The Grand Duke's Soulmate-Chapter 573: Her breaking moment

Sylvia watched in silence as Drystan lifted the spoon to her grandfather’s lips. The broth no longer steamed; its warmth had faded with time.

"I’m full..." the marquess protested, his tone petulant, almost childlike.

"Just a few more sips, and we’ll finish the bowl," the knight coaxed patiently. "It would be a shame to waste it."

Liam pulled a long face at being ordered so plainly, but he relented nonetheless, opening his mouth with a grumble and eventually finishing his meal.

With the knight present, the Marquess’s once-volatile temper had eased into something quieter—an odd, reluctant compliance.

He no longer lashed out as sharply, took his medicine without outright refusal, and the pallor that had clung to him for days was slowly giving way to colour.

"Has Danica been fed today, Sylvia?" Liam asked suddenly, turning his clouded gaze toward Sylvia, who sat beside her husband.

The noble lady startled at being addressed, blinking in surprise.

"W–what?"

"I asked whether you’ve fed our Danica," the marquess repeated.

Sylvia hesitated. Her gaze flicked instinctively to Drystan, fear pressing her. One wrong word could undo all the fragile progress they had made with her grandfather.

"Grandfather, Danica hasn’t been born yet," the knight said gently. "We’ve spoken of this before."

Liam’s brow furrowed for a fleeting moment. Then the tension eased from his features.

"Ah... yes... Sylvia is newly pregnant. I remember now." He chuckled softly. "Forgive me. This old man is simply too eager to meet his great-granddaughter."

Sylvia caught the tightness in Drystan’s expression; the guarded focus in his eyes, and the flattening of his lips.

A ripple of worry swept through her. Was he growing tired of her grandfather’s declining mind, confusion, and misplaced affections?

She could hardly blame him if he were. Who could endure such a sudden shift of moods and fragile delusions of an old man no longer able to distinguish imagination from reality?

The invention of Danica itself was painful enough, yet no one dared correct the Marquess outright. Even Drystan trod carefully.

Rather than denying the child’s existence, he chose the kinder half-truth—that she still rested in her mother’s womb. To invent a living infant, one they couldn’t produce on the spot, would have been a far crueller lie.

"It might be a boy, grandfather," Sylvia said softly, following Drystan’s lead. "It’s too soon to tell."

"I know it will be a girl," Liam insisted, his eyes bright with conviction. "I felt the same when your late grandmother carried your mother. The feeling is no different."

Sylvia lowered her gaze, her eyes heavy with grief. Drystan squeezed her hand gently, silently assured her that everything would be fine.

"Whether it is a girl or a boy, we will love our child unconditionally," the knight said evenly. "What matters most is that Sylvia and the baby are healthy and happy."

Sylvia returned his words with a wistful look, offering a small, restrained smile.

"If it’s a boy, that is fine as well," the marquess added cheerfully. "It’s just that we hardly have girls in the family. It would be nice to have a few." His smile widened. "You are both young and healthy. Surely, you can manage."

Drystan’s gaze shifted to his wife. The subtle tension in her expression did not escape him. Of course, he understood why Sylvia seemed troubled by the request.

"We will see to it," he replied calmly. "Our marriage is still new. We haven’t even reached a year yet. Give us some time."

"Of course," Liam agreed with a nod. "There is no need to rush the next one when you are already expecting the first."

Sylvia’s heart sank.

A year—that was the duration of their marriage contract. When the term ended, they would part ways, divorce amicably, and return to lives that were never meant to intertwine for long.

At the beginning, the arrangement had seemed fair. Neither of them desired an arranged marriage, yet circumstances had cornered them into accepting it. Tolerance, not affection, had been the foundation of their union.

But as the months passed, Sylvia found herself changing.

Drystan had been unfailingly kind to her family. He never once complained about the long days spent at the mansion, and never showed irritation at her grandfather’s unpredictable moods.

He shielded her quietly from sharp remarks, unreasonable expectations, and the weight of responsibility she had carried alone for so long.

He listened when she spoke, understood even when she did not explain, and stepped in without making her feel indebted or weak.

Where could she ever find another man like him—one who could walk beside her with such patience and dignity?

And yet...

She could not bind him to her out of selfishness.

Everything about this marriage had benefited her more than him. Drystan had relinquished his bachelorhood and willingly entangled himself in her family’s burdens.

He endured her grandfather’s senility, humoured an imaginary child, and appeased her family, all with composed grace.

He made it look effortless, as though this role suited him perfectly. But Sylvia knew better. No matter how naturally he carried himself, it was still a sacrifice he had never been obligated to make.

"Why don’t you both go and get some rest?" Denise suggested, noticing Sylvia’s distant expression. "You’ve been attending to your grandfather quite frequently. You must be exhausted."

"It’s all right," Drystan replied calmly. "It’s not that late yet."

"Well, it ought to be bedtime soon, and your grandfather needs to retire early," the Countess said. "I’ll take it from here."

Sylvia hesitated, reluctant to leave, but Drystan gave a slight nod.

"You’re right," he said gently. "Sylvia and I should rest. We’ll come back first thing tomorrow morning."

Denise nodded, relieved. Even Liam raised no objection, remarking instead that his little ’Danica’ also needed proper rest to grow strong in her mother’s womb.

With that, Drystan and Sylvia took their leave, slipping quietly out of the Marquess’s chamber.

The couple strolled together along the corridor, their footsteps the sole noise disrupting the quiet. The hallway felt unusually empty, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Drystan glanced towards his wife, but the shadow obscuring her face made him hesitate. Something weighed heavily on her—something more profound than the lingering grief he had noticed in recent months.

He considered asking, yet an instinct held him back. Whatever troubled her now was not something words could ease. Some thoughts needed silence more than comfort.

They entered their chamber without a word and proceeded directly to the bedroom.

"Let’s turn in early tonight," Drystan said at last, breaking the quiet. "Tomorrow will be another long day."

Sylvia nodded faintly.

"I’ll wash up. Won’t be long," he said, heading towards the adjoining washroom.

When the washroom door closed, Sylvia sat at the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap. The quiet invited her thoughts to wander once more, to the knight who shared her life in name.

To anyone observing, they appeared to be a devoted couple; attentive, gentle, and united. Yet, she knew how carefully that image was crafted.

At night, Drystan slept beside her, close but never crossing the invisible line between them. He never touched her beyond what propriety demanded, never took advantage of the role fate had assigned him.

The only time he had held her fully, pressed a kiss to her brow with quiet solemnity, was on their wedding night.

Since then, he had kept his distance with unwavering respect.

Sylvia lowered her head, staring down at the floor, her chest tightening with emotions she dared not name.

In a marriage built on agreement rather than affection, Drystan had given her kindness, protection, and dignity—everything except the one thing she was uncertain she should wish for.

And that, perhaps, was what frightened her most.

Half of their contract period had already elapsed. The realisation hit Sylvia with quiet dread. It would not be long before the remaining half also slipped away, just silently.

By then... would she be able to live without him?

Would she truly have the strength to let him go... to return his freedom to him as promised? And would she be able to watch him walk away, unburdened, to seek a life and a love of his own?

The questions pressed down until breathing itself became difficult. She had grown accustomed to his presence — to his steady voice, his patience, and the way he stood between her and the world without ever seeking recognition.

Life without Drystan no longer seemed imaginable. And with that, a soft, broken sound escaped her throat.

Sylvia covered her mouth, but the tears came anyway, rolling free despite her efforts to hold them back.

Her shoulders shook as the burden of impending loss overwhelmed her, raw and suffocating. She had already lost so much. She did not know if she could bear another goodbye.

The washroom door opened quietly.

Drystan stepped out, fastening the cuff of his sleeve, when the faint sound of her sniffling reached him. His movements halted at once.

"Sylvie?" he called gently, crossing the room.

She tried to answer, but her voice broke. "D-Drystan..."

One word. His name. And yet it carried more pain than any explanation could.