Behind the gilded walls of Sinclair Manor, every servant knew the story of the disgraced seventh son and his unwavering devotion to his beloved, Josephine Beaumont.
He had sworn on his honor that if he ever claimed the family estate as its rightful heir, she would stand beside him as his lawful wife. On the very day he first knelt before the King, his opening request was for their union. Though his mother's lowly station had left him scorned by the aristocracy, he defied tradition to wed a mere servant, sparking outrage among the noble families.
Back then, she was the only one he saw.
But when the decree named him heir, he returned with Lady Clarice Darcy, a woman spouting radical notions like "dignity for every soul." With her silver tongue, she had charmed every servant in the manor before the sun had set.
On her first morning, she audaciously handed out Josephine's prized possessions—every jewel and trinket Alistair had gifted her, even their cherished mementos—to the staff. "We are all family under this roof," she declared, flashing a smug smile. "Let us share our good fortune."
Josephine's vision blurred with rage and heartbreak.
Alistair stood beside her, pretending not to notice.
In their darkest days, when they had barely scraped by on stale bread and watery coffee, he had forbidden her to sell even a single hairpin. Now he let this stranger toss their treasures away like kitchen scraps.
When Josephine turned to him, her voice trembling with betrayal, he merely shrugged. "Clarice makes a fair point. This is how we earn their trust." His tone turned icy. "As the future mistress of this household, you will need to set the standard."
Then the assassins struck.
Josephine lunged, taking the arrow meant for him straight through her chest.
Chaos erupted. Guards fell, blood spilled across the marble floors, but her body hit the ground first. When only one life-saving remedy remained, Clarice suddenly spoke up. "Is a guard's life worth any less? If he does not take this medicine, his hand will surely be crippled. But Madame Josephine's wounds are too grave. This remedy may not save her anyway."
Gently taking Alistair's hand, she coaxed in a soft voice, "Your Lordship knows which choice will earn the people's loyalty."
And so Josephine watched helplessly as the elixir, already at her lips, was taken back by Alistair.
Tears rolled silently down her cheeks, but he only met her gaze with cold detachment. "Clarice is right. 'The tide that lifts the boat can also drown it.' You know better than anyone how hard my journey has been. Whether you live or die today lies in heaven's hands."
With that, he turned and left with Clarice, his honeyed whisper carried back to her on the stale air. "As always, Clarice proves wise, easing my burdens at the most critical moments."
Watching their retreating figures, Josephine felt an agony in her chest too fierce to endure.
But what hurt more than the arrow wound was her heart, turning to ice in her chest.
Her body trembled, wracked with chills, as life drained from her like a fading ember. 'In her dazed state, memories of the days before Clarice surfaced in her mind.'
Back then, Alistair had been nothing but a cast-off nobleman's son, scorned by all. His lowly birth as the child of a kitchen maid earned the King's disdain and endless humiliation from the peerage.
It was she who had stolen food to drag him back from death's door when he lay gasping on the edge of the grave.
And on her deathbed, his own mother had pressed his hand into Josephine's, entrusting his very life to her keeping.
Dreame-Editor's pick
Secretly Rejected My Alpha Mate
The Luna He Rejected (Extended version)
The Lone Alpha
His Unavailable Wife: Sir, You've Lost Me
Claimed by my Brother’s Best Friends
Bad Boy Biker
