Reborn: The Duke's Obsession Chapter 286: Chapter Two Hundred And Eighty Six

The soft thud of the front door closing echoed with a sense of absolute finality behind Victoria. The sound of her carriage departing the estate lingered in the air until it faded completely.

"Oh heavens, we are ruined," Mrs. Pembroke choked out, her voice a whisper of pure horror. Her strength abandoned her, and she collapsed onto the floor, her hands covering her face as deep, heart-wrenching sobs wracked her body.

Evelin hurried to her side, attempting to offer solace, though her own countenance was ashen with shock and dread.

George remained motionless, his gaze locked on the vacant entryway where the woman he loved had just vanished. The aroma of the cooling stew, once so inviting, now felt like a cruel mockery. A burning sensation of shame and fury ignited within him. He turned, his eyes finding Anne, who was still seated composedly at the table, a silent, smug spectator to the devastation she had orchestrated.

Without uttering a single word, he strode toward her, grasped her arm, and pulled her from the chair. He dragged her from the dining room, past his weeping mother and stunned sister, and into his own modest chamber at the rear of the house. He forced her inside and slammed the door shut, the sharp click trapping them together in the heavy, suffocating silence.

The instant he released her, Anne snatched her arm from his grip, tenderly massaging the spot where his fingers had dug into her skin. A vile, mocking smirk contorted her features.

"How very impressive, George," she taunted, her voice laced with biting sarcasm. "I've been away for mere months, and you've already secured another woman. A Duke's daughter, no less. You certainly don't waste time."

George offered no reply. His back was to her, his hands pressed against the wall as he fought to contain the tempest of emotions churning within him. He finally turned, his face a canvas of pale, desperate anguish. "Is the child truly mine?" he inquired, his voice raw with emotion.

Anne let out a derisive snort.

He advanced a step, his eyes begging for an answer that could reverse this agonizing reality. "You loathed me," he confessed, his voice betraying him with a crack. "You consistently declared me a failure, asserting I would achieve nothing noteworthy. You regarded me with nothing but utter contempt. If those were truly your sentiments toward me, then why? Why are you carrying my child?"

Anne's smirk dissolved, replaced by an expression of profound bitterness. Her voice descended into a low, venomous murmur. "I had no idea it was yours," she confessed.

George gazed at her, bewildered. "What?"

"I refused to believe it myself!" she suddenly exclaimed, her own composure shattering. Clutching her swollen abdomen, her face contorted with sheer revulsion. "That I am bearing your child. The offspring of a man I cannot even bear to look upon. Believe me, George, this is a torment for me as well."

George drew a ragged breath, the air shuddering in his lungs, then slowly exhaled. The fight seemed to drain from him, leaving behind a hollow, gnawing emptiness. He had his confirmation. It was true. "So," he asked, his voice flat and defeated, "what is it you desire now?"

Anne's smirk resurfaced. "I have no place to go," she declared, her tone imbued with a cold, triumphant certainty. "I intend to reside here."

"And who says?" George retorted weakly.

"Are you going to cast me out then?" she shot back, moving deliberately towards him, her belly an unmistakable, undeniable challenge. "While I carry your child? Your heir? What will society deem of you then?"

George stood dumbfounded, confounded, ensnared. He was powerless. He staggered backward and sank heavily onto the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders drooping in utter desolation.

Anne observed him, a broken man in a small, unremarkable room. "What is it?" she inquired, her voice laced with cruel satisfaction. "Do you now regret your actions? Does this entire predicament feel... infuriating to you?" She let out a laugh, but it was a ghastly sound, steeped in her own anguish, sorrow, and the glint of unfallen tears. "You haven't even grasped the true meaning of frustrating yet. Not truly."

George slowly lifted his head, his gaze meeting hers, focusing on the tears of rage and misery now carving paths down her own cheeks.

"Wait until you are raising a child within this minuscule, wretched dwelling," she continued, her eyes sweeping the room with disdain. "Wait until you hear its cries throughout the night, and you possess no funds for a wet nurse. Wait until you are confronted with my presence daily, a perpetual reminder of how you annihilated your own existence." Her voice plummeted to a menacing whisper. "Then, you shall comprehend the true depth of hell. And I shall ensure your entire lineage descends with me."

George stared at her, at the utter ruin she vowed to inflict upon them. A low chuckle escaped him, escalating into a full, hollow laugh. It was a sound entirely devoid of mirth, an expression of pure, self-admonishing despair. He was laughing at his own foolishness, at the solitary, inebriated misstep that had cost him everything.

The next day dawned with a chilling atmosphere in the visiting room of Newcastle Prison, the air thick with the scent of hopelessness. Separated by a robust pane of glass, Anne sat directly opposite her mother.

Augusta, gaunt and noticeably paler, yet retaining the defiant spark of resentment in her gaze, leaned forward intently.

"So, you are genuinely choosing to remain with those individuals?" Augusta inquired, her voice a sharp, disbelieving whisper that barely escaped the confines of the small speaking grate. "Living in that dilapidated shack? Such squalor is utterly unacceptable for you."

Anne, who had been absently fixated on the drab, grey wall, turned her gaze towards her mother with an expression of clear disdain. "Do you happen to possess any superior alternatives?"

Augusta's eyes flickered nervously around the room before her voice dropped even lower. "Naturally. You ought to have fabricated the proof, proclaiming the child to be Philip's offspring! Alternatively, unearth some incriminating information about Philip, a transgression unknown to Eric, and leverage it for blackmail against the family!" A familiar, almost feverish gleam illuminated her eyes. "That Delia appears to be thriving splendidly following the destruction of our lives. Retribution is in order."

With a sigh of profound weariness and contempt, Anne rolled her eyes. "What conceivable connection does that have to my situation?" she questioned, her tone devoid of emotion.

Augusta stared at her, momentarily dumbfounded. "Are you not consumed by fury? Do you harbor no desire to witness their suffering for the injustices inflicted upon us?"

"And if I am, what then?" Anne countered sharply. "You expect me to enact vengeance on your behalf? Your conflict has concluded, Mother. You were defeated."

"And why not?" Augusta demanded, her voice escalating in volume. "They pilfered all that was ours! The child represents your ultimate weapon! It is the perfect instrument for revenge!"

A heavy silence descended as Anne simply observed her mother.

Her mother's increasingly frustrated gaze met Anne's apathetic expression. "You dismiss every course of action, constantly stating what you cannot do… so tell me, what purpose does your presence here serve? What was the point of seeking me out?"