Reborn as the Nightingale: Escaping the Duke's Poisoned Marriage

Adeline's twenty-first birthday began with rain—a cold, persistent drizzle that turned Blackwood Manor's gray stone dark and slick. The sprawling estate was as quiet as a tomb. Kian hadn't returned since the hunt three weeks ago. The official reason: urgent business on his family's northern border. Adeline knew the truth. The northern border was conveniently close to the Vance family's modest estate.

Clara entered the bedroom with a tray of steaming broth and set it on the table by the window, her movements hesitant. "Happy birthday, my lady." She lowered her voice. "Perhaps his lordship is on his way back today."

Clara was watching her with the careful sympathy one offered an abandoned wife, clearly believing Kian's absence had cast a shadow over the day.

Adeline looked at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes large and shadowed, but the emotion in them was not heartbreak. It was cold anger.

"Perhaps," she said, because Kian's whereabouts no longer interested her enough to correct the misunderstanding.

For three weeks, she had been poring over her dowry accounts. Small sums had vanished from shop revenues. Rents had been diverted into unfamiliar accounts. Individually, each discrepancy was easy to overlook. Together, they formed a quiet, deliberate theft.

Someone had been bleeding her estate dry while trusting that the foolish, lovesick wife would never bother to count what belonged to her.

That insult mattered far more than whether Kian remembered her birthday.

The day bled away in rain and silence. At dusk, the head butler appeared at her door, face flushed with rare excitement. "My lady, his lordship has returned."

Adeline's heart gave a single hard thud, then settled back into its slow steady rhythm. She didn't rise from her seat at the vanity.

Kian strode in moments later, bringing a gust of cold damp air. He was pulling off his riding gloves, expression grim. He stopped short when he saw her sitting calmly, not even turning.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. "I'm home," he said, voice sharp, and tossed his gloves onto a table. "Is this the welcome I receive?"

She met his gaze in the mirror. "Welcome home, my lord."

Perfectly level. Polite. The way one greets a stranger.

His jaw tightened. The air thickened. He crossed the space in three strides, clamped his hands on her shoulders, and forced her to turn on the stool to face him.

"Adeline, do not play these games with me," he bit out, his face close to hers. "I am not in the mood for your theatrics."

His breath smelled of wine and something else—a faint sweet scent. White roses. Isabelle's favorite perfume.

A wave of physical revulsion clenched her stomach. The memory of poison, the scent of betrayal, all mixed together. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed, gently but firmly.

"I am not playing games," she said, quiet, and stood, putting distance between them.

Her coldness seemed to fuel his anger. He lunged, grabbing her wrist and yanking her against him, his other hand tangling in her hair, tilting her head back.

"Still angry about the hunt?" He sneered, lips descending toward hers. "You need to learn your place, Adeline. A little gratitude would suit you better."

His kiss wasn't passion; it was punishment. Rough, demanding, his lips cold and wet from the rain. She turned her head sharply at the last second, and his mouth landed on her hair near her temple.

"Let go of me."

She did not raise her voice. She spoke with such controlled finality that the command stopped him before force could.

Kian froze. He pulled back slightly, searching her eyes. For the first time, he seemed to truly see her—the absence of the adoration that had always been there. The pleading, the hurt, the desperate love, all gone. In its place, a barren wasteland.

His brow furrowed, irritation and confusion flickering before he masked them. "What is this? You're acting like a child. Is this about Isabelle? I told you, she is my cousin. You must learn to be more generous."

He still thought it was jealousy. He thought he could solve it by asserting physical dominance, reminding her of her duties. His hand slid from her hair down her back, pressing her closer, his intent clear.

She took a steady breath. The scent of white roses was suffocating. As his head dipped again, she spoke, voice clear and precise.

"Kian."

The use of his name, spoken without a trace of warmth, made him pause again.

"Let's file for an annulment."

The air solidified. The sound of rain against the windowpanes seemed to fade.

Kian's body went rigid. The hand on her back stilled. The arrogant impatience dissolved, replaced by pure unadulterated shock. He released her as if burned, stepping back, eyes wide, staring at her as though she'd spoken a foreign tongue.

"What did you just say?" His voice was a hoarse whisper.

She stood tall, hands clasped before her, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I want to petition the ecclesiastical court for an annulment of our marriage."

She held his stunned gaze, her voice calm enough to make every word unmistakable.

"You have already taken enough of my life, Kian."

"You will not have another year."