CHAPTER 87: TO GET BACK

Morning came, and Lorraine was a storm wrapped in silk. She sat in her rocking chair, not rocking out of leisure but out of barely-contained irritation, the kind that could peel paint if it had a voice.

Emma burst in with a bright smile as she was excited with the brilliance of her plan. But one look at Lorraine’s face was enough to tell her all she needed.

Her smile died instantly. She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to.

Her eyes caught the torn nightgown on the floor, and her lips pressed into a tight line before she turned and left without a word, skirts swishing in retreat.

She was sick today and would be resting.

Sylvia, who had been quietly brewing tea, just rubbed her forehead. So, that was why Emma had insisted on dressing the princess last night. She’d suspected some scheme, but now the evidence was there. A failed seduction and a proud princess spurned.

Sylvia’s own dislike for the prince deepened. He had hurt her princess. Again. He would sleep with any woman but his wife. She couldn’t believe how little he thought of the princess. Her blood boiled. But perhaps there was a silver lining — this only strengthened Lorraine’s resolve to leave.

That thought used to give her a sense of relief. But today... her heart clenched for some reason. Yeah, that reason was spelled A-L-D-R-I-C. She could only sigh with her wavering heart.

Lorraine, in her current mood, couldn’t care less for breakfast. She waved away the food tray and ignored the sealed missives piled on the desk. Sylvia opened them instead, skimming until something caught her attention.

"Last night, the Emperor, in a drunken fit, decided he wants a public ceremony to receive yearly taxes from the vassal states. He’s ordered it to happen within a week. That means the Kaltharion family will remain here until then...and other royal families will arrive this week."

Lorraine stopped rocking. Her brows knit. "Why would that cockscomb want a ceremony for something usually delivered by ambassadors?"

Sylvia’s tone was dry. "He wants to show his power. All the other royals kneeling before him. A spectacle."

"Ah." Lorraine’s lips curved, but not with humor. "Then he must feel the legs of his throne shaking. Hadrian Arvand’s anger does that. That man will take everything down with him when he falls."

Her voice softened just slightly, almost as if admitting something to herself. "I may not like claiming him as my father, but I understand him."

She and her father were not so different in certain regards. By the grace of the heavens and every god that ever meddled in mortal affairs, she had inherited her mother’s face, yet there was no denying Hadrian’s blood ran through her veins.

"The red-light district will be busy for a couple of weeks then," Lorraine said, happy. With more royal families and their posse arriving, there will be more income for her.

Lorraine reached for parchment and began scribbling orders in quick, decisive strokes. These were instructions for her people, but as her pen slowed, her eyes narrowed.

"Sylvia," she said, tapping the quill against the page, "arrange me a meeting with that prince. I have an account to settle with him."

Sylvia blinked. She didn’t ask questions, but her gaze drifted to the parchment as she took it.

Odd. The princess had ordered her shinobi to stop spying on her father... and to shadow Prince Leroy instead. It was totally not understandable in this political climate.

Before Sylvia could puzzle it out, her hand was already on the door handle. She opened it, only to freeze.

Because standing there, as though he’d been waiting all morning for this exact moment, was Aldric.

The moment he saw her, his face lit up with that same irrepressible grin she’d seen the other night. She hadn’t given him an answer back then, but ever since, he’d been walking around with the permanent expression of a man who’d just won the whole world. She’d even caught him in the garden before sunrise, practicing some elaborate dance move, clearly thinking that no one was watching.

She was watching. And it was... adorable. Which, of course, only made her feel more pressure.

Before she could decide on an appropriate reaction, she found herself smiling back. But she quickly reeled it in and replaced it with her usual chilly composure.

"What do you want this fine morning, Sir Al?" she asked flatly, because if Aldric was here this early, it almost certainly meant that

prince wanted something.

"The prince wants the princess to prepare for a portrait," Aldric announced. "A formal one. Full regalia, tiara and..." He cut himself off as Sylvia’s glare turned sharp enough to cut velvet.

"I misspoke," he corrected smoothly, clearing his throat. "The prince begged—yes, begged, with tears streaming down his noble face—for the honor of taking an official portrait with his dearest, most beloved wife."

Sylvia’s glare didn’t waver.

Aldric only shrugged and stepped past her, planting himself in front of Lorraine. He repeated the request while speaking and signing at the same time.

Sylvia waited for the inevitable explosion, because there was no way the princess would agree. Not after last night. Even if the prince’s intentions were harmless this time, he didn’t get to act like nothing had happened.

But Lorraine simply tilted her head, blinked prettily... and agreed.

Aldric’s eyebrows shot up. Sylvia’s jaw went slack.

And just like that, the princess was getting ready.

She went all out: a sapphire-blue gown with a tightly laced bodice and flowing sleeves, the waistline drawn high and regal. Pearls, glittering gems, rings, necklaces, brooches—enough to make the sun jealous. The elaborate headpiece sparkled so brightly, it might have been visible from the next kingdom.

When she descended the stairs, Leroy was already waiting in his own finery: an embroidered doublet with fur trim, the velvet and brocade gleaming under the light. A wide belt clasped with a dragon-shaped buckle—his sigil—hugged his waist, and a medallion rested against his chest. And of course, his mask, a new, softer, and elaborate one this time.

For a moment, Leroy simply stared. Lorraine, too, couldn’t help but stare at him.

Lorraine, weighed down by what felt like the combined contents of a royal treasury, had to descend at a slow, deliberate pace. When she reached him, Leroy offered his arm, slipping into smooth courtly formality as he led her toward his study.

There, they posed for the portrait.

And if the air between them still hummed with everything left unsaid from the night before... well, the painter would just have to work around that.

And work, he did. A lot.

Lorraine might have stood there like an obedient little doll, at least in appearance, but her mind was busy plotting. She hadn’t agreed to this portrait out of wifely duty. Oh no. This was war by other means.

She’d agreed purely to get back at him for last night’s insult to her pride.