CHAPTER 71: THE WHISPERED SECRET

"Don’t waste this on fury," Damian whispered. "There are better things to do with fire."

Lorraine’s breath hitched. His mouth was only heartbeats from hers now. And though she hated it—hated it—her body remembered his reputation. The honeyed words. The veiled power. The silk-wrapped dagger of a man who killed with fans and smiled while doing it.

He leaned in closer, as if about to kiss her.

But Lorraine didn’t flinch.

Didn’t back down.

Didn’t run.

Instead, her gloved finger lifted. Slowly, deliberately, she traced the line of his lips, then ran it just beneath his nose.

"Do it," she said, her smirk curling like smoke. "And I’ll show you magnificence you won’t recover from."

For a moment, the air was thick with tension—desire, defiance, something darker neither of them wanted to name. Ten seconds passed in silence.

Then Damian suddenly staggered back.

"Wha—what did you... what did you do?" His fingers pressed to his forehead, confusion flashing across his features.

Lorraine, no, Lazira, as they knew her in this world, turned her eyes on the room. Icy blue. Sharp as a command.

The guards and servants quickly obeyed, scattering out the door and closing it behind them. The silence left behind was heavy.

Damian stumbled into a chair, blinking hard, his body loosening as though gravity had grown stronger around him. His limbs slackened. His grip on reality tilted.

Still, he managed a smile through his haze as if he realized what she had done. "You are one amazing woman, Lorraine..."

Lorraine stood tall again, her spine straight, voice cool. "I don’t have time for games, Damian."

"Pray tell, fair lady... Am I going to die?" Damian asked. He tried to stand, but he couldn’t.

Lorraine tugged off one glove and examined it with mild disdain. "A little vyrnshade oil... a trace of lull-root. Just enough to make you... pliant."

She approached him slowly, like a queen to her prisoner.

"I came here to end this, not flirt my way through another round of palace intrigue."

Damian blinked, then gave a breathy, slurred chuckle. "You poison your suitors now?"

"I poison my problems," Lorraine replied coldly. "And you forget... Married women don’t have suitors."

He laughed again, slower this time. "Your husband? Isn’t he the one who returned with the mistress? The one said to roll in the divine halls of your other accomplice?"

Lorraine’s eyes narrowed. "Accomplice?" She tilted her head. "You mean, The Swan Divina?"

Damian massaged his temples, blinking as though he hadn’t meant to speak aloud. "I know you two work together," he muttered. "Must sting... watching her wrap your husband around her little finger."

So, he was keeping tabs. How much did he know? More than he should, clearly, but not enough to put together that she and the Divina were one and the same.

Lorraine smirked, but there was an edge to it. "Careful. You’re blaspheming against a divine woman, blessed with the foresight of the gods. She’s not one of my courtesans."

"Is she?" Damian murmured, rubbing his eyes. His hooded gaze lifted, dreamy but sharp beneath the haze of poison. "You’re trusting her a bit too much, aren’t you? I’ve heard things... sounds from the divine halls. Sounds only the greatest of courtesans could coax from men." He scoffed, bitter. "And gods? Whose gods? Yours? Mine? Or the forgotten ones buried in dust and desperation?"

Lorraine’s ears flushed hot. The insinuation struck deeper than she wanted to admit. Were they really that loud? She hadn’t thought so...

"I trust the payment she makes to me," she said curtly. Her cloak hissed softly against the carpet as she walked, black velvet gliding like a shadow. She pulled off her mask, revealing her face at last, and sat opposite him.

The mask meant nothing now. He knew.

"Then tell me, Damian. Why do you want me?"

The prince’s head lolled back against the chair. He smiled faintly, and the smile broke something in her. "I want to be used by you," he said.

Lorraine blinked. A pause stretched. She leaned back slowly, legs crossing, chin lifted with cool poise.

Damian met her gaze, barely lucid, yet frighteningly honest. "You understand, don’t you?" he murmured. "The need to be useful... even when they don’t see you. The need to cling to something—anything—just to feel like you matter. Have you ever felt that way about someone?"

Lorraine swallowed hard.

She had.

That clawing instinct, that ache to serve, to be of use, just so someone might keep her around. So someone might see her. To claw and hold onto the will to live by any means. The need to survive somehow. She thought she’d buried that desperation years ago, but now, staring at him, she recognized it in him. In herself.

She said nothing. But her silence cracked under the weight of understanding.

Damian’s voice grew softer. "My family abandoned me, and I’m getting passed around like a plaything... Your father wants you dead, and your husband forgot your existence. You’ve heard the rumors about your father’s plans, haven’t you?"

"Tell me something I don’t know," Lorraine said, her voice suddenly low. Cold. Regal. Hardened.

She couldn’t afford to get drawn into another broken soul. Not when she was still putting herself back together. Not when she had just started dreaming of freedom.

"I’m not looking for pity. Or company in misery," she said, voice sharper now. "If you want to be useful to me, Damian, then prove it, like the Divina did."

Her eyes gleamed like winter steel. "How can you be useful to me?"

"I know something that would rattle the very foundations of Hadrian Arvand." Damian’s voice dropped to a whisper. "Someone even he fears. And I’m not talking about the Dowager."

Lorraine’s interest piqued. Her chin tilted slightly. "I’m listening."

And Damian didn’t disappoint.

By the time he finished, Lorraine was already rising from her chair. Her gloves brushed against her skirts as she turned, the fire in her steps deliberate. The information Damian gave her wasn’t just useful; it could be dangerous. Dangerous enough to light a fuse beneath the empire.

"That’s it?" Damian stood up with a flick of his wrist, almost insulted. "You’re not going to thank me? I gifted you Cassian. And now this? You enjoyed it, didn’t you?"

His words dripped with charm, but his eyes gleamed sharp beneath the haze she had left him in. He was coming back to himself now, fully.

Yes, he had killed Lord Cassian for her. And for himself.

No, he didn’t need to tell her he found Cassian already dangling, half-choked on a rope someone else had strung.

He simply finished it. Finished what someone had already finished, if it made sense. And what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. He loved that twinge of gratitude and the feeling of being adored in her eyes. He’d do anything for it again. Lying was nothing.

Lorraine sighed, pausing at the door. "You can work for me," she said, slipping her mask back on with practiced grace.

And with Sylvia still veiled in disguise, following behind, she descended the stairs, her thoughts storming behind the curtain of her mask.

Damian’s information shifted everything.

But halfway down, the hair at the nape of her neck prickled. That feeling again... being watched.

Her steps slowed. Her gaze lifted.

And there, across the gilded corridor, framed by the shadows of the colonnade...

Leroy.

Tall. Unmistakable.

Golden mask catching the light.

Eyes locked on her.

Lorraine’s heart seized.

He was looking directly at her.

Could he tell?

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t recognize her... right?

But her pulse betrayed her, thudding against her ribs like a guilty drum. Because even if he didn’t know her face... he always recognized her eyes.

He will, won’t he?