"My lady!" Sasha cried, her voice shrill with panic.
Isla lay limp and pale in her father's arms. His face had lost all color as he desperately tried to wake her.
"I'll take her to her chambers," he said urgently. "Go! Fetch the physician—immediately!"
He scooped Isla into his arms, holding her as if she might shatter. And without another word, he rushed down the hallway—his heart pounding with fear, his mind spiraling with dread.
As the Duke rushed down the hallway with Isla limp in his arms, her hands dangled lifelessly by her sides. The pendant still clung to her fingers, as though it refused to let go—its strange pull unwavering, binding itself to her even in unconsciousness.
The maids gasped and stepped back in horror, unable to comprehend what they were seeing. None of them recognized the young woman in the Duke's arms. Dressed in a maid's attire, her face painted with odd, unfamiliar makeup, she looked like a stranger—unplaceable, and yet… eerily significant. They dared not speculate.
At that moment, Lady Amelia arrived at the scene. She halted, her eyes widening in disbelief as she took in the sight.
"My Lord—who is this lady?!" she exclaimed, her voice shrill with alarm, stopping the Duke in his tracks.
Her eyes darted between Isla and the Duke, confusion giving way to irritation. But a second later, she composed herself, adopting a calm, self-righteous tone.
"My Lord, you shouldn't carry a maid in your arms like this, even if she is unconscious. It's improper. Let me call a servant to take her—"
"Shut up and move out of the way," the Duke said coldly, his voice low, so only she could hear.
Amelia froze, stunned.
Though he had never shown her any real affection, he had also never spoken to her with such clear contempt before. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of it—until his voice, louder now and filled with rage, thundered through the hallway.
"Move away!"
Amelia flinched instinctively and stepped aside. The Duke didn't spare her another glance as he strode past, heading straight for Isla's room.
She followed behind, her steps quick and her mind furious. Why Isla's room? she thought. Her heart pounded with growing confusion and unease.
When she reached the doorway and peeked inside, her fury twisted into bewilderment.
Inside, the Duke gently laid Isla on the bed—his expression taut with worry, his hands trembling as he brushed the hair from her face.
Just then, Sasha entered, her face pale. "My Lord, the physician is here," she said hurriedly.
The physician moved swiftly to Isla's side. He examined her with practiced hands, checking her pulse, her breath, and the color of her skin. Minutes passed in tense silence before he finally turned to face the Duke.
"My Lord," he began gravely, "the young lady has fainted due to complete exhaustion. Her body shows signs of acute energy depletion. It's as if her blood holds no nourishment—as though she has been severely starved for days."
"Starved?" the Duke echoed, disbelief settling heavily in his voice.
"Yes, my Lord," the physician confirmed. "She's dangerously weak. Her organs have likely begun to shut down from the lack of sustenance. If help had come any later, I fear we may not have been able to revive her at all."
A heavy silence fell over the room.
The Duke slowly turned toward Amelia, his eyes blazing with fury, confusion, and grief—a storm of emotions that seemed to shake the very air in the room. His gaze bore into her, sharp and unforgiving, demanding an answer without speaking a word.
How could this have happened to his daughter?
Amelia, who had quietly slipped into the room during the physician's assessment, froze in her place. Her eyes widened as they fell upon the unconscious girl lying motionless on the bed. Recognition dawned slowly, and her mouth parted in disbelief.
Isla?
It was Isla.
Under the Duke's piercing stare, Amelia felt her composure slipping. She stammered, struggling to find her footing under his silent interrogation.
"My Lord," she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to appear composed, "I—I don't know what the grand physician means. Everyone in this estate is always well-fed and properly cared for, all thanks to your grace."
She turned her gaze back to Isla's pale face, trying to feign genuine concern. "And Isla… she has always been mindful of her health. How could she possibly be starved?"
Her confusion was believable—but the Duke remained silent, his expression as hard as stone.
"Yes, my Lord," Sasha chimed in hesitantly, stepping forward, her hands clenched tightly. "This humble servant can testify to that. My lady is very careful about her well-being. She eats, she rests—she takes care of herself. She could not be starved."
But as she looked at Isla's pale, almost lifeless face, Sasha faltered. A cold dread crept into her voice.
"I… I think…" she began, but her words trailed off. Her throat constricted, and she couldn't bring herself to speak further.
"Complete your sentence," the Duke said sharply, stepping toward her. His voice wasn't harsh—just urgent. "What do you think, Sasha?"
Sasha nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she forced herself to speak.
"My Lord… these symptoms—the way her energy has drained, the unnatural exhaustion, her pallor—they're… they're eerily similar to what the Duchess experienced during her pregnancy."
The room fell into a stunned silence.
Then—
"How dare you utter such vile nonsense!" Amelia's voice rang out, shrill and indignant. She took a step forward, pointing an accusing finger at Sasha. "You brainless maid, have you forgotten your place? You're speaking of the Duke's daughter—not some random girl! How dare you suggest such a thing!"
Her voice cracked with fear. The mention of Isabelle—especially in the presence of the Duke—was the one thing she had always tried to avoid.
Sasha fell to her knees, her tears now flowing like rain. Her hands clasped in front of her as if in prayer.
"My Lord," she cried, her voice breaking, "I have served the Duchess for most of my life. I helped raise Lady Isla with my own hands. I love her more than I love myself. I would never speak such words if I wasn't sure. But this… this is the truth. Please, my Lord, please—save my lady."
The Duke's fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening as a heavy silence settled in the room. His gaze dropped to Isla's unmoving form once more. So fragile. So still.
He turned abruptly to the physician. "Go. Prepare the medicine for Lady Isla. She must recover."
The physician nodded quickly and left the room without another word.
Amelia stood frozen, uncertainty and panic flooding her mind. She opened her mouth, as if to protest or plead to stay, but the Duke didn't give her a second glance.
"You may leave now, Lady Amelia," he said coldly, his tone final.
Her heart sank. Though every fiber of her wanted to remain and gauge his thoughts—to spin the situation back into her favor—she recognized the warning in his voice. Staying any longer could lead to consequences she wasn't prepared to face.
She turned, her face stiff with restrained rage and fear, and quietly exited the room.
The door shut behind her with a dull thud, leaving the Duke, Sasha, and Isla alone in the heavy stillness of uncertainty.
The Duke's gaze dropped to the pendant still clenched in Isla's hand—its glint seemed almost sinister now. What kind of force had done this to her?
He turned toward Sasha. "Stay with her," he ordered. "Don't let her out of your sight."
Sasha nodded without hesitation, her eyes never leaving Isla's pale face.