Reborn: The Duke’s Obsession

Eric's heart was full, watching Delia eat with a freedom and happiness he had never seen in her before. It was a simple, domestic moment, but it felt more significant than any business deal he had ever signed.

As he took a final bite of his own food, Delia asked him, her voice quiet and serious, pulling him from his happy feeling.

"What are you going to do, Eric?"

He looked at her, his fork pausing mid-air.

"About what?"

"Your brother," Delia replied, her expression turning worried. "He won't break off his new alliance with Anne so easily. I saw the way he looked at you. He believes you will threaten his spot as the head of the family, and now he wants to use Anne to solidify his position."

Eric's happy expression became serious. The light in his eyes dimmed. He looked down at the remaining food on his plate and started poking at it with his fork, a gesture of deep unease. "I know that," he replied, his voice a low murmur.

"You can't just let it be," Delia insisted gently. She paused, seeing the way his shoulders tensed, the way he was playing with his food, a clear sign of his inner turmoil. She decided to voice the difficult, dangerous question that had been on her mind. "What if… what if you go back to the Carson Textile Establishment, Eric?"

He stopped his restless gestures with the food and slowly looked up at her, a look of genuine shock on his face. "That's ridiculous," he said, his voice and his expression completely serious, a knee-jerk reaction born from years of pain and pride.

But then, as he looked at her, at the genuine, worried concern in her beautiful blue eyes, the hardness in his own expression softened. A small, sad smile touched his lips, and his voice lost its defensive edge. "At least," he said quietly, "that is what I would have said before I met you."

A distant memory, as vivid and as colorful as one of his own dyes, came into his mind. A memory of a time when the world was a simpler, happier place, a time before brothers became rivals.

He was twelve years old, and the Carson Textile Establishment was his favorite place in the entire world. It was a vast building, filled with the earthy smell of wet wool, the sharp, clean scent of fixing agents, and the constant, rhythmic clatter of the great looms, a sound that was like a heartbeat to him. His grandmother, the Dowager Duchess Elena, was in the main workshop, her sleeves rolled up, an apron stained with a rainbow of colors tied around her waist. She was sitting with the other women of the weavers' department, showing them the beautiful new shades they had just perfected for an upcoming collection.

"Grandma!" he had said, running at full speed across the vast, stone-flagged floor to hug her, his young legs carrying him with an unrestrained joy.

"Oh my goodness, Eric, slow down!" Elena had laughed, a warm, genuine sound as she opened her arms to receive him. "You will trip over your own feet!"

He had enveloped her in a tight, enthusiastic hug, burying his face in her familiar, comforting embrace, not caring at all that the brilliant blue dye from her apron was smearing all over the front of his clean, white shirt.

"See now," she had said, holding him at arm's length and looking at the new stain with a mock-stern expression. "I have gone and ruined your nice clothes."

Eric had just laughed as he looked down at the bright blue splotch. "No, you haven't," he had declared. "It's pretty."

She had then shown him one of the freshly dyed textiles, a bolt of heavy silk that shimmered with an incredible depth of color. "Do you know what this is, my dear?" she had asked, her eyes twinkling.

Eric had nodded, his expression serious and thoughtful as he gently touched the fabric. "Yes, Grandma. It is a dyed fabric."

Elena had held his cheeks playfully in her dye-stained hands. "That's right, my intelligent little boy." She had then asked him another question. "And do you know what all these beautiful dyed fabrics are for?"

He had shaken his head this time. "No."

"It is for our new spring line collection," she had replied, her own eyes shining with the pride of a master craftswoman.

He had looked at the fabrics that were being sorted by the workers, at the way they were being separated into two large piles. He noticed that one pile was full of dark, rich colors—deep burgundies, forest greens, and royal blues—while the other was full of light and airy shades—pale yellows, soft pinks, and sky blues. Elena, noticing the curious, thoughtful expression on his face, had been about to explain, when he spoke first.

"The dark colored ones are for the winter clothes," he had said with a child's simple, unshakeable certainty. "And the light colored ones are for the spring clothes."

Elena had been genuinely surprised by his accurate deduction. She had asked him, "And why did you say that, Eric?"

"Because Mother told my nanny one time to only dress me in light-colored clothes during the spring and the summer, so that I would not get too hot," he had replied innocently, his logic simple and yet perfectly sound. "So I thought it must be the same thing for everyone's clothes. But I don't know if it's the same here."

Elena had smiled, a look of pure, grandmotherly pride on her face. He had then taken her hand, his own small, clean hand lost in her capable, dye-stained one. "When I grow up," he had said, his voice full of a passionate sincerity that was far older than his years, "I want to do the work that you do, Grandma. I want to mix colors and dye fabrics and make beautiful things that make people happy."

Elena's smile had widened, and she had pulled him into another hug. "You will, my dear," she had promised him, her voice full of a love so deep it was a physical presence in the noisy workshop. "You will, for sure. And soon, you will know all of these things, and so much more."

The warm, happy memory faded, leaving behind the cool, quiet reality of the present.

"The Carson Textile Establishment," Eric said, his gaze returning to Delia, his eyes full of a deep, sad feeling, "it was like my home. It was the place where I could explore my passion and my interests. But now…" He looked at her, at the woman who had brought so much chaos and so much joy into his life, and his expression softened. His voice was full of certainty.

"But now, home is wherever I am with you." He reached across the table and took her hand, his thumb gently rubbing her knuckles. "And to protect that home," he said, his voice a solemn vow, "I will do anything. Even if it means that I have to go back to that place. Even if it means I have to face him, for you."

He held her hand with both of his now, a gesture of complete and utter devotion. He brought her knuckles to his lips and pressed a soft, lingering kiss on them, a silent, solemn promise that she was now the most important thing in his entire world, more important even than his own hard-won freedom.