The snow had stopped falling an hour ago, leaving the forest road silent except for the wind. Rosalind Greymont lay in a drift beside the path, her cream traveling dress soaked through, her left arm bent at an angle that promised pain if she tried to move it. Blood had dried along her temple where her head struck a rock when Caspian Holtworth pushed her from the carriage.

She remembered his face in those final moments.

Not angry, not cruel—just practical, like he was discarding something broken.

“You know too much, Rosalind,” he’d said, his voice steady over the sound of the storm. “I gave you a choice. Keep quiet.

Marry me. Play your role.”

“But you had to be righteous. You had to threaten to expose everything.”

She’d found the ledgers three days ago, hidden in his father’s study during what was supposed to be a pleasant visit to the Holtworth country estate.

Numbers that didn’t match. Investments that didn’t exist. Dozens of families—widows, orphans, elderly lords who trusted Lord Holtworth with their money—all of them being systematically robbed.

When she confronted Caspian, demanding he make it right before she would marry him, he smiled.

That same charming smile he’d used when he proposed.

“You’re very noble,” he’d said, “and very foolish.”

The next morning, he suggested a romantic carriage ride through the forest to clear the air before the wedding. She believed him because she wanted to believe him.

Fool.

Now she lay in the snow, watching her breath form small clouds that dissipated into nothing. The cold had stopped hurting twenty minutes ago.

She knew what that meant.

Her body was giving up.

No one would find her. This road was barely used in winter. Caspian had planned it perfectly: when she didn’t return, he’d express concern, organize a search party in the wrong direction, and eventually declare it a tragic accident.

He’d say she insisted on walking ahead when the carriage wheel stuck.

“I lost sight of her in the storm.”

Her family would grieve. The wedding would be canceled. Caspian would wait a respectable period, then marry someone else—someone who didn’t ask questions—and the families he was robbing would never know.

Rosalind closed her eyes.

She tried to do the right thing.

It had killed her.

The sound of hoofbeats made her eyes snap open. A single rider moved fast through the forest, probably someone trying to get home before dark. She tried to call out, but her voice was barely a whisper.