After Declaring Divorce, My Husband Became Lewd - CHAPTER 8_ Love And Hate (Part 4)

“Are you not going in today either?”

Fabian asked as he left Duke Calitheon’s office. Despite the implications of the question, Richt buried his head in documents, not giving eye contact.

Fabian was well aware that issues had arisen between Lady Calitheon and the Duke. However, the situation has worsened day by day. Ultimately, the carefully given advice from Fabian proved to be useless. There was no reconciliation; they lived almost as if they were separated.

The Duke of Calitheon rarely went home anymore, burying himself in work day and night.

In the morning, when Fabian arrived at work, Richt was always sprawled on the couch in a drunken state. The office was filled with empty liquor bottles to the point where it felt more like a home bar than a workspace, and amid the disarray, the disheveled Duke was in the middle of them all.

When Fabian first saw the scene, he almost freaked out. He had never imagined witnessing the Duke in such a state.

Gone was the shrewd, cool, and untouchable aura, replaced by a tramp who had given up on life. That’s how Fabian would describe the Duke of Calitheon, if he dared, he couldn’t think of any other way to describe him.

His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused as if he hadn’t slept well, and his complexion was unrecognizable; he looked like a soulless husk.

But when Fabian shook him awake, he came to his senses, organized his surroundings, and threw himself into his work, as he always did. To be precise, he clung to work as if it were a means of self-torment, not for the sake of perfecting his tasks.

Observing this scene every day, Fabian was reminded of a character from a novel he had read, a person with a split personality. The Duke of Calitheon seemed to be going mad with a completely different personality during the day and night.

But it was no use trying to stop him. Every day, he witnessed the Duke spiraling into madness.

Fabian knew that the only person who could remedy the symptoms of Richt Calitheon was his wife.

Although Fabian always looked at the Duke with a gaze full of worry, Richt seemed to have no intention of improving his life.

“Don’t worry about it. Go home and take a break already.”

Richt was aware of Fabian’s concerns, but he had no leisure to pretend otherwise. It seemed like he was openly displaying his incompetence to his subordinates, but ever since he confided his worries during his time in Dranselle, it was as good as exposing everything. Fabian couldn’t believe how incompetent his master was.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?”

In Fabian’s voice, as he looked at his changed master, there was an unmistakable mix of concern that couldn’t be hidden.

“Something is definitely not okay.”

In contrast to his response, the Duke’s face was filled with unease and lethargy. The depth and boldness of his features added a gloomy touch to his appearance.

“Are you going to spend the night drinking again?”

“Moderate drinking is a good practice for health.”

“But you don’t drink in moderation.”

Fabian let out a light sigh.

“If you’re going to nag me, just go home.”

“Don’t drink too much. I’m worried.”

With those last words, Fabian left the office for good. Left alone, Richt threw the documents he had been holding onto the desk and slammed it down.

Damn it!

How pathetic he must have looked in the eyes of his subordinates. He knew it was a genuine concern rather than mere nagging, but it still didn’t feel good.

Rising from his seat, Richt grabbed the whiskey left over from yesterday and moved to the couch. He desperately needed a drink. The only way he could make it through the night was if his mind went blank. The leather seat he slumped into was cold without warmth.

He poured the alcohol directly from the bottle into his throat without a glass. His chest tightened as the alcohol descended his esophagus. As he gulped down the strong liquor without any snacks, the intoxication gradually set in.

The reason Richt didn’t go home was because Isabelle’s due date was approaching. At this crucial time when the safety of her and the child was paramount, he wanted to avoid any friction if possible. He was afraid that an emotional Isabelle might decide to leave the Vechilin’s mansion.

Even if she didn’t accept him as her husband, he felt that under the care of Herta and Mrs. Mason, she could at least have some peace of mind. He hoped that until childbirth, his wife could stay in a safe and comfortable place.

When the bottle was empty, Richt brought out another. This one had a higher alcohol content than the one he emptied earlier. He wanted to quickly numb his mind.

It had been a long time since he last saw Isabelle. No matter how many times he counted the days with his fingers, there was still not enough time. The last time he saw Isabelle was her peacefully sleeping in bed.

The hand that had touched her rounded, swollen belly was clasped over his face. Isabelle’s scent was barely there. He inhaled the nonexistent fragrance of her lingering scent, closed his eyes, and leaned back against the backrest.

As his consciousness drowned in alcohol, he craved Isabelle even more. Ever since he’d heard her demand for a divorce, it had been fear that controlled him, a fear that imprisoned and tormented him.

His insomnia worsened day by day, and on nights when he barely managed to sleep with the help of medication, nightmares haunted him. Countless nights of forcing himself on his wife haunted him. In his dreams, Isabelle was always in tears.

His heart felt like it had been ripped out of his chest. He felt so pathetic that he’d been such an asshole, blinded by jealousy. He wished he had understood her heart. He wished he had not treated her so recklessly.

Richt’s mind and emotions wandered dozens of times a day.

On some days, he harbored a faint hope that one day Isabelle might forgive him, while on others, he sank into despair, convinced that he would never be able to change her mind for a lifetime. And then, on some days, he wallowed in endless self-pity.

He even deluded himself into thinking that maybe his presence was hurting her, that the only thing he could do for her was to quietly disappear.

‘You’re not fit to be a husband or a father.’

‘And, I don’t need you.’

The last conversation he had with her kept haunting his mind persistently. The torment eventually drove Richt to write a will last week.

In the will, he bequeathed all his possessions to Isabelle, designated her as the acting head until their child was born, the rightful heir of the House Calitheon, and grew old enough.

Every night, Richt held the will and pondered the purpose of his existence.

Was I someone Isabelle could rely on?

No.

Did she need me?

No.

What could I do for her?

…Nothing.

Then what was the point of living?

Why was this all I could do?

A stabbing pain surged through his heart. To forget the pain, Richt once again poured alcohol down his throat. That night, within his hazy mind, Isabelle visited him.

As she had done in Dranselle, she resented Richt and stabbed her throat with sharp shards. Blood gushed out like a fountain from her fallen body.

It was a nightmare he could never sleep through.