chapter 5..Barefoot storms

The heavy doors to the sunroom creaked open.

And there she was.

Barefoot.

Hair tousled from sleep, the satin robe hugging her frame just loosely enough to look effortless, dangerously un-Anastasia. A soft blush lingered on her cheeks, the kind you get from dreaming too deeply. Candlewax scent clung to her skin.

The Duke turned.

He hadn’t even sat down. Just stood there — tall, rigid, jaw clenched. His black gloves were still on, fingers curling tightly at the sight of her.

His sharp gaze scanned her from head to toe, pausing deliberately at her feet.

He let his eyes trail down. “Barefoot again?” His tone was dry. “At least have the decency to keep up the image you built with blood and ego.”

Eira blinked. “I—forgot my slippers.” She didn’t. But she wasn't going to explain to him that she hated shoes.

He stepped closer, tone colder. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

Eira cocked her head. “You came all this way to ask about real estate, Your Grace?”

“The East estate,” he growled, “is not just real estate. It’s an orphanage. A home. The deal goes through, and they lose everything.”

“I know that,” she said honestly, voice soft.

He scoffed, eyes narrowing. “And yet you still didn’t stop the deal .”

Eira stepped forward slowly, bare feet against marble. “Because I wanted to know why you cared. I wanted to know if you were just playing the hero or if you meant it.”

He stiffened, caught off-guard.

“I didn’t expect you to show up at dawn though,” she added, a sly smirk tugging at her lips. “Was the concern that heavy?”

“Cancel the deal.”

It wasn’t a request.

But Eira stepped closer until they were barely a breath apart. “Alright,” she said, her voice gentle but firm, ..

He blinked.

Then eira looked to the side...The wall had her brothers painting..She Got lost..

He walked stopping beside the painting. “You spend your time looking at ghosts now?”

She didn’t answer immediately. “He was your friend, wasn’t he?”

The Duke’s jaw clenched. “He was better than anyone in this damned place deserved.”

“I’m sorry,” Eira said genuinely. “For what it’s worth.”

He looked at her like she’d grown horns.

“…what game are you playing?” His voice was low now, more curious than angry. “You… don’t talk like her.”

“Maybe I hit my head too hard,” she said with a light shrug. “

A pause. A flicker in his expression.

And then his eyes dropped again—to her feet. “You’ll catch frostbite like that.”

“I like the ground,” she whispered. “It reminds me I’m still alive.”

He didn’t reply.

But he didn’t leave either.

---

After the Duke left, Eira paced her room, the diary still clutched tightly in her hands.

She sank back onto the velvet cushions, flipping through more of Anastasia’s handwriting — elegant, yet trembling.

---

> “My brother used to say—if we can’t be kings, at least let’s be kind. But they broke him. They asked too much... too fast. I still remember his fingers twitching when he’d try to hide the tremors. I hated how they made him feel like a failure for falling sick. I hate that I wasn’t strong enough then. So I became what they wanted — strong, cold, perfect. But I miss laughing. I miss being soft. I miss... me.”

Another ...

> "The Duke. He was once kind. But then my decisions stained him too. He stopped smiling. I think… I ruined him too."

Eira pressed her lips together.

She whispered into the silence, “Don’t worry, Anastasia. I’ll fix this... even if your story tried to kill you, even if it tries to kill me too. I’ll save you… and maybe, I’ll save myself.”

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