Chapter 210: Behind The Door
Ivan stood watching Lydia, her sobs echoing faintly down the empty corridor. She was still curled on the floor, broken, trembling, lost in grief. His heart ached. Every sound she made cut straight into him.
All he could think about in that moment was that day at the riverbank.
The memory replayed itself in his mind again and again, as though life wanted to punish him. He saw her clearly — soaked from head to toe, her clothes clinging to her skin, her face streaked with tears. She had been crying so hard her shoulders shook, her body trembling under the weight of her sorrow. And he had just stood there, a few steps away, watching her. Watching the woman he loved fall apart, yet unable to move.
He had told himself it was his fault. All of it. That he had no right to go to her. That maybe she would be better off if he stayed away. But even as he tried to convince himself, something inside him screamed to move, to go to her, to comfort her.
He had taken one small step forward, his breath trembling in his chest. But then, before he could say her name, her body crumpled. She fainted right there by the river.
"Lydia!" he had shouted, his voice breaking. His heart stopped in panic as he rushed forward, kneeling beside her. He pulled her into his arms, his hands shaking. "Lydia, Lydia, are you okay?" His voice cracked as he spoke.
Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow. He hugged her tightly, his chest pressed against hers, his voice desperate. "I’m sorry... I’m sorry... I shouldn’t have left you. Please, forgive me. I shouldn’t have done this to you. I’m here now. I’m here. I won’t leave you again."
She stirred faintly, exhaustion weighing down her body. She was not gone, only drained, her strength consumed by grief. He cradled her closer, whispering softly, "Don’t worry... I’m here. I won’t ever let go. I promise I won’t leave you again."
His arms tightened around her fragile frame, as if by holding her he could protect her from every sorrow, every wound that had ever touched her. He lifted her carefully into his arms, her head falling against his shoulder.
As he walked back, his heart hammering, he suddenly ran into Irina. She had been searching frantically, her face pale with fear.
"Your Highness!" she cried, her hands trembling as she reached toward Lydia. "Is she okay? Why is she drenched like this?"
"She’s just sleeping," Ivan said quickly, though his own voice was not steady. "She fainted. But she’s fine now."
Irina’s eyes filled with tears, her lips quivering. She touched Lydia’s cold hand gently, then looked at Ivan, her voice breaking. "My poor child... she has suffered too much. She watched her parents die when she was only a child, and now... now she has to watch her own child die. It is too much. Too much for one heart to bear."
Her words made Ivan’s throat tighten. He carried Lydia back to the small cottage, his mind blank, his heart heavy.
Inside, he laid her softly on the bed. Her chest rose and fell slowly, her face pale but peaceful in her sleep. Irina sat by her side, stroking her hair with trembling hands. Tears slid silently down her cheeks.
"My poor child," she whispered again, her voice aching with sorrow. She bent close to Lydia, her fingers brushing her forehead tenderly. "How could you try to do this to yourself? My poor, poor girl..."
Ivan stood nearby, watching. His whole being ached with guilt. He had never seen her look so fragile, so broken. She was a woman who had once been fire, strength, and stubborn love. Now she lay before him like a shattered glass that could never be whole again.
Anastasia entered quietly, holding a basket of Lydia’s wet clothes. She looked at Ivan with concern. "Your Highness," she said softly, "your clothes are wet too. You will get sick like this. There are fresh clothes in the store. Let me fetch them for you."
Ivan did not answer at first. His mind was too far away, lost in Lydia’s face, in the rise and fall of her chest, in the memories of the child they had lost.
"Your Highness?" Anastasia pressed gently, her voice full of worry.
Finally, he nodded faintly. "Yes... alright."
She hurried away and returned with a bundle of fresh clothes. He took them without much thought, his movements slow, mechanical. His heart was too heavy to feel anything else.
He left the room to change, his hands clumsy, his mind still blank. When he returned, his steps carried him back toward Lydia’s room. His heart beat faster as he reached the door. He wanted to go in, to sit beside her, to tell her the truth that he had never abandoned her.
But as he touched the door handle, he heard her voice.
It was soft, broken, trembling.
"It was all my fault," she whispered. "I couldn’t protect him. I couldn’t do anything to protect him. God, I’m so tired of everything. I can’t breathe. I feel suffocated. I just want it all to end."
Ivan froze, his chest crushing in on itself. Every word was a blade piercing his heart. He wanted to go in, to tell her it was not true, to tell her she was not at fault. But before he could move, Irina’s voice spoke inside the room.
"No, Lydia," Irina said firmly, her tone both tender and fierce. "It is not your fault. You did nothing wrong."
Lydia’s voice trembled again. "Then whose fault is it, godmother? Tell me. If it wasn’t me, then who?"
There was a pause, a heavy silence, and then Irina spoke words that made Ivan’s hand stiffen on the door knob.
"It is his Highness," Irina said. Her voice carried both sorrow and anger. "It is all his fault."
Ivan’s heart stopped.
Inside the room, Lydia turned, her tear-stained face looking at Irina with wide eyes. "What do you mean, godmother?"
Irina’s hand stroked Lydia’s hair as she whispered, "You did nothing wrong. You tried your best. But everything is his fault. He abandoned you. He abandoned your baby. He trampled on your love for him. If not for him, your baby would still be alive and healthy. All you ever did was love him genuinely. But he paid you back with this. Do not blame yourself, my dear. Do not carry this weight. Blame him. Put it on him."
Her voice broke as she hugged Lydia tightly, rocking her as if she were a child again. "Do not forget that. You did nothing wrong. It was all his fault."
Ivan stood frozen on the other side of the door, his chest so tight it hurt to breathe. His hands trembled against the knob. He could have gone in. He could have opened the door, stopped Irina’s words, told Lydia the truth. He could have begged her to hear him.
But he did not.
Because deep inside, he felt Irina was right. He had failed her. He had failed their child. And perhaps, Irina only said those things to save Lydia from hating herself. Maybe this was the only way for her to survive — to carry her pain by turning it into anger against him, instead of crushing herself with guilt.
So he stayed silent.
He stayed at the door, listening to her soft sobs, to Irina’s gentle words. And when he finally stepped back, he felt something inside him break completely.
Maybe he should have opened that door. Maybe he should have spoken. Maybe he should have told her the truth. But now, it was too late. Too late to apologize. Too late to fix anything.
Because now... she hated him.
He turned away from the door, his steps slow, his heart heavy as stone. Each step felt like it dragged him deeper into the ground.
Inside, Lydia trembled in Irina’s arms. She lifted her head slowly, looking toward the door as if expecting someone. But the space was empty. He was gone.
A bitter thought sank into her heart like poison. I was right, she told herself. He doesn’t care. I regret it all. I regret loving him. I regret believing in him. I regret everything.
A little further down the hallway, Anna had been standing quietly. She had seen everything — the way Ivan stood at the door, the way he turned away, the brokenness in his eyes. Her own heart filled with grief. She could not help either of them. All she could do was watch, powerless, as the two people who once loved each other so fiercely now tore themselves apart in silence.
And in that silence, the pain lingered like a wound that would never heal.