Helen stood alone on the stone terrace, its surface broad and weather-worn, carved from thick slabs that had endured centuries.
From where she stood, the city below shimmered faintly—a smattering of distant lights like embers on black silk. Her arms folded tightly over her chest, not from the cold, but from the heaviness inside her.
"My child…" she whispered, voice cracking, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
The palace behind her was finally quiet. The celebration had ended. Guests had trickled out, and their gilded carriages rolled away toward their distant estates. Among the most honored visitors still within the royal palace were Duke Lawrence Carrington and his wife, Helen—invited to stay on as negotiations quietly proceeded between the King and the Carringtons for a proposed union between their daughter Marianne and the Crown Prince.
The mood had shifted. Something had fractured.
It was long past midnight when a soft, frantic knock sounded at the duchess's chamber doors. Melissa entered without waiting for permission, breathless and pale. Helen rushed toward her, gripping her arms tightly, eyes wide with desperation.
"Where is she? Where's Marie?" Helen demanded.
But Melissa could only shake her head, eyes brimming with failure.
"I—I lost her… I searched the whole city. I couldn't find her."
The words hit Helen like a blow to the chest. Her knees buckled and Melissa instinctively caught her, guiding her gently to the nearby settee. Water was offered, but Helen pushed the glass aside with a trembling hand.
"How do you expect me to eat or drink when I have no idea what's become of my daughter?" she said hoarsely. Her voice broke around the edges, just like her heart.
Melissa's eyes welled up. She had failed her mistress. Failed Marie.
At that moment, the door creaked again, and Lawrence stepped in—stoic and unsmiling, his presence heavy with foreboding. His silence said enough.
Helen looked up sharply. "What happened? Is Marie okay?" she asked, rising from the settee like a woman about to collapse again.
Lawrence's face was unreadable. "You need to see for yourself," he said quietly, his voice grave and low.
He turned and left the room, and Helen followed in silence, clinging to her husband's arm as they moved through the candlelit halls. Each step echoed ominously on the marble floors, as though the palace itself mourned.
He said nothing as he led her toward the east wing—the guest quarters reserved for noble families. He finally stopped before one of the doors, a quiet guard stationed just outside.
It was Marshall.
"Status?" Lawrence asked.
"She's stable," Marshall replied, eyes flicking toward the closed door. "The physician cleaned the wounds and bandaged them. But… she hasn't woken up."
Helen went white. "Wounds?"
Marshall stepped aside, and for the first time, Helen saw the room. The heavy curtains surrounding the bed were drawn, but the silhouette within was unmistakable—her daughter, lying motionless, her body fragile and still beneath the sheer tulle canopy.
Helen staggered. "My daughter—!"
Before she could rush inside, Lawrence covered her mouth and pulled her back, quietly shutting the door behind them. His voice was firm.
"Don't make a sound, Helen. No one must know about this."
She stared at him, stunned. "Lawrence, what are you saying?"
"The palace has ears. The walls whisper to those who know how to listen." His voice lowered to a dangerous edge. "We leave for the estate at dawn. She'll be treated there, in secrecy. We can't trust anyone here."
Helen gripped his arm. "What happened to her? Tell me!"
Lawrence hesitated, jaw tight. "An assassination attempt," he said finally. "Someone wants her removed. Replaced. They want a different bride for the Crown Prince."
Helen gasped softly, hand covering her mouth. "But she's just a girl…"
"She's more than that now. And the vultures know it."
He released her arm and stepped away. Helen slowly turned toward the bed, her trembling hands parting the curtains.
There lay Marianne—so pale, her breathing shallow, her chest rising and falling like a feather caught in the wind. Fresh bandages wrapped around her torso and shoulders, a stark contrast to the silk sheets tucked beneath her. Her once sharp, spirited presence had melted into stillness, shadows, and silence.
Helen sat at her bedside, unmoving, her fingers laced tightly with her daughter's, knuckles white. She brought the delicate hand to her face again and again, just to feel the warmth. A single tear rolled down her cheek, catching on her lashes.
"We're taking you home," she whispered softly, her voice splintering. "And no one will ever hurt you again."
That night, sleep came for none of them.
Helen remained at Marianne's side, eyes fixed on each fragile breath, each twitch of her brows. Her body was rigid with worry, but she didn't once look away.
Lawrence stood by the window, arms crossed behind his back. His broad silhouette was bathed in the cold blue of night, as though he stood at the edge of dawn, willing the sun to rise with sheer force of will.
Marshall lingered at the door, a quiet sentinel, his posture disciplined but not tense. His gaze never left the bed. He watched everything—Helen's trembling, Lawrence's silence, Marianne's breath—as if committing every second to memory.
They said nothing for hours.
The air was still and heavy, as if the palace itself were holding its breath.
Finally, Helen's voice broke the quiet, hoarse and uncertain. "Who do you think that girl was?"
Lawrence didn't turn immediately. He simply lowered his head. "A possible accomplice," he said at last. "Part of the attempt, most likely."
Helen blinked, trying to reconcile that thought. The girl—whoever she was—had looked almost exactly like Marianne. So eerily close it had rattled her to the bone. But there was something off—the girl's manner, her voice, her confusion… it wasn't an act.
"She looked like her," Helen murmured. "Too much like her."
Lawrence finally turned from the window, the low moonlight sharpening the hollows of his face. "I've already sent our men to track her. Whatever her story is, we'll find out soon enough."
He stepped closer, his voice low and detached. "But you don't need to trouble yourself with her. Your only task is getting Marianne well again. The king may summon her at any moment. If she remains like this... we may as well deliver her enemies a silver platter."
Helen looked up at him then—really looked. Her eyes, red from tears, burned with quiet fury. "Our daughter is on her deathbed," she whispered. "And all you care about is power?"
For a heartbeat, something flickered in Lawrence's expression. A moment of stillness that almost looked like guilt—but it vanished too fast.
His face returned to its usual unreadable mask, and without answering her, he turned away and walked out of the room.
Helen remained frozen beside her daughter, her gaze returning to the unconscious girl's face.
"I'll care enough for the both of us," she whispered.
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