CHAPTER 111: THE DESPAIR OF TRUTH

Leroy’s gaze snapped to Aldric. Surely he would deny it. Aldric had known him longest, had marched with him through fire and famine. He should know. Leroy did not take mistresses.

Well, he had one. The Swan Divina. Two, if one counted Lazira. But that was his wife.

Technically, he had none.

Aldric knew. He must know. Leroy could not stomach the scent of another woman. His wife’s scent was the only one he could bear. The thought of holding another as he held her... it made his skin crawl, his chest itch as though his own flesh would revolt against him. The very idea might break him out in hives.

Him? With a mistress? With Zara of all people? Zara—the soldier he had saved from certain death and taken in as one of his own men?

Did Cedric truly think him so vile? Did they imagine he would force his wife to share a roof with some favored woman? That he was an insolent beast who mocked her dignity?

His eyes found Aldric again. Say something. But Aldric said nothing.

Leroy’s stare burned toward Emma. You, too. Say it. You must have heard my wife. She knows me. She would never believe such filth of me. She would defend me. She must.

But no words came. Their silence struck harder than any blade.

The world tilted. In that silence, he understood... his wife believed it too. She thought him a man who would betray her bed, bring another woman into her home, and command her to tend to her rival.

His chest caved. His throat burned.

He had been apart from her for years, fed on nothing but rumors. Yet not once had he doubted her. Not once. Not once had he thought her capable of betrayal, because he knew her.

And yet she thought this

of him.

His heart splintered into shards. Rage and despair twisted in his ribs like a spear. Death itself would be kinder than this.

Leroy bowed his head. His fists dug into the carved oak of his armrest until the wood groaned. His eyes reddened, his jaw twitched, the cords of his neck strained as though trying to hold back a scream as the truth settled.

How could she doubt me?

-----

Lorraine hurried through the streets, her breath coming too fast, skirts gathered in her hands. She had meant to ask Damian about the shadow her father had kept hidden all these years, but Leroy’s gaze had driven the thought clean from her mind.

She needed to be home. Dressed. Waiting. He mustn’t suspect she’d been here. Surely he hadn’t seen her. Surely.

Then... A sudden impact. Hard. She stumbled back as if she’d struck a wall. No, not a wall. A man. Standing facing her as if waiting for her.

A hand clamped her shoulders, steadying her. "Lorraine? I thought it was you..."

Her stomach dropped. Beneath the hood of rough wool gleamed silken fabric too fine for the crowd. She looked up, and her blood ran cold.

Lysander. Her brother.

"What are you doing here?" His eyes swept the crowd with suspicion. "Are you alone?" Then, with a sharp intake of breath, his gaze raked her borrowed dress. "Did you sneak out like this?" His voice dropped to a furious whisper.

Before she could answer, he seized her hand and pulled her forward, cutting through the press of bodies. Lorraine stumbled after him, glancing back, searching for Sylvia. She stood hidden in the crowd’s shadow.

Good. Let her stay hidden. Let her watch. If anything went wrong, at least someone would know where she’d been dragged.

Lysander led her into a tea house and requested a private cabin. The door slid shut, muting the bustle of the street outside. He exhaled heavily, as though he had carried this weight too long, and ordered tea neither of them would touch.

"I have to leave," Lorraine signed quickly. Her chest was tight with unease. Leroy would return home soon. She should be there—waiting, composed.

"No." Lysander caught her hand across the table. His grip was firmer than she expected. He leaned forward, his hood slipping just enough to reveal the tension in his jaw. "I’ve been meaning to tell you something."

He stood abruptly on the chair, peering into the corridor, checking each adjoining cabin. Only when he was satisfied did he sink back down, his expression haunted.

Lorraine frowned. She had expected shrewdness from him; he had, after all, taken command of their father’s businesses after the ball. But this... this paranoia, this hunted look... it unsettled her.

He began to sign again, fingers trembling. "Do you remember our mother’s head maid? During her last days?"

Lorraine blinked. What a strange question. But memory had always been her weapon, her way of surviving pain. She saw flashes of red hair, sharp green eyes, a kind hand slipping her morsels of food.

"Aralyn," she signed slowly. "After Mother passed, she was sent to the kitchens. She used to sneak me bread... but... I don’t know what became of her."

Lysander’s lips barely moved as he whispered, "Aralyn... Noble Light. A noble name for a humble maid."

Lorraine’s stomach twisted. His hands shook as he signed again, his face pale. His whole body seemed to quiver under the secret.

"Listen to me, Sister," he pressed his lips. "I found this woman in one of Father’s dungeons a couple of months back. She told me something..."

He gripped her fingers tight, and his hand was so cold she startled. His breathing was shallow, uneven.

Her heart pounded. Damian had been right. Her prediction was also right. And Lysander had found her.

Finally, he raised his eyes to hers, and his signing cut through her world like a blade.

"Father... That accident. The one that killed Mother. The one that left you deaf..." His throat worked as though the words choked him, even though he signed it. "Father orchestrated it... so he could marry his mistress and legalize his bastard children."

Lorraine jerked back, her breath seized in her chest as the truth was revealed.

And no, Lysander was not finished yet.

Lysander gave a strangled laugh, though his eyes brimmed with tears. "I was spared because I was a male." His lips twisted. He squeezed her hand as if begging forgiveness. "I’m sorry, Sister."