Page 92 of Duke of Diamonds
He had stilled entirely. His shoulders had squared, jaw taut, every line of him held so tightly it looked as though he might splinter.
Fiona felt the change before she fully understood it.
“Mary again...” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. Her eyes flicked back to Elaine. “These are hers?”
Elaine turned sharply, her gaze landing on Isaac with something close to disbelief. “You didn’t know?”
Fiona shook her head slowly.
Elaine’s expression hardened. “Never say you’ve still not told her, brother.”
The chill in her voice settled over the hallway like frost. Isaac said nothing. Not a word. Not even a blink. Fiona looked at him, waiting. But he stood like stone, unmoving.
“Isaac,” Elaine said, more firmly this time.
Still, no reply. Samuel stepped forward slightly. “Elaine?—”
“No, Samuel,” she cut in, lifting a hand. “Let me.”
She took a step closer to her brother. “You cannot keep burying this, Isaac. She’s your wife. Shedeservesto know.”
Fiona’s heart beat faster, confusion knitting in her chest. “Who is Mary?” she asked, quietly.
But Isaac didn’t look at her.
Elaine’s voice sharpened. “Don’t just stand there. Saysomething.”
He didn’t.
Samuel’s jaw tightened. “That is quite enough now, Elaine.”
Fiona looked between them all, bewildered. The air had shifted, thick with tension, like a room just before a storm.
Elaine turned on her husband. “No, Samuel. He needs to wake up to reality. He has to tell her. She has a right to know.”
“We are going home,” Samuel said, not raising his voice but leaving no room for doubt. “The children have long since gone past bedtime. Rebecca won’t sleep until you’ve told her one of your ridiculous stories.”
Elaine deflated with visible effort. Her arms dropped to her sides. Samuel stepped beside her, gently tucking her arm into his and steering her back toward the front of the house.
Fiona stood, rooted in place for a moment longer. Then, glancing once more at Isaac—still silent, still frozen—she turned and followed the couple to see them out.
Who is Mary?
Fiona returned and found him exactly where she’d left him—standing before the painting, hands at his sides, his gaze fixed on the canvas as though it held the power to turn back time.
His expression was faraway. Not vacant. It was wounded.
“Isaac?” she asked gently, her voice barely above a whisper.
She stepped closer, reached out, and tugged at his sleeve.
He did not look at her. But he spoke.
“Mary is our sister.”
Fiona froze.
“She died,” he continued, voice steady but hollow. “Right before her debut.”
