Octavia's POV
Later that afternoon, I found Darius in his study, standing behind his massive oak desk with maps and ledgers spread before him like battle plans.
The afternoon light streaming through the tall windows caught the gold threads in his dark hair, but his expression was as distant as it had been at breakfast.
"The eastern provinces are reporting shortages," he was saying to his steward, who stood at attention beside the desk. "Grain stores are running low, and with the mountain passes blocked by snow, supply lines are becoming unreliable."
I slipped into the room quietly, settling into one of the chairs by the fireplace. The flames burned low and steady, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. I listened as Darius continued his discussion of trade routes and distribution plans, noting the careful precision with which he approached every detail.
"What about the southern routes?" I asked when there was a pause in the conversation. "The roads through Millbrook should still be passable, and their harvest was better than most this year."
Darius glanced up at me briefly, his dark eyes unreadable. "The southern routes add three days to the journey. The cost would be prohibitive."
"But the alternative is people going hungry," I pressed gently. "Three days of additional transport costs versus starvation seems like a simple calculation."
"It's not that simple," he replied, his tone polite but dismissive. "There are political considerations, agreements with the merchant guilds, existing contracts that can't be easily broken."
I offered a few more suggestions about rationing plans and emergency stores, drawing on knowledge I'd gained from managing my father's household during lean years. But Darius responded to each idea with short, distant replies, his attention clearly elsewhere. Finally, he dismissed his steward with a wave of his hand.
"We'll continue this discussion tomorrow. Send word to the guild masters that I want to meet with them by week's end."
When we were alone, I shifted my gaze to the fireplace, watching the flames dance hypnotically. My hand moved unconsciously to rest on my stomach, a gesture that had become second nature over the past weeks.
The child was still too small to show, but I could feel the subtle changes in my body, the growing awareness of life taking shape within me. Lately, when I thought about the child, I found myself hoping it would inherit Darius's quiet strength rather than my own anxious nature. The way he commanded respect without cruelty, the careful consideration he gave to every decision, these were traits I wanted for my baby. It disturbed me how often I caught myself hoping the child would be unmistakably his, as if that would somehow validate the strange affection that had begun growing between us.
"You didn't have to invite Leon to breakfast," I said quietly, still staring into the fire. "You could have sent him away immediately. Ordered him off your lands."
Darius kept his eyes fixed on the documents before him, his quill moving across the parchment in neat, precise strokes. "I didn't mind the company."
"Didn't you?" I turned to look at him properly. "After what happened in the garden, after he drew a sword on you, you invited him to dine at your table?"
"Sir Leon and I have an understanding now," Darius said calmly, setting down his quill. "He loves you. I can respect that, even if I can't tolerate the methods he chose to express it."
His eyes flicked briefly to where my hand rested on my stomach, the gesture so quick I almost missed it. But I caught it, and the meaning behind it hit me like a physical blow.
"The baby is yours," I said, my voice tightening with the first edge of real anger I'd allowed myself to feel toward him.
Darius finally looked up, meeting my gaze with those dark, unreadable eyes. "As you said this morning, we'll know for sure when the child is born."
The words were my own, thrown back at me with quiet precision. They stung worse than any accusation could have, carrying with them the weight of his doubt, his careful distance, his refusal to believe that I could be capable of honesty about anything.
My jaw clenched as I fought the urge to say more, to explain about that night with Leon, to somehow make him understand the desperation and rebellion that had driven me to seek comfort in familiar arms before being sent away to marry a stranger.
But what was the point? He had already decided what kind of woman I was, what kind of wife he'd been saddled with. Nothing I said would change his mind, and my explanations would only sound like the desperate lies of a woman caught in her deception. Instead, I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the stone floor.
"Of course," I said, my voice carefully controlled. "How foolish of me to think my words might mean something to my own husband."
I turned on my heel and strode toward the door, my steps quick and sharp against the stone. Behind me, I heard Darius call my name, but I didn't stop, I couldn't. The hurt and anger simmering just below my surface threatened to boil over, and I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
In the corridor outside his study, I pressed my back against the cold stone wall and took several deep breaths, trying to regain my composure. My hands were shaking, whether from anger or hurt I couldn't say.
He thought I was a liar. A woman who would deceive her husband about something as fundamental as the paternity of their child. And perhaps I was, I had lied about my virginity, after all. But this was different. This child, whatever its origins, was mine to protect. The worst part was that I couldn't entirely blame him for his suspicion.
Leon's arrival had revealed truths I'd tried to keep buried, and the timing of my pregnancy raised questions I couldn't definitively answer. But his calm dismissal of my assurances, his clinical doubt, cut deeper than I'd expected.
I had thought we were building something together these past weeks. Trust, perhaps, or at least understanding. But it seemed I had been wrong. To Darius, I was still nothing more than a political obligation who had proven herself untrustworthy from the very beginning.
The baby shifted slightly within me, or perhaps I only imagined it, and I pressed my hand more firmly against my stomach. Whatever happened between Darius and me, whatever doubts and suspicions poisoned the air between us, this child would be loved. Protected.
Even if its father couldn't bring himself to believe it was his.