The sun was climbing lazily into the sky, pouring amber light over the castle's marble floors. In the eastern corridor, where the columns cast long shadows across the red carpets, Count Sebastian leaned against a window sill, arms crossed, watching the morning fog burn off the far meadows.
He wasn't in the mood for conversation.
But unfortunately, trouble came with a smirk.
"Fancy seeing you here, old friend," came a too-smooth voice from the corner.
Sebastian turned his head slightly, meeting the violet-irised stare of Damien Faolinwood—the Duke's younger brother.
Damien looked like someone perpetually up to something. His black coat was half-unbuttoned, and his dark curls were unkempt in a fashionable, careless sort of way.
"I thought rats only came out at night," Sebastian replied flatly.
Damien chuckled. "Still charming, I see."
He stepped closer, his boots echoing softly on the polished stone. "But you're far too tense, dear Sebastian. We're all family here… aren't we?"
Sebastian didn't answer. He simply stared.
Damien leaned casually on the other end of the sill. "I heard our little bird ran away for a bit. The porcelain one with the tragic past."
Sebastian's eyes narrowed.
"Of course," Damien added innocently, "I'm sure it was just a harmless walk, as she claimed."
"You and Christiana locked her in a room five hours," Sebastian said sharply. "Don't test me."
"Allegedly," Damien said, shrugging. "There's no proof. It's not like we hurt her."
"No. You just terrified a girl who's barely begun healing," Sebastian growled.
Damien tilted his head. "And yet she lied for us. Fascinating, isn't it? She fears us more than she trusts you."
Sebastian's fists clenched. "She lied to protect Brooklyn. Not you."
There was a pause.
Then Damien smirked, amused. "Is that so? Or maybe she's just used to being on the floor, begging for mercy. You saw it too, didn't you? That expression—so helpless it's almost… addictive."
Sebastian stepped forward swiftly, grabbing Damien's collar.
"Try something again, and I will break your jaw," he said coldly. "You're not untouchable, Damien. Not anymore."
Damien chuckled, unfazed. "Touchy. Do you really think Brooklyn will believe you over me?"
"No," Sebastian said. "But he'll believe Catherine. And the day she stops fearing you, you're finished."
With that, he shoved Damien back against the wall and walked away.
Damien straightened his coat lazily, his smirk slipping just a little.
He muttered under his breath, "That girl… is going to be a real problem."
And in that moment, he didn't smile anymore.
The night was heavy with tension, and the moonlight spilled across the grand hallway like cold silk. The chandeliers were dimmed, casting ghostly glows on the paintings of ancestors long buried. From the west wing, echoing footsteps quickened with purpose.
Luciane Alorsbuth—tall, composed, and absolutely livid—stormed toward her sister's chamber with a rage too long restrained. Her sharp violet eyes gleamed, not with elegance as they usually did, but with fury.
She didn't knock.
The heavy oak door slammed open, startling the maids who were curling Christiana's hair by the vanity.
"Leave us," Luciane ordered.
Her voice was calm—but deadly.
The maids obeyed instantly, scurrying out of the room without daring to meet her eyes.
Christiana, poised in her silky red gown, looked up from her reflection with a knowing smile. "Big sister," she greeted sweetly, "I was wondering when you'd come."
Luciane didn't reply.
She shut the door behind her, slowly, and then turned toward the younger woman who shared her blood—but not her heart.
"You humiliated a broken girl," Luciane said, walking closer. "You made her grovel on the floor. You stole the only thing she had left of her family. All just to feed your pride."
Christiana turned in her chair, folding one leg over the other with practiced grace. "I returned the portrait, didn't I?"
"You made her say—" Luciane's voice cracked, "that you deserve the Duke more than she does. You made her degrade herself."
"She does degrade herself," Christiana snapped, losing the mask for just a second. "She walks around with those teary eyes, looking so tragic, always attracting sympathy like some lost animal. And he falls for it. You all fall for it."
Luciane's hands clenched at her sides.
"She never even tries to be strong," Christiana continued, standing now, voice rising. "She's weak. And weak things don't deserve power. Or love."
Luciane stepped forward and slapped her.
The sound cracked through the silence like thunder.
Christiana stood frozen, one hand slowly rising to touch her burning cheek.
"You are a disgrace," Luciane said coldly. "You were given every advantage, every opportunity. And still, you rot from inside."
"She's stealing him," Christiana whispered. "He was mine. Mine. Before she came."
Luciane's voice lowered. "He was never yours. And you are no better than the people who destroyed that girl's life."
Christiana's lips trembled, but her eyes burned with rage.
"I will not let her win," she hissed.
Luciane turned to leave. "If you try anything again—anything—you won't be dealing with Catherine next time. You'll be dealing with me."
With that, she walked out, the door closing with a hollow thud behind her.
And in the dim candlelight, Christiana stood alone—lips bitten, heart pounding, and hatred boiling under her skin like venom.
In the secluded chamber behind the study, silence was suffocating.
Brooklyn Harperwood stood alone—his broad figure trembling not with weakness, but with something far more volatile: wrath restrained too long.
His amber eyes, usually cold and calculating, now blazed like wildfire. The firelight reflected in them seemed tame compared to what raged within.
Then—
Crash.
He slammed his fist into the stone wall beside the fireplace.
Cracks spiderwebbed across the surface. Dust trembled down. His knuckles tore open, blood smearing against the gray rock.
"You filthy pieces of filth..." he growled under his breath.
His voice was low, like a predator moments before the lunge.
"I know it was you," he seethed. "Christiana. Damien. You think I don't see it? You think I don't feel it every time she lowers her eyes, every time she flinches when your names are mentioned?"
He turned his back to the broken wall, pacing now.
"If I had even a sliver of proof—just one letter, one whisper, one trembling servant who dares to speak—I would have both of you dragged from this estate. Stripped of your titles. Banished from Faolinshire."
His voice rose, cracking through the air like a whip.
"I would send you to rot where not even rats would look at you."
But the rage wasn't just for them.
It was for himself.
For letting it happen under his nose.
For being fooled—distracted.
For not seeing the signs sooner.
He looked at the bandages that once covered Catherine's wrists. The bruises she now concealed under long sleeves. The tear-streaked smile she forced when he asked if she was "happy little Cathie."
Brooklyn's chest heaved. He sat on the edge of the dark mahogany desk, gripping it hard enough to whiten his knuckles again.
"I promised I would keep her safe."
A long silence followed.
"I failed."
Then—his gaze hardened.
"But not again."
He stood, gaze steely as he walked toward the window, staring out into the night beyond the glass.
"I don't need witnesses," he murmured. "I'll get the truth with my own hands."
"And when I do…" he said, fists clenching again, "…neither of you will even remember what mercy feels like."
The dining hall was glowing under the chandelier's light. Golden wine shimmered in goblets. Servants moved silently, placing silver trays and ornate dishes on the table.
But there was no warmth in the air.
At the head of the long oak table sat Brooklyn Harperwood, expression unreadable, his amber eyes lingering on Catherine—who sat quietly beside Luciane, her head low, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.
Across from them, Christiana Alorsbuth was smiling sweetly. But it was the kind of smile that peeled skin from flesh—dagger-tipped, glinting with poison.
"…I was simply saying," Christiana began with theatrical elegance, slicing through her meat with a little too much pressure, "that Lady Catherine must feel terribly out of place among proper nobility. I suppose no amount of gowns can fix what blood lacks."
Sebastian tensed.
Luciane's eyes narrowed.
Catherine's hand froze.
The knife and fork in Brooklyn's hands stopped moving.
Damien chuckled lowly beside Christiana, sipping his wine as though enjoying a play.
"Oh, don't take offense," Christiana purred, feigning concern. "We all know where she came from. A ruined house, no standing, orphaned. It's just admirable how she clings like a shadow to the Duke. Like a frightened little mutt."
A quiet clang echoed. Catherine's fork had fallen.
Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes, but she wiped them quickly with a napkin, refusing to speak.
The silence stretched.
Until—
Bang.
Brooklyn slammed his palm against the table, the sudden sound making Catherine jump, the goblets tremble, and the servants freeze in place.
He stood up slowly.
With calm, deadly steps, he walked around the long table—until he stood directly in front of Christiana.
She blinked, confused. Then a smirk touched her lips. "My Duke? Is something—"
SLAP.
The sound cracked through the hall like lightning.
Her head whipped to the side.
Gasps echoed. A maid dropped a tray.
Christiana clutched her cheek, stunned. Color drained from her face. "You… hit me?"
Brooklyn's voice was low, precise, every word cut like steel.
"Don't. Ever. Insult her. Again."
Damien stood up with a mocking sneer. "Oh, so this is about her? Over some tears from a broken girl who—"
Brooklyn turned to him, eyes blazing with cold fury. "And you," he growled, "your games end now."
He looked at both of them.
"By tomorrow morning, I want both of you gone. Pack your things. Leave this palace. And if you set foot here again without permission—"
He leaned forward, his voice like a whisper laced with venom.
"—I'll ensure your names are erased from every ledger in Faolinshire."
Christiana's lips trembled. "You… You're choosing her over us?"
Brooklyn didn't answer. He simply walked back to Catherine, knelt beside her, and gently took her hand.
"She's the only one I've ever chosen."
Catherine covered her mouth, tears falling silently as Luciane placed a protective arm around her.
Christiana stood shakily, seething, her pride shattered.
Damien stared, eyes narrow with hatred, but said nothing.
They turned and stormed from the room.
No one spoke.
Only the sound of Catherine's quiet sobs and Brooklyn's soothing whispers filled the grand hall now emptied of masks.
The moon hung low, draped in a veil of silver clouds. The palace was quiet, cloaked in the hush that only followed storms—when damage had been done and silence became the salve for wounded dignity.
In the west wing balcony, Brooklyn stood beside the balustrade, his amber eyes watching the stillness of the gardens below. A soft wind tugged at his shirt collar, tousling strands of his flush brown hair.
Behind him, the doors creaked open.
He turned his head.
Catherine stood there—her hands clasped in front of her, shoulders slightly hunched, her green eyes swollen from tears, but somehow calmer. Dressed in a soft lavender gown, she looked like a morning dew that had endured a thunderstorm.
"Cathie?" he said gently, straightening.
She didn't speak. Instead, she slowly walked to him and stood quietly by his side, her hands resting against the cool stone of the balcony railing.
"I lied," she whispered.
His brows furrowed slightly. "About?"
She hesitated.
"The market. I never went there." Her voice cracked. "I… ran away."
His eyes didn't leave her. "Why?"
"I was scared," she said, finally looking up at him. "I was scared of being in that palace… I thought I was safe there. But I was wrong."
His heart dropped into a slow, quiet ache.
She continued, voice trembling, "That day when you left… Damien and Christiana locked me in a room. For five hours. No food. No water. No light. And they said it was a mistake. That the door got stuck."
His eyes slowly darkened.
"But that wasn't all," she added. "Later, when you gave me that portrait… she took it from me. Christiana. She teased me, said she would break it. I begged her. I—I told her I'd do anything…"
Brooklyn took a sharp breath. His fists clenched.
"She made me kneel," Catherine's voice had thinned to a whisper. "She made me say horrible things… things I never meant. About me being filthy. About her deserving you. About how if I came between you two, she could punish me. And I said it. Because I was scared, and I didn't want her to break the only thing I had left of my parents."
There was silence.
Then Brooklyn stepped away from her, walking slowly to the edge of the balcony. He gripped the stone railing so tightly, his knuckles turned white.
"I knew they were cruel," he said lowly. "I knew they were poison. But I didn't know they'd already sunk their teeth this deep into you."
She stepped toward him. "Brooklyn—"
"I should have protected you," he interrupted. "All this time… I kept thinking I was doing enough just by standing beside you. But I didn't see how much you were suffering… right in front of me."
Her voice cracked, "No. You— You've always kept me safe. That's why I didn't want to tell you. I thought if you knew, you'd do something reckless. And they'd come after you."
He turned, slowly facing her.
His voice was soft, aching.
"Let them come."
Her lips parted, startled.
"I don't care if the whole world comes for me, Catherine," he said, stepping close and gently cradling her tear-streaked face in his hands. "But if anyone lays a hand on you again… they'll lose everything. Title. Power. Breath."
She didn't answer.
Tears fell again—this time for a different reason.
Relief.
Trust.
Love.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I was just… so scared. I didn't want to lose you."
He rested his forehead gently against hers.
"You'll never lose me."
The wind rustled the trees below, the moon watched silently, and under its gaze, two fractured hearts stood finally unafraid.