Page 71 of Duke of Fyre

"This has gone on long enough," Nicholas announced without preamble, striding into the room.

"I'm rather busy at the moment," Elias said coldly, shuffling papers he hadn't read.

"Busy brooding, you mean?" Nicholas dropped into the chair across from him. "Tell me, old friend, how long do you plan to hide in here while your household falls apart around you?"

"I am not hiding," Elias bit out. "I am attending to business that requires my attention."

"Ah yes, very important business." Nicholas picked up one of the papers, turning it right side up with pointed emphasis. "So important you haven't noticed half these documents are upside down."

Elias snatched the paper back, his jaw clenching. "If you've come merely to mock me…"

"I've come because I care about you, you stubborn fool." Nicholas's voice softened slightly. "And because I just had a rather heartbreaking encounter with your son in the garden."

Something in Elias's chest tightened. "Peter?"

"He came running to me the moment I arrived, practically in tears." Nicholas leaned forward, his expression serious. "He wanted to know if I'd heard from Lydia, if I knew when she was coming home. The poor boy is devastated, Elias. And from what I gather, you've been about as comforting as a block of ice."

"I've been…" Elias broke off, guilt warring with anger in his chest. "He needs to understand that sometimes people leave. It's better he learn that now."

"Is it?" Nicholas's voice took on a dangerous edge. "Better he learn that loving someone means watching them walk away? Better he believe that his feelings don't matter, that proper dignity is more important than happiness? Tell me, Elias, are you trying to turn him into you?"

"You go too far," Elias warned, rising from his chair.

"Do I?" Nicholas stood as well, matching his friend's height. "Or have I finally hit upon the truth you've been avoiding? This isn't about Lydia at all, is it? This is about Barbara."

The name fell between them like a stone in still water, ripples of old pain spreading outward. Elias's hands clenched at his sides, his face going rigid with fury.

"Do not," he said, each word precise and cold as ice, "speak of things you don't understand."

"But I do understand," Nicholas pressed on, ignoring the danger in his friend's tone. "I was there, remember? I know exactly how the guilt tore you up after she passed. You blamed your father, you blamed yourself, you perhaps even blamed…"

"Stop!" Elias's voice was cold and Nicholas raised a hand in apology. "Perhaps that is going too far," h e agreed. "But my friend, Lydia is not Barbara. She's not going to?—"

"Enough!" Elias's voice cracked like a whip. "Get out."

"No." Nicholas stood his ground. "Not until you listen to reason. Your wife—your living, breathing wife who seems to care for you, who loves your son more than her own happiness—is gone. And instead of fighting for her, you're hiding in here, letting history repeat itself because you're too afraid to…"

"I said get out!" Elias roared, slamming his hands down on the desk hard enough to make the lamp rattle.

For a long moment, the two men stared at each other across the desk, decades of friendship warring with pride and pain. Finally, Nicholas stepped back, his expression sad.

"Very well," he said quietly. "But remember this, old friend—Barbara's death was a tragedy. Losing Lydia is a choice. Your choice."

With that, he turned and left, closing the door with deliberate softness behind him. The quiet click seemed to echo in the sudden silence.

Elias sank back into his chair, his hands shaking slightly as he reached for the brandy decanter. But before he could pour, a small sound from the doorway made him freeze.

Peter stood there, his face pale and uncertain, Mug pressed close against his legs. "Father? I... I heard shouting."

Elias set down the decanter carefully, forcing his voice to steady. "It was nothing. Just a disagreement between old friends."

"About Lydia?" Peter asked, taking a hesitant step into the room.

Something in his son's voice—so young, so vulnerable—made Elias's carefully maintained control waver. "Come here, son."

Peter approached slowly, as if afraid any sudden movement might shatter this rare moment of connection. When he reached the desk, Elias surprised them both by drawing him close, one hand resting awkwardly on his shoulder.

"I miss her," Peter whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "Why won't she come home?"

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