"What?"
Vincent turned to Elias, his movent slow, almost chanical. The cold, logical part of his brain that had ticulously calculated his risks fractured.
The jagged edge of the news pierced through his composure, leaving a raw, pulsing anger in its wake.
The King’s brows furrowed, his voice dropping to an octave. "What is the aning of this interruption, Marquis? Has your wife really fled again?"
The throne room erupted into a low, buzzing hive of activity. The courtiers could hardly believe their ears; the scandal had evolved from a re dispute into an unexpected, full-blown farce. So couldn’t resist leaning into their neighbors, just to whisper snarky comnts about the Marquis’s inability to keep his own house in order, while the rest simply watched the scene unravel with wide, hungry eyes.
Vincent’s hands curled into tight fists at his side, his knuckles turning a ghostly white.
So... he had been right after all.
A bitter, hollow laugh threatened to bubble up in his throat. Of course. Why had he allowed himself even a montary lapse in judgnt? Why did he almost believe that the woman who wanted absolutely nothing to do with him, would finally accept him?
She had played him. The soft looks, the montary surrender— it was all a performance. She had been willing to offer herself to him simply to lower his guard, to make him believe she was tad, all so she could find the perfect mont to slip right through his fingers. And like a fool, he had played his ga right into it. Did she really hate him that much? Was being married to him such a nightmare for her?
He felt a murderous sense of resentnt. He should punish the incompetent guards who let her get away. He should—
"Your Majesty," William interrupted, his voice reaching a high pitch of hysterical triumph. "The Marchioness has fled from the Marquis’s estate. She couldn’t even stay for the title. She would rather face the dangers of the unknown than spend another night under his roof."
Hearing that Penelope had escaped sounded like absolute music to William’s ears. He felt a surge of smug relief wash over him. He had been worried by her strange, cold behavior during their last encounter, but he realized now that she was indeed acting. She was clearly playing the long ga, waiting for the perfect mont to flee that monster’s clutches and return to him.
The Baron appeared quietly satisfied, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light.
Last night, he and Genevieve had spoken in hushed tones about the wedding. Their plan was simple: once Penelope was wed to William, they could easily manipulate the young man to gain access to the vast dowry and assets Penelope had inherited from her mother’s side. That golden future would be ruined if she stayed as the Marchioness of Aelgard; Vincent was far too sharp and powerful to be swindled by a re Baron.
William may be the Count’s son, but he was a second son– not destined to inherit the title or the lands anyti soon. That was why this union was a chanical necessity for the Baron’s greed.
The Baron dropped to his knees before the king, his head touching the ground.
"Your Majesty, I implore that you command the Marquis to free my daughter before the honor of the court gets out of hand. I am thinking about what our society might say if we do not handle this."
"If she has fled," the king said, his voice dropping to a dangerous level of frost, "then she has made herself a fugitive of the crown’s decree. Marquis, if your wife is not found by sunset, this marriage will not be the only thing I am forced to terminate."
The threat was clear.
Vincent’s vision spun. The grand, gilded hall seed to tilt, the faces of the mocking courtiers blurring into a sar of colors. His ears began to ring, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the King’s further demands and William’s triumphant sobbing.
Penelope... cannot leave him.
For so reason, through the static of his crumbling posture, his mind flashed back to the chamber. He saw the way the candlelight had caught her eyes in the dim glow. He also rembered the tears that had slid down her cheeks when she looked at him and made the promise that she would never leave him.
"I promise," her voice echoed in his mind, clear and piercing.
Why? Why make such a sincere promise?
The cold, logical part of him scread that she had lied. But the part of him that belonged to Penelope, the part that refuses to entertain any negative thoughts about her, couldn’t reconcile the runaway with the woman who had looked at him with such raw honesty last night. She had apologized countless tis, and every intimate mont felt absurdly real.
He could not let her go.
To everyone’s unexpected shock, the Marquis dropped to one knee before the king, his head lowered as he implored, "Please... I accept that her absence is my fault entirely. I wish to take on her punishnt."
A ripple of genuine, stunned silence washed over the room. This wasn’t the behavior of the cold, arrogant Marquis of Aelgard. This was the act of a man surrendering his pride, his status, and his safety for a woman who wasn’t even there to witness it. Even the Baron’s mouth hung open, his rehearsed grief forgotten in the face of such a baffling sacrifice.
At this point, no one knew what else to say. The whispers that had been sharp and snarky monts ago turned into uneasy murmurs. To the courtiers, the Marquis had indeed been possessed by this woman- driven to a madness that defied the very logic of their world. The majority of won envied his loyalty.
"You wish to take on a punishnt rather than terminate the marriage?" the king said, leaning back,his eyes narrowing as he studied the back of Vincent’s neck. There was no pity in the Sovereign’s gaze, only a cold, clinical curiosity at seeing a powerful man break himself. "This was for your own good, but very well. Do not bla the crown for being rciless. If you choose to stand in her place, you shall bear the weight of your wife’s defiance."
The king gestured to the Captain of the guards who bowed his head. "If the Marchioness is not found, the Marquis will be stripped of his military standing and confined in the Black Tower until the crown is satisfied. Since he is so eager to be her shield, let us see how well he weathers the storm."
The sight of the Marquis kneeling in the dust of the throne room felt like a fever dream to those who knew him.
He’s a fool, William thought, his chest swelling with a dark, satisfied triumph. He is throwing it all away for a woman who is already gone. In William’s mind, Penelope was already miles away, fleeing to so romanticized sanctuary he had built for her in his delusions. Seeing his rival dismantle his own legacy was a bonus he hadn’t dared to hope for.
Elias, however, watched the scene with a heavy, sinking heart. He had been by Vincent’s side through years of hardship, sleepless nights, and brutal political maneuvering it took to secure the Aelgard na. To see the Marquis willingly offer his neck to the King’s blade for a woman who had apparently fled at the first given opportunity was incomprehensible.
Having witnessed the Marquis’s silent suffering for so long, it physically pained Elias to see him endure a new, deeper kind of agony. It was a humiliation His Lordship didn’t deserve.
It made his lingering resentnt toward the Marchioness deepen.
"My Lord, please," Elias whispered, his voice cracking. He wanted him to put this into consideration, but Vincent didn’t move.
The king signaled the guards to approach the kneeling Marquis. The tallic clink of their armor sounded like a funeral knell. For soone who saw great determination in the Marquis, the king was highly disappointed in him as well.
"A bit of discipline shall put him in shape," said the king, his voice devoid of any warmth. "He shall receive fifty lashes of the iron-tipped whip– one for every hour his wife has been a fugitive."
The guard approaching held a heavy, multi-tailed whip, the iron tips at the end of each lash glinting with a cold, jagged light. A collective shudder ran through the room; fifty lashes of such a weapon was not a re discipline. It was a sentence that could leave a man permanently scarred, if not dead.
Vincent’s expression remained a mask of stubborn composure. He did not flinch as the guard’s shadow fell over him. He rely closed his eyes, bracing himself for the first strike. If this was the price to keep the King from hunting down his wife like a common criminal, he would pay it. He would pay it ten tis over.
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