The chandeliers of Ashworth Hall, typically a beacon of warmth and revelry, seemed to cast long, skeletal shadows that night. Ethan, unable to shake a growing unease about Isolde’s welfare, had excused himself from a tedious conversation about agricultural improvements with Lord Davenport and wandered the less-populated corridors of his own home. He told himself he was simply seeking fresh air, but the truth was a gnawing anxiety propelled him.

He’d been meticulously studying the financial documents his solicitors had managed to procure regarding the Fairmont estate. What he’d found was… concerning. A series of increasingly desperate investments, a pattern of borrowing against future inheritances, and a disconcerting reliance on a man named Silas Blackwood, a known usurer with a reputation as black as his name suggested.

It was late, almost midnight, yet a sliver of light spilled from a drawing-room rarely used, one located far from the main entertaining areas. Curiosity, and that nagging unease, drew him closer. He paused, his hand hovering over the ornate doorknob, hesitant to intrude. But a raised voice, sharp and laced with a desperate edge, decided for him.

He pressed his ear against the thick oak.

"I need more time, Blackwood. The ruby mines were supposed to yield a profit by now!" It was Lady Beatrice, Isolde’s aunt, her voice usually a carefully modulated weapon of social control, now frayed and thin.

A voice, gravelly and cold, responded, "Time is a luxury you can no longer afford, Lady Beatrice. Our agreement was clear. The debt is substantial, and your… collateral… is looking increasingly appealing."

Collateral. That word hung in the air, heavy with implication. Ethan’s blood ran cold. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, what – or rather, who – Blackwood was referring to.

"Isolde is… she is my niece!" Beatrice protested, but the protest lacked conviction. "I won't allow you to…"

"Allow? You are in no position to allow anything, Lady Beatrice. The notes are signed, the agreements are binding. The season is drawing to a close, and the Duke of Thornton has already expressed interest in Miss Abigail. You need a more… substantial offer to settle your obligations." The lecherous tone in Blackwood's voice was unmistakable.

Ethan felt a surge of white-hot rage. Isolde, the woman he was beginning to care for deeply, was being bartered like a piece of property, a pawn in her aunt’s reckless game. He pressed harder against the door, ready to burst in and throttle the man, but he held back. He needed information. He needed to understand the full scope of the conspiracy.

"But Isolde… she despises him! She would never agree," Beatrice whispered, her voice laced with a mixture of fear and, surprisingly, a flicker of genuine concern.

"Her agreement is inconsequential. Consider it a patriotic duty. Securing a match with a man of his wealth and influence would salvage the Fairmont name, wouldn't it? Besides," Blackwood continued, his tone turning oily and manipulative, "you know she is a sensible girl. She understands the weight of responsibility. She wouldn't want her family to be… disgraced."

The silence that followed was punctuated only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Ethan could practically see the wheels turning in Lady Beatrice's head, the internal battle between familial duty and outright greed.

"What guarantees do I have?" Beatrice finally asked, her voice barely a whisper. "That he will… that he will uphold his end of the bargain?"

"Guarantees are for fools, Lady Beatrice. You have my word," Blackwood scoffed, a dark laugh rumbling in his throat. "And my… reputation. Rest assured, the Duke of Thornton understands the value of discretion. He is not a man who likes to be… disappointed."

Ethan had heard enough. He needed to get away, to process what he had just overheard. He quietly backed away from the door, retracing his steps with the stealth he’d honed during his cutthroat days on Wall Street. He needed a plan, a way to expose the conspiracy and protect Isolde without alerting Lady Beatrice or Blackwood to his knowledge.

He found himself in the library, the familiar scent of aged paper and leather strangely comforting amidst the turmoil in his mind. He paced restlessly, the image of Isolde, trapped and vulnerable, burning in his memory. He thought of her artistic talent, her sharp wit, the loneliness he had glimpsed behind her carefully constructed facade. And he knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within his soul, that he wouldn't allow her to be sacrificed for the sake of her aunt’s greed.

He sat down at the massive mahogany desk, pulled out a sheet of parchment, and began to write. He needed information, leverage, a way to dismantle the Fairmont debt piece by piece. He would use his knowledge of future market trends, his understanding of financial instruments that were decades away from being invented, to outmaneuver Blackwood and expose his predatory practices.

But it was more than just business. It was about Isolde. He was no longer playing a game, no longer simply trying to rewrite a predetermined narrative. He was fighting for her future, for her happiness, for the chance to see the true Isolde, the woman hidden beneath the ice, finally blossom.

He spent the next few hours poring over financial reports, scribbling notes, and formulating strategies. The first step was to acquire a controlling interest in Blackwood's primary lending institution, the ominous-sounding "Mortmain Financial." From there, he could unravel the web of debt and expose the fraudulent practices that were keeping the Fairmonts teetering on the brink of ruin.

As the first rays of dawn began to filter through the library windows, painting the room in a soft, ethereal glow, Ethan knew he had a long and arduous road ahead. He was going up against powerful and ruthless adversaries, men who would stop at nothing to protect their interests. But he was no longer the ruthless Wall Street hotshot he once was. He was Lord Ashworth, protector of Isolde, and he would fight with every ounce of his strength and ingenuity to secure her freedom.

He crumpled the sheet of parchment in his hand, a determined glint in his eye. The game had changed. This was no longer a matter of social reputation or predetermined roles. This was a battle for Isolde's soul, and he intended to win. He glanced out the window at the awakening world, a world that would soon learn just how formidable Lord Ashworth could be when defending the woman he was coming to love.