Chapter 102: The Unbearable Weight of Tenderness
❖ Chapter 102: The Unbearable Weight of Tenderness ❖
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The low growl of a dog echoed somewhere in the fog of his mind.
Johannes Schulz muttered a curse under his breath as the memory of his confrontation with Isaac Prim clawed its way to the surface. He had always believed himself to be a man of purpose—sharp-edged and calculated. A tactician. One who, when the path demanded it, carved new roads with unwavering resolve.
But even the most disciplined of men meet their exceptions.
This… was his.
He could have ended it, tied it off like a well-rehearsed military maneuver. And yet—he faltered.
“If you look around the house, you will see familiar patterns. Commander, you will definitely be able to find it.”
“…Is this your father’s unofficial seal?”
“You’ve already seen it. You’re right.”
Isaac had spoken not just with calculation, but with a trembling desperation—a man wielding secrets like blades, not to wound, but to protect.
As Johannes stepped back into the familiar chill of his residence, the scent of ash still clinging to his coat, he made his way to the quiet hearth and set Edith gently by the fire. His gaze locked onto the modest picture frame perched upon the wall—so ordinary in appearance, yet layered with whispered meaning.
A painting of his mother, Leah Schultz.
And behind it, the mark.
The seal.
Lucas Schultz’s personal crest—unofficial, unspoken, and unmistakably his. Hidden in plain sight, like a secret too loud to be silenced.
…Had it been placed there on purpose?
It must have. Johannes’ jaw tightened. The royal family, rabid in their suspicions, would have searched this house thoroughly after Porche Max’s treachery. That the frame remained undisturbed meant only one thing:
Isaac had placed it there recently.
He wanted it found. He wanted him to find it.
And as if the walls of memory heard his suspicion, a small leather-bound notebook slid from behind the frame.
He caught it midair.
When he flipped through its contents, Johannes could not help the faint, ironic smile that tugged at his lips.
Account ledgers. Transaction histories. Vast sums of money flowing through veiled accounts. Proof—not of guilt, but of intent.
“I don’t want to lose anyone anymore.”
Isaac’s voice rang again, heavy and hollow.
Yes, it made sense. If this book ever found its way into Windsor hands, both Isaac and Edith would be painted as conspirators. As traitors.
“Call me a coward if you must. I just… couldn’t risk it.”
The ledger made it clear: everything Johannes had sought—the power, the means, the independence from Old Mrs. Russell—was within his reach. He no longer needed her influence. Not anymore.
Isaac, even in hiding, had given him the answer he was looking for.
“Please… let her go.”
The fire crackled.
Johannes turned toward Edith, seated beside him, her silhouette cast in dancing amber light. Her gaze was fixed forward, but her thoughts… her thoughts were a sea of turbulence.
That shade of green in her eyes—so like Isaac’s—pierced him.
He looked away.
“Do you love Edith?”
The question came again—not in words, but in the silence, in the way his own thoughts trembled beneath the surface of logic.
Love?
No. No—he told himself. Love had nothing to do with this. It was mere concern. A calculated need to preserve what was now under his protection.
…Right?
If love had no place here, then letting go was the righteous path. Let the world believe he had discarded her. Let the newspapers spin it into another tale of nobility’s cruelty.
At least she would live.
But then she spoke—so soft, so sudden, the words landed like frost.
“Actually, I don’t trust the Duke.”
Her gaze met his, calm yet wounding in its honesty.
Johannes’ breath caught.
Of course she didn’t. She shouldn’t. She had every reason not to.
But when her next words followed—
“Did you have anything to do with my father’s death?”
—a hollowness bloomed inside him. So that was the reason for her distance.
He began to speak—quietly, carefully. First to soothe her. Then, because he had to.
But Edith was not done.
“It means that you are shaken by the Duke. So I was confused the whole time.”
Tears. Shimmering at the corners of her eyes.
And in that instant, Johannes’ carefully constructed detachment shattered like brittle glass.
He had tried. God, how he had tried to stay away. To protect her from what he carried. To choose the path of reason.
But no logic could brace him against the sight of Edith Prim weeping beside him.
“Did I ever say that? You always break the rules I set.”
“Edith Prim, I regret ever becoming involved with you in this way. Whatever it is.”
The words came out colder than intended. A barrier. A lie born of desperation.
He wanted to believe it.
Yet the truth loomed large.
He could never watch her walk away.
Not now. Not after everything.
“If you make up your mind to divorce Edith… then do so mercilessly. Make her hate you.”
Isaac’s request rang again.
Johannes clenched his fists.
How could he?
How could he ever hurt the woman who trembled at his silence, who cried at his detachment, who offered sympathy even as he bled beneath the weight of duty?
If this was love—then it was not sweet.
It was not gentle.
It was a terrible, consuming ache that stripped him bare and laid him before her feet.
Maybe it wasn’t love.
Maybe it was selfishness—draped in longing.
But as he kissed her that night, with the fire casting shadows on their entangled souls, Johannes Schulz understood one thing:
He could no longer pretend.
Not to her.
Not to himself.
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