Chapter 80 - Eighty

Words : 1232 Updated : Sep 21st, 2025

Chapter 80 of "Reborn: The Duke's Obsession" commences with: Philip leaned forward, his expression now cunning. "It would be good for us to lay... Don’t miss the next part!

Philip leaned forward, his expression now cunning. "It would be good for us to lay our cards on the table, you and I. It would be good for us to find a way to work together." Delia’s mind was reeling. "Money he stole?" she repeated, the words feeling foreign in her mouth. "What are you talking about?" Her grandfather was a proud man, but she had never known him to be a thief. Philip chuckled, a low, condescending sound. He then tapped his cane on the floor three times, a sharp, rhythmic sound that drew all attention to him. He stood up. "Look, Lady Delia," he said, his entire demeanor changing. The mask of the sympathetic fellow outcast was gone, replaced by the cold authority of a Duke. He walked closer to her, his steps slow and deliberate, until he had almost closed the distance between them. He loomed over her, a physically intimidating presence. "You need to understand the game you are playing..." Just as he was about to continue, a hand, firm and unyielding, was placed on his chest, stopping him and pushing him back a step. "Get away from her," Eric’s voice commanded, low and dangerous. "Now." Philip stumbled back a bit, surprised by his brother’s sudden appearance. He quickly recovered, his expression shifting to one of pleasant surprise. "Eric! What is this?" he asked, as if he had just noticed him. "I thought you would be occupied with your work, as you always are." He smiled, a picture of innocence. "You sneaky rat," Eric replied, his own voice a low growl. He moved to stand slightly in front of Delia, creating a protective barrier with his own body. "Who knows what you are plotting now? I felt I needed to put up an iron wall of defense, no?" Philip turned his gaze to Delia, his expression now one of a wounded victim. "You see?" he said to her, his voice full of feigned hurt. "He is calling his own brother a rat, simply because he wanted to take a moment to get to know his future sister-in-law. Why would he react this way, so aggressively, if he wasn’t feeling guilty about something?" "Shut your mouth, Philip," Eric said, his patience gone. Philip looked at his younger brother, a mocking, pitying smile on his face. He wasn’t afraid. He was enjoying this. "Why?" he asked softly, his tone a deliberate provocation. The silence in the quiet inn was suddenly thick with years of unspoken resentment. Philip continued, his eyes glinting with a cruel light. "If I don’t, will you push me like you did then? All those years ago?" The direct reference to their shared trauma was a lit match thrown on dry wood. Eric walked closer to him, closing the distance between them until they were only a few feet apart. Delia watched, her heart pounding in her chest, a sense of dread washing over her. Philip didn’t flinch. He seemed to welcome his brother’s anger. "This time, Eric," he taunted, his voice suddenly low sounding like a whisper, "make sure you kill me for real. If you don’t, I could always run my mouth even worse than I already have." That was it. The last thread of Eric’s control snapped. He grabbed the collar of Philip’s expensive coat and, with a furious shove, threw him backwards. Philip’s elegant walking cane clattered loudly on the wooden floor as he fell to the ground in a heap. Delia opened her eyes wide in shock, her hand flying to her mouth. From the floor, Philip looked up at his brother, a triumphant, bloody smile on his face. A trickle of blood was already escaping the corner of his lip where he had bitten it on impact. "Yes," he breathed, goading him on. "Now finish it. Don’t be a coward like you were the first time." Eric stood over him, his fists clenched, his body trembling with a rage so profound it seemed to consume him. He was ready to lunge, ready to punch him in the face. But then, an image flashed in his mind, a hallucination born of his deepest guilt. His younger self stood beside the fallen Philip, his small face streaked with tears, his voice a terrified cry. "Don’t kill my brother! Please, don’t kill him!" The ghost of his own past self, the weight of his lifelong guilt, was enough. Eric moved back, stumbling away from Philip as if he had been burned. Philip, seeing that Eric was backing out, that his psychological torment was working, decided to provoke him one last time. He turned his bleeding, smiling face towards Delia. "Be careful, my lady," he said, his voice full of false concern. "He might do this to you one day, when you make him mad." The thought of Philip even speaking to her, of him trying to poison her mind against him, was too much for Eric. His fear was instantly replaced by a fresh, even more powerful wave of protective anger. He walked back to where Philip lay on the floor and grabbed his collar again, ready to finally silence him. But before he could land a punch, several of the inn’s workers, hearing the commotion, rushed into the room. They grabbed Eric’s arms, trying to restrain him. "Let go of me!" Eric roared, struggling against their grip. "Let go!" They pulled him away from his brother. "Say that again!" he shouted at Philip, his voice raw with fury. "Unhand me! Unhand me this instant! Let me go!" Delia could only watch, her mouth open in shock. She didn’t want to believe that this was the same man who had so gently cared for her, who had teased her about her cookies and promised to protect her. She didn’t want to believe that Eric could be such a violent person. The scene was a chaotic nightmare of shouting men and her fiancé, a powerful Duke, being held back like a common brawler. Upstairs, in a private dining room overlooking the main hall, Anne Ellington was watching the entire scene unfold. She had been there the whole time, a secret observer to the entire confrontation. In fact, she had followed Philip, just as she had followed Eric the night before. She was observing the kind of man Duke Philip was—a master manipulator, a brilliant instigator—and she was deeply, utterly intrigued. What better way to ruin Delia’s precious marriage, she thought to herself, than to side with someone inside the Carson family, someone who is already not in support of the union? She looked down again, at the chaotic scene below. She saw the innkeepers finally dragging the struggling Eric out of the room. She heard his furious shouts echoing down the hall. "How dare you say such things to my face! Unhand me this instant! Let me go!" She then looked at Philip, who was still on the floor, a smug, triumphant smile on his bloodied face. He was laughing softly to himself. And then, her gaze shifted to the ultimate prize: Delia. She saw the look on her stepsister’s face, the way she stood frozen, her expression one of pure, devastated shock. Anne loved it. She savored the sight of Delia’s perfect world crumbling around her. She smiled to herself, a cold, satisfied expression. This was better than she could have ever planned.

Chapter 80 - Eighty

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