Vessant Estate - Night of the Gala
Alaric sat at his desk. The bandages around his ribs showed beneath his open robe. Each breath hurt.
The demon assault had broken three ribs, maybe four. That's why he'd missed the gala.
Reports kept arriving. Each one made his jaw tighter.
"Your wife was magnificent, my lord." That from his steward an hour ago.
"Three powerful men pledged themselves to her tonight." The latest message, still warm in his hand.
He'd been stuck here. Injured. Unable to attend while his wife conquered the entire court.
The door burst open.
Evelyne stumbled in. Still wearing that wine-stained gown. Makeup streaked down her face.
She looked destroyed.
"You shouldn't be here," he said without looking up.
"Alaric, I had to explain."
"Explain what?" His voice went cold. "How you managed to destroy both our reputations in one night?"
She flinched. "I was trying to expose her manipulation."
"You exposed us." He gestured at her ruined dress. "Every servant in this estate heard about the Duke's longtime mistress publicly humiliated."
Her hands clenched in the wine-stained silk. "I did this for you."
"Protect me?" He finally looked at her. "I've spent the last hour receiving reports. Three men pledged themselves to my wife. Duke Vorenthal, Lord Gravenor, Marcus Branthorne."
He stood slowly. Winced. Sat back down.
The weakness made him angrier.
"While my wife was building an empire, you were proving every ugly rumor true."
Tears streamed down her face. "You're blaming me for their interest in her?"
"I'm blaming you for being reckless." His voice rose. "We can't be seen together now. Not for weeks."
The floor seemed to drop out from under her. "You're cutting me off?"
"I'm protecting what matters." His jaw set. "I cannot lose Seraphina."
The words hit her like physical blows. Not his position. Not the political alliance.
Seraphina.
"After everything we've been through?" Her voice shook. "Years of planning, of being your partner?"
"Partners don't create liabilities."
"She's manipulating you. Can't you see?"
"What I see is a wife who commands real respect now." He turned away. "The court watches her with admiration."
Ice spread through Evelyne's chest. "You're choosing her."
"I'm choosing not to lose her." He met her eyes. No apology. No warmth. "Which means you stay away."
Worse than being cut off. She was his mistress on paper, but frozen out of everything that mattered.
"Alaric, please." Panic clawed up her throat.
She crossed to him. Hands reaching for his chest.
He stepped back. Away from her touch.
The rejection stung worse than any words.
"Please." Her voice broke completely. "We've been together for years, you can't just throw me away"
"I can. I am."
Desperation made her reckless. "Let me prove it. Let me show you what she can't give you."
Her hands slid down toward his belt. Trembling fingers working the buckle.
She dropped to her knees on the wine-stained silk.
"Evelyne." Warning in his voice.
"Just let me." Her hands shook. "You'll remember why we're good together."
His hand caught her wrist. Hard. Stopping her.
She looked up. The ice in his eyes made her blood freeze.
"Get up."
Not desire. Not even anger.
Disgust.
"Get up," he repeated, releasing her wrist like it burned him. "Now."
She rose on trembling legs. Face burning with humiliation far worse than the gala's public shame.
"That's what you thought would work?"
His lip curled.
You're kneeling in a ruined dress, trying to seduce a man who can barely stand.
"I thought..."
"You thought you could use my injury." He adjusted his belt with sharp movements. "That I'm weakened enough to forget my wife's loyalty is worth more than any pleasure you could offer."
The words landed like physical blows.
"I don't want to see you, Evelyne." Each word deliberate. Cutting. "Not your face. Not your body. Not until the scandal dies."
Even from his seated position, unable to rise without pain, he dominated the room completely.
"The arrangement stands. You're still my mistress. On paper." Pause. "But stay away from me until I decide otherwise."
She was bound to him, but replaced in everything that mattered.
"Use the servant corridors. No one can see you here tonight."
She stumbled toward the door. Tears streaming.
As her hand touched the handle, his voice came again. Tired now.
"Don't come back until I summon you." Pause. "That might be a very long time."
She fled through empty corridors. The wine-stained gown trailing behind her like a flag of defeat.
He'd rejected everything. Her tears. Her begging. Her body.
The one weapon she'd always relied on.
Useless.
Alaric sat alone after she left.
Reports scattered across his desk. Each one about Seraphina's triumph.
Three men. Three powerful alliances.
He couldn't stop replaying scenes he hadn't witnessed. Caelan standing too close. Gravenor making declarations. Marcus pledging devotion that made the court swoon.
Not upset about her success. He was proud of owning something so valuable.
But furious that other men were publicly desiring what was his.
He poured more wine. His ribs ached. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt.
She was his wife. His.
And they needed to remember that.
Morning brought new reports.
Advisors arrived early, congratulating him on his wife's gala triumph.
"House Vessant's position has never been stronger, my lord."
But underneath their congratulations, other whispers.
Servants avoiding eye contact. Nobles exchanging meaningful glances.
The affair with Evelyne. Now publicly confirmed by her spectacular humiliation.
He could hear fragments as people passed his study.
"...caught with the Malenthra girl in compromising..."
"...years, apparently, right under the Duchess's nose..."
His hand tightened around the quill until it snapped.
Evelyne's disaster had exposed their secret.
His hands clenched on the desk. Does Seraphina know?
She hadn't confronted him. No angry letters.
Maybe the rumors hadn't reached her yet. She'd been surrounded by suitors all night.
If he acted fast, he could control the narrative before she heard.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter."
A man stepped in. Nondescript clothing. Not noble, not servant.
"My lord. The report you requested."
Alaric gestured for him to continue. This was the watcher he'd hired to observe the gala.
The man opened a small leather journal. "Duke Vorenthal followed the Duchess to a balcony. They were alone for seventeen minutes."
Seventeen minutes.
His blood went cold.
"Lord Gravenor sent private correspondence to the Duchess this morning. Poetic in nature."
Poetic. Courting her with words while Alaric was stuck dealing with injuries.
"Marcus Branthorne's eighty thousand gold pledge has generated marriage speculation among merchants."
Marriage speculation. About his wife.
While she was still married to him.
"The court believes all three men are actively pursuing the Duchess's favor. Romantically, not just politically."
The man closed his journal. "Will that be all, my lord?"
"Yes. Leave the written report."
After he left, Alaric stared at the document.
Two threats. The affair rumors spreading. And three rivals courting his wife.
But there was an opportunity here.
Demon assault rumors had been circulating. Border crisis escalating.
If the rivals were distracted by war...
If he could isolate Seraphina while they were gone...
If he could bind her emotionally before she heard the affair rumors...
He started drafting orders. Plans forming.
A visit to D'Lorien estate. Surprise her with devotion. Remind her who her husband was.
Show her he was willing to abandon court duties just to be with her during this emotional time.
Whatever it took to secure her loyalty before the rivals could interfere.
His quill moved across parchment. Calculating. Planning.
She doesn't know yet about the affair.
He still had time.
Time to secure her loyalty before the rumors reached her ears.
She was his wife.
And he would make sure she remembered that.