Chapter 4: The Man Who Knows

Sabine didn’t move for several minutes after Julian left.

The sunlight slanted differently across the floor now, and the tea had gone cold in her cup. A thread had been pulled loose, and she could feel the whole illusion straining against it.

He knew.

You’re not Celeste. And I don’t care.

Sabine clenched her hands in her lap, forcing her breath to even out. It was a power move, that much was clear—he didn’t come to expose her. Not yet. But he wanted her to know that he could. The real question was why he hadn’t used that card the moment he saw her.

She glanced once toward the empty doorway, then gathered herself and stood. Her legs felt too thin under the weight of the gown. She made her way back to her chambers with silent urgency, flinching at every echo in the corridor, every rustle of cloth from behind a corner. There were too many watchers in this house.

Too many secrets walking in clean shoes.

Thalia was already waiting inside when Sabine entered her room. The maid was folding gloves with fastidious care on the edge of the bed, but her gaze lifted as Sabine crossed the threshold.

“There’s a note,” Thalia said without preamble. “From His Grace.”

Sabine took the folded parchment without responding. She turned her back to Thalia before opening it. There were only four words written in the Duke’s deliberate hand:

West garden. Noon. Alone.

No greeting. No signature. Just an order dressed as an invitation.

Sabine read it twice, then slowly placed it on the vanity. “Did he say why?”

Thalia didn’t look up. “No. But I wouldn’t be late.”

Sabine studied her for a long moment. “Tell me something,” she said. “How long have you worked for him?”

“Five years.”

“And for her?”

Thalia’s eyes flicked up then, sharp as cut glass. “Three.”

“And did you like her?”

Silence.

“She didn’t need to be liked,” Thalia said at last. “Only obeyed.”

Sabine gave a small, dry laugh. “Well, I’m not her.”

“I’ve noticed.”

It wasn’t praise. But it wasn’t condemnation either.

Sabine nodded once and turned toward the wardrobe. “Help me change.”

The west garden was not like the eastern courtyards. It wasn’t symmetrical. It wasn’t polished.

It was wild.

Vines grew thick around wrought-iron arches. Yellowing roses clung to overgrown bushes, and the gravel path crunched under Sabine’s slippers. There was a low stone bench near a dry fountain, and that was where she found him.

The Duke sat with one gloved hand resting on his knee, the other curled loosely over the hilt of a cane—ornate, likely ceremonial. He didn’t look up as she approached.

Sabine hesitated at the edge of the path.

“You summoned me,” she said finally.

“I did.”

She waited. When he said nothing more, she stepped off the path and onto the grass. “Alone in the garden,” she said lightly. “This feels a bit improper.”

“Impropriety suits you.”

Sabine’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?”

The Duke turned his head then, eyes level with hers. “I want to know what you plan to do.”

“With what?”

“With the knowledge you clearly possess,” he said, voice even. “The performance you’ve decided to maintain. And the man who now knows you’re not who you claim to be.”

Her throat closed for a beat.

He knew about Julian.

Sabine folded her arms. “I haven’t decided.”

“That’s dangerous.”

She laughed without humor. “You’re one to talk.”

His expression didn’t change.

“Why haven’t you exposed me?” she asked. “Why let this continue?”

“Because I’m still trying to determine,” he said slowly, “if you are more useful than the version of you who vanished.”

Sabine flinched.

He continued: “Celeste was ambitious, cold, calculating. She had plans that made even my council nervous. You—on the other hand—seem improvisational. Defensive. Reactive.”

“And you prefer that?”

“I didn’t say I preferred anything. I said I’m watching.”

Sabine stepped closer, anger tightening every syllable. “I’m not your pawn. I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” he said, gaze sharp. “You just stepped into it without knowing the rules. Which makes you either brave—or very, very stupid.”

They stood in silence, the breeze rustling dead leaves around them.

Finally, Sabine asked, “What happens if I do tell someone the truth?”

“Then you become a liability.”

“And you’ll kill me?”

“No,” he said simply. “I’ll let someone else do it.”

Sabine stared at him, pulse cold.

“I suggest,” he said, rising to his full height, “you spend the next few days learning who your enemies are. Before they realize how easy it would be to make you disappear.”

He stepped past her, his coat brushing the edge of her sleeve.

Then he was gone.

Sabine didn’t move for a long time.

The garden felt like a cage now. The wind through the arches whispered like voices behind closed doors.

She sank slowly onto the bench, her pulse still ringing in her ears.

She was in deeper than she thought.

And no one—not Julian, not the Duke, not the staff—was safe to trust.

But if the game had already begun, she’d better learn the rules.

Fast.

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