The silence hung heavy in the steamy air of the bath chamber. The servant clutched her arm, trembling, not just from pain but from the shock of being struck—by Linnea of all people.
Linnea stood still, her breathing shallow, hand slowly lowering to her side as the echo of the slap faded.
Eloisa's voice cracked the tension. "You've overstepped, Linnea. You don't have the right—"
"I do," Linnea cut in, her voice low but charged with emotion. She turned toward the duchess, something in her eyes unrecognizable—an old fire, long buried. "Because I am his mother. And I will never stand by while someone hurts my son again. Not a servant. Not a noble. Not even you." She glared at the duchess. "He was taken from me before, and I knew you lent a hand to that Duchess."
Eloisa's jaw clenched. "How dare you slander me? You forget who gives you a roof over your head—"
