Chapter 11
ALEX
Four days.
That’s how long I’ve been living at Fort Vauclairt.
It feels like I’ve absorbed a decade of dysfunction.
The estate finances are as dire as I thought.
The staff doesn’t know who they answer to.
Eric Latour, the estate manager handpicked by Geoffroy a decade ago after the previous one retired, immediately decided he reports to me.
His staff follows his lead. The housekeeper, Claudia, recognizes Eva as her boss. Her people do the same.
And I’ve had to split my time between the ledgers, economic forecasts, trading hours, and finishing edits on the damn academic paper I should’ve completed two weeks ago.
But the edits are done now, and the paper is submitted. I lean back in the desk chair, eyes burning from too much screen time and head spinning from a paragraph I’ve rewritten five times. I need air.
I grab my jacket and step outside.
The late-September afternoon is cool, carrying the scents of pine and wet stone.
The park is almost empty, save for the gardener raking leaves by the pond and the stable boy exercising Millie’s horse in the enclosure.
Rust-colored branches sway gently overhead as I walk.
I should pause to admire the light slanting through them. But I don’t. My mind is elsewhere.
Eva is out meeting the mayor of Aymon. Yesterday, when she told me about it, she asked if I wanted to go instead.
“You’re the duke for now,” she said, calm and matter-of-fact. “It should be you.”
I’d told her no. I said she should go because she knew the man well. I added that I trusted her judgment and that I’d have my turn.
All true. Yet I still don’t know why I didn’t go.
The whole point of moving in was to establish a presence. Win people over. Build credibility. That meeting would’ve helped. Yet I let her go alone.
Completely irrational.
I frown and walk faster, gravel crunching underfoot.
At the end of the main path near the iron gate, I spot a familiar silhouette.
It’s Millie. She’s walking toward the castle with a schoolbag on her back. Her shoulders are stiff, her gait… off.
I slow down and observe her.
She’s wincing as she limps across the gravel path, favoring her right leg.
I change direction and head toward her. “Millie? Are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” she mutters.
“You’re limping.”
“Yeah. I tripped.”
“When?” I ask.
“Earlier.”
I look at her legs. Her tights are snagged. A red scrape mars her calf.
“You’re injured,” I say. “That’s not fine.”
She rolls her eyes expertly.
“Come on.” I gesture toward the nearest side door. “Let’s get you inside before your grandmother sees blood and calls an ambulance.”
I brace for another eye roll or a sneer. Instead, her eyes go wide with panic as if she truly believes Brigitte would summon an ambulance over a scrape. Or maybe she’s just stunned by how lame my humor is.
Either way, she takes the arm I offer, careful not to lean too heavily. Together we make it to the wide hallway off the main staircase. No one’s around.
She exhales. “I can handle it from here.”
“Millie.” I give her a stern look. “Sit. I’ll get the first-aid kit.”
Her expression darkens. “I don’t need—” She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Just let me use my own, OK?”
She hobbles toward her room. I follow at a distance.
She reaches her door, opens it, and looks back. “You can come in. But turn around when I tell you to.”
“Sure.”
Her room is tidy. Books, posters, a stuffed sloth on the window seat.
She crouches by her desk and retrieves a compact medical kit from the bottom drawer. She flips it open with practiced hands.
I move toward the exit. “I’ll give you privacy.”
“You can stay,” she says quickly. “Just don’t look.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I plonk myself into the armchair by the door and study the ceiling. I hear her cleaning the scrape, unrolling bandage, packing everything back into the kit, and returning it to the drawer.
After a beat, she says, “You can look now.”
She’s sitting on the carpet, her injured ankle propped on a floor cushion. There’s a soft brace on it now. Her face is flushed.
“Sprained?” I ask.
“Lightly. It’ll be fine.” She narrows her eyes. “I’m riding in the Aymon Autumn Parade. Are we clear?”
“That’s up to your mom, Millie.”
She purses her lips.
I let the silence stretch.
Eventually, she breaks it. “I’m not clumsy.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“But you think it.”
“No,” I say. “But I did wonder if you were hiding something. And now, I’m sure.”
She frowns. “What do you mean?”
“That wasn’t a store-bought kit,” I say, pointing at her desk drawer. “And you’ve used it before. Often.”
Her fingers tense around the Velcro strap.
I tilt my head. “Millie. I’m your uncle. You can tell me.”
She meets my eyes. Hers are guarded with a flicker of fear. And hesitation.
“You can’t tell anyone,” she says.
Her voice is sharp, almost angry, as if she’s daring me to argue.
“I promise,” I say.
“Not my friends or their parents,” she adds. “Not teachers. Not the staff. No one.”
“Not even your mom and grandma?” I tease.
“They know.” She gives me a piercing stare. “Now that Dad and Julian are gone, they’re the only ones, aside from the folks at the hospital. But they’re bound by doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“What about your maternal grandparents?”
“They don’t know,” she says. “Maman and I don’t see them often.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s my body, my life,” she snaps, chin jerking up. “I refuse to be gossip for dinner parties. I want to be normal.”
“You are,” I assure her.
Another signature eye roll. “Yeah, right.”
“Considering the way you dress, talk, and move,” I count on my fingers, “the music you play, and the books you rave about, you’re the most typical fourteen-year-old Evorian girl.”
“No, I’m not.” She looks down.
I wait.
“Hemophilia A,” she blurts. “That’s what I’m hiding. It’s mild…ish, but still. I’m a symptomatic carrier. I get bruises I can’t explain. Bleed longer than I should. Freaky shit like that.”
“And your mom constantly worries about it, doesn’t she?”
Millie scoffs, “She’s mom. She worries about everything.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That tracks.”
Suddenly, Eva’s claim that it was Geoffroy who didn’t want any more children with her makes sense. If she’s a carrier, which she must be, because there’s no record of hemophilia in the Castellane dynasty, then there’s a 50 percent chance any future son would have it. And if it’s a girl…
I shut my eyes, recalling an article I read years ago. I think the chance is in the 20 percent range. It’s very Geoffroy to be unwilling to take that risk, no matter how much Eva may have wanted another child.
I sit forward. “You’re managing your condition remarkably well.”
“Thanks. I’m getting top-notch treatment, plus factor infusions when needed. I’m aware of how lucky I am in my misfortune.”
“It’s mature of you to say that,” I comment.
“It’s the truth. Most kids around the world don’t get this kind of care.” She hesitates, then adds softly, “My dad, he always paid for whatever the doctors said was the best option for me, no questions asked.”
The half brother in me is pleased to hear that Geoffroy wasn’t a complete jerk, after all.
But the logical part of my brain wonders.
If he truly cared for his daughter, why didn’t he make sure she was the next in line after Julian to inherit the duchy?
Why didn’t he have Ma?tre Duret file the entail paperwork, which he knew Prince Richard was willing to sign?
Why did he let me, his estranged and disliked half brother, take precedence over Millie?
Procrastination? Lack of foresight? Extreme sloppiness?
Even so, his inaction is a mystery to me.
“You promised not to tell anyone,” Millie reminds me, searching my face.
“I did, and I always keep my word.”
She narrows her eyes. “You could use it as leverage. You and I are competing for the duchy.”
“We are,” I admit.
She stares me in the eye as if challenging me to prove my good faith.
Oh, what the hell.
“I fight fair,” I say. “Which is why I’m going to tell you something about me that no one knows. And you’ll have the option of using it against me, if you choose.”
Her brow arches.
I exhale. “I’m on the autism spectrum. Mild Asperger’s. I was diagnosed as a child.”
Millie blinks. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You don’t seem…” She scrunches up her face, looking for the right word. “I mean—”
“Different?”
She nods vigorously.
“That’s because I’ve learned to mask it well,” I explain.
She squints at me. “But you’re, like, super smart.”
“That’s a stereotype. But thanks.”
She falls silent for a moment, before whispering, “So you’re a freak, too, huh?”
I smile. “Apparently.”
There’s a shift. I can feel it, subtle but seismic.
Millie heaves herself up, limps over and extends her hand.
“I swear,” she says, “on my dad’s and my brother’s graves, I’ll never tell. And I’ll never use it against you.”
I take her hand and grip it firmly. “Same. I swear on my father’s grave.”
We hold the shake for a solemn second before I let go.
She cocks her head, recovering her aplomb. “Well, that got weirdly intense.”
“You’re a Castellane,” I say. “Weird is the norm, and intense is the baseline.”
She grins but catches herself. “Don’t get any ideas, OK? You’re not my favorite uncle or anything.”
“Noted. I hope one day I’ll earn that title.”
She laughs softly. “Good luck!” After a pause, she adds, “And thanks.”
“For what?”
“For… not being weirdly intense about my secret.”
“Likewise.” I head toward the door, open it, and look at her over my shoulder. “You’ll be a real badass someday, Millie.”
“I already am,” she fires back as I shut the door.