, smiling at the cara on our wedding day. She’d been gone for decades now, but I still felt her presence sotis, especially in monts like this.
"Wish luck, my dear," I whispered, running my thumb across her face. "Tomorrow, I set things right."
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