Lorraine's eyes blinked rapidly, her thoughts racing to find an answer. Deep down, she didn't want to leave Vaeloria. She had built an empire here, a hidden world beneath the Redlight District's flickering lanterns, where every shadow obeyed her.
Yet, staying was no longer safe.
With her husband's return and with no new wars in the foreseeable future, Vaeloria's politics would shift. As the Crown Princess of Kaltharion, daughter of Duke Arvand, and secret Madame of courtesans, her existence was a spark in a pile of dry straw.
If her double life came to light, it would spark chaos, and Leroy's head would be the first to fall after hers.
She hated it. Intensely. She hated how her every choice revolved around him, a man who saw her as useless, a mistake that burdened his life.
She had fought for so long, her spirit worn thin. But, leaving him forever..? Her throat tightened, a flicker of hope stirring despite her pain.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and relaxed her grip on her skirt's soft silk. "If he allows me to skip my father's ball tomorrow," she said, her voice low, stepping forward through the tunnel's damp chill.
Sylvia nodded, following closely, her eyes soft with understanding. The Princess still wasn't over her husband, Sylvia thought, her heart heavy. She knew that feeling from her own bitter marriage, where one kind act from an abuser could chain a woman's heart, guilt trapping her in pain. Sylvia hoped Lorraine wouldn't stay in a loveless cage. Not everyone got a chance to break free.
"At the royal gala yesterday," Sylvia said, her voice careful, "the daughter of Viscount Norton jumped from a balcony. She's gravely injured, with little hope of survival."
Lorraine stopped, her breath catching. Sylvia explained how the young lady caused a scene, blaming her husband for refusing to consummate their marriage before she leapt, her cries echoing through the shocked crowd. "She cursed him as she fell."
"She's married for a year or so, and her husband returned from the war recently, didn't he?" Lorraine asked.
"She's been married only seven months, Your Highness," Sylvia added.
"Only seven months?" Lorraine asked, stunned. She knew the lady, who was pampered by her father and accustomed to getting her way. But jumping? For an unconsummated marriage? It seemed extreme.
Lorraine's thoughts turned to her own marriage—ten years, still a virgin. And yet, she never once considered such a desperate act.
Wait…
Last night's events flooded back to her memory: her accidental fall from the window, Leroy's frantic leap to save her, his attempt to force himself on her, stopped by her slap.
If he'd left the gala early because of the lady's suicide attempt, his actions made sense. Perhaps he felt guilty, fearing Lorraine might do the same. He might have misunderstood her accidental fall as if she meant to end her life.
His refusal to leave her side, his clumsy advance, might have been an attempt to honor their marriage. But why had he stopped earlier?
Her hands trembled as the truth hit her. He stopped because he was warring with himself. He knew he should honor their marriage, but he couldn't go through with it. Because his heart belonged to Elyse, not her.
The realization crushed her, her heart crumbling like dry leaves. He should be struggling to honor a marriage he was forced into. She should set him free. Set herself free.
Leaving Vaeloria was the only way forward.
-----
Meanwhile, Emma stood at the manor's window, overlooking the garden's lush greenery. The Prince hadn't asked about Lorraine all day, and she felt relieved. Her gaze fell on Cedric, standing under a tall tree, speaking to Zara. Their conversation was intense, Zara gesturing sharply, her voice cutting through Cedric's pleas. She walked away, proud as a peacock, her silk dress shimmering in the sunlight. Cedric leaned against the tree, dejected, his shoulders slumped.
Emma's eyes darkened, jealousy burning within her. She had known Cedric since they were children. She thought he was smart. But he too…
Why was everyone so captivated by Zara? What made her so special? Emma's heart twisted, envy sharp as a blade.
-----
That evening, Lorraine decided to walk in the garden, her only refuge. Vaeloria's strict rules, shaped by her father's influence, barred her from hosting garden parties or balls. Marrying a hostage prince meant that she was not Vaelorian anymore.
Duke Arvand's power reached far, his disapproval a heavy chain from her childhood. Defying him once had left scars—faint, silvery marks on her skin, etched by his anger. Invitations to other ladies' events never arrived, blocked by her father's will and Elyse's cruel whispers.
Marrying Leroy, a prince with little authority, had freed her from her father's house, but not his control. The one good thing about her marriage was stepping out from under his direct leash. She could escape the pain.
With social gatherings denied, Lorraine turned to gardening. Her hands, buried in warm, dark soil, planting tiny seeds and nurturing them to bloom, eased her pain. Tending the flowers, watching them grow, gave her hope for a better future. She breathed in the garden's sweet scents, strolling slowly, Emma following with a pouch of roasted nuts, their earthy aroma mingling with the roses. Lorraine often lost herself here, forgetting time as she worked the earth.
"The hydrangeas need weeding," Lorraine said, heading toward their patch. This year, the hydrangeas bloomed majestically, their vibrant blues and purple pinks lifting her spirits. She wanted to linger among their soft petals. But as she approached, strange noises stopped her: sharp, metallic clangs, like swords striking in a fierce duel.
Her heart raced, and she hurried forward, her skirt brushing the grass, Emma close behind. Sir Aldric stood at the hedge archway leading to the hydrangea patch, his face tense. He turned at her footsteps, letting out an apologetic sigh, his eyes heavy with regret.
The clanging grew louder, joined by another sound… grunts of effort, low and urgent, knotting Lorraine's stomach with dread.
Lorraine stepped into the archway, her breath catching. There, among her cherished hydrangeas, two figures fought, their swords flashing in the twilight. Petals lay crushed under their boots, the blooms trampled into the dirt.
Her husband and his mistress. Laughing, sparring… not minding her, or her flowers.