~LAYLA~
"I never thought I would be alive to witness my own funeral," Duke Silas said in a raspy voice with dark, dry humour.
He was sitting in a high-backed leather armchair in the living room of one of Axel's penthouses. We had flown him out on a private medical jet under the cover of darkness, without the knowledge of anyone.
On the massive flat-screen TV on the wall, the news coverage was replaying Isabelle's dramatic exit from the crypt.
"She played the part well," the Duke muttered, taking a sip of the herbal tea Arthur Pennyworth had just placed on the side table. "I almost believed she liked me."
"She likes your title, Your Grace," Pennyworth said stiffly, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.
He looked better. The bruising on his face had faded to a dull yellow, and though he was technically unemployed—Isabelle had fired him—he wore his suit with the same dignity he had at the Manor.
