CHAPTER 250: CHAPTER 250: WINDSTONE IS HUNTING (2)

Windstone left without another word, the door closing on a silence that was anything but calm.

The corridor outside was quiet, but not empty. Two of his men were already in position, the kind of presence you didn’t notice until you were meant to. A brief nod sent them moving, one toward the security office, the other toward the east wing. The Capital manor staff had run this place for decades, some longer than Trevor Fitzgeralt’s father had even held the title, and they wore that history like armor. Today, it would not save them.

He didn’t care if they felt wronged. They had one job: to guard the Grand Duke’s household. They had failed at it spectacularly.

By the time he reached the main hall, the quiet rhythm of the manor had already shifted. The uniforms were different: black suits, plain ties, polished shoes, his people. They moved through the rooms with precision, slipping behind desks, accessing files, pulling security feeds onto their own devices. It wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t meant to be.

The Capital staff stood aside with tight mouths and stiff shoulders, some watching openly, others pretending to busy themselves with tasks they hadn’t touched in years. The resentment in the air was sharp enough to taste.

Windstone let it stand. Loyalty wasn’t measured by how much pride someone carried; it was proven in the moment their duty was tested. Today, this household had shown him it was hollow.

He started with the security office. Screens lined the wall, flickering through every hallway, gate, and service entrance. The head of the Capital detail, a man whose clipped tone had always bordered on insolent, rose when Windstone entered.

"This is not normal," he said.

Windstone stepped closer, close enough that the other man had to tip his chin up slightly. "So is letting a package reach the Grand Duchess without clearance. Sit down."

The man hesitated, then obeyed. Windstone scanned the logs himself, his eyes narrowing at the gaps, entries marked "verified" without signatures, timestamps that didn’t align. Every break in the chain of procedure was another nail in the coffin for this staff.

He didn’t pause. From the security wing, he moved to the service hall, pulling attendants aside one by one. Some stammered about orders they thought came from above. Others claimed they’d heard nothing and saw less. Each time, his men logged names, times, and inconsistencies. The truth wasn’t in the first answer, it never was, but in how quickly someone’s story shifted when the walls closed in.

The longer the hours passed, the more the Capital staff realized this was not an inquiry. It was a breakdown of the staff that should know how to manage the estate and be loyal by themselves.

And Windstone wasn’t leaving until there was nothing left to hide.

The interviews were methodical, and by the time Windstone returned to the main receiving room, the tension inside had thickened to something close to suffocation. The Capital manor’s core staff stood in clusters, whispers dying the second his shoes clicked against the floor.

The head butler, a man with the kind of lined face and polished manners that came from decades of service, stepped forward before Windstone could speak. His tone was clipped, brittle with the strain of someone unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of interrogation.

"This has gone far enough," he said. "We have served the Fitzgeralt family for three generations. If you wish to insult that legacy, by all means, continue. But understand this: if you insist on tearing apart this household, you’ll find yourself explaining it to Cardinal Benedict."

The silence that followed wasn’t just shock. It was the sound of a dozen pairs of eyes flicking toward Windstone, as if to see whether the name would land like a blow.

It didn’t.

Windstone’s expression didn’t shift so much as a fraction. "Cardinal Benedict?" he asked, the words almost mild. "You believe invoking him will shield you from answering for your negligence?"

The butler’s chin lifted a fraction higher. "I believe His Eminence will not take kindly to...."

"Enough."

The single word landed like a gavel.

Benedict.

It was a name that had no place in this mansion and every soul in the room knew it. House Fitzgeralt and House D’Argente had publicly, irrevocably, and with more than a touch of spectacle, severed their political and financial support for the clergy six months ago. No more donations, no more gilded seats at Cathedral events, no more carefully staged public blessings. The split had been a line in the sand.

And yet here, in the heart of the Fitzgeralt Capital manor, a servant dared to imply that a member of the clergy, worse, a cardinal, could dictate what happened under this roof.

Windstone’s gaze sharpened, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet enough to force everyone to listen. "You will explain to me, very carefully, why a clergyman believes he has a voice in this household’s affairs. You will explain it before I decide that what we have here is not incompetence, but treason."

The butler’s polished composure wavered, his mouth opening, then closing.

Windstone didn’t give him the chance to recover. "Every person in this manor is now under house arrest until further notice. My men will escort you to your quarters. No phones, no messages, no contact outside these walls. Anyone found attempting otherwise will be detained and moved to secure holding."

A murmur rippled through the staff, disbelief, then outrage, but his men were already moving, pulling radios from their jackets and issuing orders through low, clipped tones.

"And extend that to every worker assigned to this household," Windstone continued, eyes still on the butler. "On shift or not. I want them here within the hour."

The butler’s face blanched, the implications finally sinking in.

"You have one job," Windstone said, stepping forward until the older man had no choice but to meet his gaze. "You failed it. Spectacularly. Pray that the Grand Duke speaks for you when I am finished, because right now, your only shield is that His Grace has a sleeping omega in his arms."