The attendant fumbled with the heavy iron latch, his fingers slipping once on the cold metal before the door creaked open, revealing the count's solar beyond.
It was a room of polished dark wood and burnished brass, lined with shelves stacked high with leather-bound ledgers and rolled maps, the air thick with the scent of ink and beeswax.
Sunlight slanted through a single leaded window, gilding the edges of a massive oak desk where the count sat, his shoulders hunched over a spread of papers, a quill paused mid-sentence.
He didn't look up immediately.
The silence stretched, broken only by the distant caw of a raven outside and the faint crackle of the hearth in the corner.
I stepped over the threshold, my bare feet silent on the wool rug that covered the stone floor, and closed the door behind me with a soft click.
The attendant's judgmental gaze vanished, leaving just the two of us, father and daughter, trapped in a room that smelled of his prosperity and my neglect.
Finally, the count set down his quill. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, and his eyes lifted to meet mine.
They were the same storm-gray as Richard's, but colder, stripped of any warmth, any softness, sharpened by years of ruling and hoarding and turning a blind eye.
His gaze lingered on the bump on my head, on the tattered gray dress that hung off my bones, on the smudge of charcoal on my fingers and the faint stain of blood on my palm from the vase shard.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he nodded at the empty chair across from his desk—carved oak, upholstered in velvet, a chair I had never once been allowed to sit in.
"Sit," he said, his voice gruff, no trace of warmth, no trace of surprise now.
Just a flat, bored command, like he was humoring a stray dog that had wandered into his study.
I didn't sit. I stood where I was, my back straight, my hands curled into fists at my sides, the rolled parchment digging into my sleeve.
The herbs I'd chewed were bitter on my tongue, but they had dulled the throb of my fever, cleared the fog from my mind.
I looked at him, at the man who had let his wife starve me, let his servants beat me, let his children mock me, and I didn't feel anger. Not anymore.
Just a cold, empty resolve, sharp as the shard of glass I'd held to Sheila's throat.
"You know why I'm here," I said, my voice steady, no tremor, no plea.
The count's jaw tightened.
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, his gaze pinning me in place.
"I saw the commotion in the dining hall," he said. "Sheila was blubbering like a child. You attacked her. Dragged her in front of the family. Made a spectacle of yourself." He paused, his eyes narrowing.
"What do you want? Money? A new dress? A softer bed? Name it. But make it quick. I have better things to do than listen to a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum."
Spoiled brat. The words hung in the air, bitter and absurd. I laughed—a short, hollow sound that echoed off the wood-paneled walls.
The count flinched, like he hadn't expected it, like he'd forgotten I was capable of making any sound other than a whimper or a plea.
"I don't want your money," I said, my voice cold, cutting through the silence.
"I don't want your dresses or your beds. I don't want anything from you. Or from this family." I pulled the rolled parchment out of my sleeve and tossed it onto his desk. It hit the wood with a soft thud, rolling open to reveal my messy, slanted handwriting—words I had scrawled in the quiet of my room, words that burned like fire on the page.
The count's eyes flicked down to the parchment. His posture tightened. His fingers curled into fists on the desk.
"It's a renunciation," I said, my voice final, unflinching. "Of the Bennington name. Of any claim I have to this manor, to your wealth, to your blood. I am not a Bennington. Not anymore."
The room went dead silent. The fire in the hearth crackled. A raven cawed outside. The count stared at me, his storm-gray eyes wide, his face drained of color, and for the first time in my life, I saw him truly falter. Not just a flicker of surprise. A crack in the mask. A chink in the armor.
"You can't do that," he said, his voice sharp, desperate now, like he was grasping at a thread.
"It's a chain," I cut him off, my voice rising, just a little, the cold resolve cracking to reveal the fire underneath.
"It's a noose around my neck. You think I want to be tied to a man who let his daughter starve? To a family that thinks I'm nothing but a stain on their perfect legacy?
If you want to keep a Bennington, you should treat me like one. Now, I'd rather die in the streets than call myself a Bennington."
The Count face look daze, sturtle. But his noble upbringing kept his face.
"So, please kick me out of this family." I plead this time with low voice.
The count blinked. For the first time since I'd stepped into the room, his bored mask slipped, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion.
"Kick you out?" he repeated, as if the words were foreign. "Go where?"
"Anywhere," I said. The words burst out of me, sharp and desperate, the first crack in the icy resolve I'd built around my heart.
"To a convent. To the streets. To a village where no one knows the name Bennington. I don't care. I just want to be free of this house. Free of you. Free of Stephanie and her brats and the way they treat me like I'm something they scraped off the bottom of their shoes."
I uncurled my fist to bare the knuckles scraped raw from scrabbling for crumbs in the kitchen's dirt floor, the wrist ringed with faint, purple bruises from where Stephanie's servants had bound me to the larder wall.
My voice tore out of me, ragged and raw, no longer steady, no longer cold—just a howl of the years I'd swallowed down.
"Starved," I spat, the word thick with the taste of moldy bread and the ache of empty nights where my stomach gnawed at my bones.
"Beaten—when I dared to ask for a scrap of cheese, when I tripped over Layla's gown, when I breathed too loud in your precious dining hall.
Locked away—for hours, for days, in the larder where the rats scurried and the cold seeped into my bones, because Karl thought it was a game. Forgotten." The word cracked, and I could feel the tears burning my eyes, hot and humiliating.
"Forgotten by the cook who fed your hounds better than me. Forgotten by the servants who turned their backs when Stephanie's ringed hand met my cheek. Forgotten by you." I took a step forward, my bare feet slamming against the velvet rug, and he flinched—actually flinched—as I screamed the rest, the words a blade I'd honed on every moment of agony.
"I've slept on straw pallets while your children curled up in silk beds. I've worn rags that reeked of sweat while Layla paraded in gowns stitched with silver thread.
I've watched you feast on swan and honey cakes while I snuck apples from the kitchen, terrified of being caught, terrified of the beating that would follow.
And you—you've walked past me a hundred times, a thousand times, and never once looked at me like I was your daughter. Never once asked if I was hungry. Never once cared."
My throat was raw, my chest heaving, and I stared at him, at the way his storm-gray eyes widened, at the way his hands tightened into fists on the desk—finally, finally showing something other than boredom.
"That's what you've let happen to me. That's the life you've given me."
"You never told me," he said finally. His voice was quieter now, less gruff, less bored. There was something in it—guilt? Regret? I didn't care. It was too late for any of that.
"I told the servants," I said.
"I told the cook when she refused to give me a crust of bread. I told the stable boy when he found me hiding in the hayloft, shivering from the cold.
I told anyone who would listen. But no one ever told you, did they?" I laughed again, this time a sound that was more pain than humor.
"Because no one cares about the Bennington bastard. Not even you."
The count's jaw tightened again. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the leaded window, where the raven cawed again, a harsh, lonely sound.
"You are a Bennington," he said, the words a mantra, the same thing he'd said to me a hundred times before, like it was supposed to be a comfort. Like it was supposed to make up for everything.
"You belong here."
"I don't belong anywhere," I said. The words were quiet, but they hung in the air, heavy and final.
"Not here. Not with people who let me starve while they feast on swan and honey cakes. Not with a father who doesn't even know my favorite color. I want you to renounce me. Disown me. Let me take my mother's name and never look back."
The count's eyes snapped back to mine. For a moment, I thought I saw something like pain in them—a flicker of the man he might have been, once, before my mother died and Stephanie moved in and turned his house into a prison.
But then it was gone, replaced by that same cold, hard resolve.
"I can't do that," he said. His voice was firm, unyielding.
"The Bennington name is not something to be cast aside lightly. You are my daughter, whether you like it or not. And you will stay in this house."
The world tilted.
One moment, I was standing in the middle of the solar, my back straight, my gaze locked on his. The next, the floor was rushing up to meet me, the scent of ink and beeswax fading to black, the sound of the raven's caw growing faint and distant.
I heard the count shout my name—sharp, surprised, like he hadn't expected me to fall. I felt his hands on me, rough and calloused, lifting me off the wool rug. I tried to speak, to tell him to let me go, but my lips wouldn't move. My eyes fluttered shut.
When I woke, it was to the soft glow of candlelight and the scent of lavender and chamomile.
I was not in the servant's quarters.
I was in a bed draped in silk sheets, the fabric soft against my skin, the pillows stuffed with goose down so fluffy I felt like I was lying on a cloud. The room was large, with high ceilings and tapestries hanging on the walls, tapestries of the Bennington crest, a stag with antlers spread wide, standing proud against a field of blue.
A wooden wardrobe stood in the corner, its doors carved with roses and thorns, and a vanity table sat by the window, its surface polished to a shine, a silver brush lying on top of it.
The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting warm shadows on the walls, and a tray of food sat on the nightstand—bread still warm from the oven, a bowl of soup, a slice of apple tart.
My head throbbing, my tongue thick with thirst. The room was familiar, even though I'd never been in it before.
It was the children's wing, the floor where the Bennington heirs had once slept, where Kael and Layla had slept, before they grew up and moved into their own rooms.
The rooms down the hall were empty now, their doors hanging open, their beds made up but unused, like the servants were waiting for someone to come home.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, and the manor's gardens stretched out below, rows of roses, a fountain that sparkled in the fading light, a hedge maze where I'd once gotten lost as a child, crying until a gardener found me and carried me back to the house.
I remembered that day, remembered the way my mother had hugged me tight, her lavender perfume filling my nose.
I remembered the way the count had smiled at me, a real smile, not the cold, distant one he wore now. That was before Stephanie came. Before everything changed.
A noise from the hallway startle me. My heart pounding, half-expecting to see Stephanie standing in the doorway, her lips curled into a sneer, ready to drag me back to the servant's quarters. But the door stayed closed.
The noise came again, a low, angry voice, followed by a high-pitched shriek. The count and Stephanie.
They were arguing, their voices muffled by the thick oak door, but I could hear the words clearly enough.
"You let her starve!" the count shouted. His voice was raw, furious, a sound I'd never heard from him before.
"You let her sleep in the servant's quarters, let your children torment her, and you never told me! How could you?"
"It's not my fault you don't pay attention to your own daughter!" Stephanie shrieked. Her voice was shrill, defensive.
"She's a burden, Richard! A reminder of her mother, of the woman who stole your heart before I could! I did you a favor by keeping her out of your hair!"
"A favor?" the count roared.
"You made her a prisoner in her own home! You let her get so sick she collapsed in my solar! If the doctor hadn't said she was suffering from malnutrition and exhaustion—"
"The doctor doesn't know what he's talking about!" Stephanie said. Her voice was quieter now, almost pleading.
"She's just a brat, throwing a tantrum to get your attention. You don't have to care about her. You have me. You have William, Kael and Layla. They're your real family."
The sound of a fist hitting wood echoed down the hallway. I flinched, i heard Stephanie gasp, then cry out.
"Get out," the count said, his voice cold and dangerous.
"Get out of my sight, and don't come back until you can learn to treat my daughter with the respect she deserves."
The sound of footsteps faded down the hallway. The count sighed, a deep, weary sound. Then there was silence.
I buried my face in my hands. Tears burned my eyes, tears of anger, tears of relief, tears of a grief I'd been carrying for years.
I cried for the little girl who'd lost her mother, for the girl who'd been starved and beaten and forgotten, for the woman I'd been in my past life, who'd burned to death in a loneliness, screaming for help that never came.
I cried until my throat was raw and my eyes were red and swollen, until the sun had set and the moon was rising, casting a silver glow over the gardens below.
The silk sheets were soft against my skin, and the lavender scent filled my nose, making me sleepy. But I didn't close my eyes. I stared at the ceiling, at the shadows cast by the candlelight, and made a vow.
The count might not let me leave. Stephanie might not stop tormenting me. Karl and Layla might not stop mocking me. But I would not be a prisoner anymore. I would not be the forgotten Bennington bastard.
I would find a way out of this house, one way or another. I would take back what was mine, the Bennington name, the manor, the life that had been stolen from me. I would make them all pay for what they'd done.
And if I couldn't leave?
Then I would burn this house to the ground.
I closed my eyes, and this time, when I slept, there were no nightmares of fire and screaming. There were only dreams of freedom, of a village where no one knew my name, of a life where I could be Hannah, not the Bennington bastard. Of a future where I could finally be happy.
When I woke again, it was to the sound of a knock on the door. I sat up, my heart pounding, expecting to see the count or Stephanie or one of the servants. But when the door opened, it was a man in a dark coat, a leather satchel slung over his arm, standing in the doorway. He was tall, with gray hair and a kind face, and he smiled at me as he stepped into the room.
"Good morning, Miss Bennington," he said. His voice was warm, gentle, a sound I'd never heard directed at me before.
"I'm Doctor Hale. The count sent for me. He said you've been very ill."
I stared at him, my mouth hanging open. Doctor Hale. The family doctor. The man who tended to the count's gout and Stephanie's headaches, the man who'd never so much as glanced at me when I'd stumbled through the halls with a fever last winter. He was here for me.
The doctor set his satchel on the vanity table and pulled out a small vial of amber liquid.
"This is a tonic," he said, holding it out to me.
"It will help with the fever and the exhaustion. Drink it twice a day, and you'll be back on your feet in no time."
I took the vial from him, my fingers trembling. The glass was cool against my skin, and the liquid inside smelled of honey and herbs.
I uncorked it and drank it down, the sweet taste bursting on my tongue. It was warm, spreading through my chest, making me feel lighter, stronger.
The doctor watched me, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners.
"The count told me what happened," he said. His voice was soft, sympathetic.
"He's very sorry, Miss Bennington. He had no idea how you were being treated."
I said nothing. I didn't care if the count was sorry. Sorry wouldn't bring back the years I'd lost. Sorry wouldn't make the pain go away.
The doctor sighed. He pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down, his satchel open on his lap.
"I know you don't trust him," he said.
"And I don't blame you. But he's trying, Miss Bennington. He's really trying."
I looked away, staring out the window at the gardens. The sun was rising now, painting the sky in shades of gold and orange, and the birds were singing, a cheerful sound that felt like a mockery.
"It's too late," I said. My voice was quiet, but it was firm, unyielding.
"It's always been too late."
The doctor nodded. He didn't argue. He just sat there, quiet and patient, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, as the birds sang louder, as the world outside the window woke up to a new day. A day that was full of possibilities for everyone but me.
But as I sat there, the tonic warming my chest, the lavender scent filling my nose, I realized something.
It wasn't too late.
Not yet.
I still had time. Time to plan. Time to prepare. Time to take back what was mine.
I looked at the doctor, my eyes hardening with resolve. "Thank you," I said. My voice was steady, strong. "For the tonic. For coming."
The doctor smiled. "You're welcome, Miss Bennington," he said. He stood up, slinging his satchel over his arm.
"I'll be back tomorrow to check on you. Rest today. Eat the food on the tray. And… give the count a chance. He's not the monster you think he is."
I didn't answer. I just watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him.
Then I picked up the slice of apple tart from the tray, took a bite, and stared out the window at the gardens. At the future that was waiting for me. At the revenge that would be mine.
No matter what it took.