The carriage rocked gently as it moved, wheels humming against the road, and that was when the thought struck her—sharp and sudden.
What if Lucian is already home?
Anne's fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt. Her earlier calm thinned, replaced by a restless flutter in her chest. He had left a note. Do not leave the house. Simple. Direct. Impossible to misunderstand.
She exhaled slowly, staring at the darkening countryside, her mind already racing.
What would she say?
I was bored—no, that would earn her a look she knew too well.
I went for air—ridiculous.
The garden wasn't enough—that sounded stupid the garden was big enough to build another mansion.
Her gaze dropped to her hands as she smoothed invisible creases from her dress, rehearsing lies the way one might rehearse a speech.
Perhaps she could say she had been in her room all day. Curtains drawn. Reading. Sleeping. She could rush upstairs the moment she arrived, slip into the bed, loosen her hair, make it look as though she had never left the house at all.
Yes—she would do that.
She imagined it clearly now: the carriage stopping, her stepping down calmly, not a trace of hurry. Then, once inside, she would move quickly—up the stairs, into her room, shoes off, hair slightly mussed, the quiet evidence of a day spent indoors.
If anyone asked, she would smile faintly and say she hadn't felt well. That she needed rest. No one ever questioned illness for long.
The plan settled in her mind like a fragile shield.
Anne leaned back against the carriage seat, forcing her breathing to slow, schooling her face into something neutral, something unremarkable. The house lights would tell her everything when they came into view—whether his presence already lingered in the halls or whether she still had time to disappear into her room unnoticed.
As the carriage turned onto the familiar path, her heart beat just a little faster.
She was already rehearsing how quickly she could climb the stairs without running.
The sky had already begun to dim by the time the carriage slowed in front of the gates. Not night—just that uncertain hour where the day quietly surrendered, when shadows stretched longer than they should and the air cooled with a promise of evening.
The wheels crunched softly as they came to a stop.
Anne stepped down carefully, her shoes barely making a sound against the ground. She didn't rush. Rushing would draw attention. Instead, she paused, letting her eyes roam—windows first, then the upper floors, then the long stretch of the house itself. No lights blazing. No familiar silhouette by the balcony. No movement that screamed Lucian.
Still, she proceeded with caution.
She adjusted her cloak and began walking toward the house, every sense alert. The hedges whispered as a breeze passed through them, leaves brushing against one another in quiet conversation. Somewhere far off, a bird settled for the night.
Then—movement.
Anne froze.
A figure emerged near the side entrance, tall and dark against the fading light. Her heart jumped straight into her throat. Instinct took over before thought could catch up. She slipped sideways, ducking behind a thick line of bushes, crouching low as if the plants themselves might swallow her whole.
She held her breath.
A step closer. Then another.
And then she heard it—the soft, familiar clearing of a throat.
Unhurried. Polite.
The butler.
Anne's shoulders sagged in relief so sharp it almost made her laugh. Still, she didn't step out immediately. Instead, she bent down, fingers brushing the leaves, and picked up a small stone. When she straightened, she let it fall deliberately.
"Oh—oh dear," she said, stepping out from behind the bushes. "I think I dropped something."
The butler turned fully now, lantern light catching his face.
"Miss Anne," he greeted calmly, as though finding her half-hidden in shrubbery was an entirely normal occurrence.
She smiled—careful, composed—and brushed imaginary dirt from her hands. "Good evening," she said, then hesitated just enough to seem casual. "Is… is Lord Lucian home yet?"
The butler shook his head. "No, miss. His lordship has not returned."
The tension drained from her in a slow, silent wave."I see," Anne replied, her smile relaxing for the first time. "Thank you."
She turned toward the house, heart lighter, steps easier now, already planning her quiet retreat upstairs—unaware of how thin her escape truly was.
...
Anne went up the stairs slowly, each step a little too loud in the quiet house, her stockings whispering against the polished wood like tiny conspirators. She let out a soft, almost theatrical groan.
"Why," she muttered aloud, "did I think running upstairs like a normal person was a good idea? Stupid, stupid Anne. Honestly."
Her words floated into the empty hallway, echoed back at her, and she almost laughed at her own ridiculousness. She reached the bend in the stairs, one hand brushing the banister, another smoothing her skirts, fully convinced that she was alone and safe.
Then—suddenly—the kitchen light flicked on.
Click.
A deep, measured clearing of a throat carried through the hall, reverberating off the walls.
"Where are you coming from, Anne?"
Her heart stuttered. Her stockings might as well have squeaked out her guilt.
Anne's brain short-circuited. For half a second, she froze, staring at the doorway as if it might magically hide her. Then, instinct kicked in.
"Oh! Wait! Wait, Lucian! I—I can explain!"
And immediately, she pretended to be in tears. Big, wet-sounding sniffles. Hands pressed against her face like she might somehow will tears to form. She hiccupped dramatically. Opening her two fingers dramatically to see Lucian reaction, if he was buying her story or not
"I… I didn't mean to… I just… ohhh!" she wailed, wobbling a little on the stairs.
Lucian's footsteps approached, measured, unhurried, and somewhere in her panicked, faux-crying mind, she thought, Yes! He'll never believe a word of this nonsense. Perfect.
Her shoulders shook, silent tears of pure theater running down her cheeks. "It's… it's nothing, I swear! I was… I was… just… just walking!"
Lucian appeared at the top of the stairs, one brow arched. The corner of his mouth twitched—part amusement, part disbelief.
Anne, clutching her skirts and her "tears," made a small, ridiculous curtsy mid-step, convinced she looked completely innocent.
"See?" she whispered in a trembling voice, "Nothing, just… walking…"
And somewhere inside, even as she played the scene perfectly, she couldn't help but think: Why the hell did I ever think I could sneak around in this house.
Anne's shoulders shook violently as she pressed her hands to her face, still pretending to cry, hiccupping softly like her life depended on it.
"Wha—what?" she mumbled between sobs, letting a tear slip—well, pretending it did—down her cheek.
"Anne," Lucian's voice cut through the hall, deep, calm, and entirely devoid of humor.
Her heart stuttered. Even behind the curtain of her performance, she felt the weight.
"I left an instruction…" he said slowly but Sharp enough to let Anne know he wasn't joking, bending his head just slightly, but not enough to hide the sharpness in his grey eyes. "It was clear and short… but you had the audacity to disobey me."
Anne froze mid-sniffle. Her little theatrics faltered. She swallowed, trying to keep the sobs going, but it felt suddenly fragile, meaningless.
Her mind scrambled. Oh no. Not like this. Not now. How am I supposed to wiggle out of this one?
She lowered her hands slightly, letting her eyes glimmer with fake tears, her voice trembling as she whispered, "I… I… I just… I didn't think—"
Lucian's gaze didn't waver. There was no humor. No indulgence Just the steady, piercing awareness of a man who knew exactly what he wanted—and that she had stepped over the line.
Anne's knees nearly went weak. Maybe my "crying" act isn't going to save me this time…
My eyes slid away from him, searching desperately for something—anything—to focus on that wasn't the weight of his stare.
"Anne, look at me," he said sternly.
I refused.
The next second, his fingers were on my chin, firm, unyielding, forcing my face up to his. My breath hitched as his grey eyes locked onto mine.
"Where did you go?"
This was downright bullying, I thought bitterly.
"I don't think you need to know where I go twenty-four seven," I shot back, stubbornness overtaking fear.
For a brief moment, something shifted. His lips curved—not into a smile, but into something far more dangerous.
"Oh? Is that right?" he said, amusement glinting in his eyes.
He rose to his full height then, towering, his presence filling the room so completely it felt hard to breathe. He motioned to one of the men. Lucian leaned in, whispered something low and inaudible, and the man left immediately.
Then Lucian turned his back to me.
It was the first time I saw it.
A tattoo sprawled across his back—dark, intricate, alive. The tail of an animal curled upward, disappearing gently at the nape of his neck. It's very hard to identify the animal. But It wasn't crude or aggressive. It was… beautiful. Enchanting. The kind of artwork only a truly gifted hand could create.
I stared before I could stop myself.
Movement drew my attention. The butler. The driver. A few maids. The men at the gate. Others I'd seen in passing, faces familiar but roles unknown. They gathered quietly, tension thick in the air.
Lucian sat down slowly, deliberately, facing me again—but speaking to them.
"Which of you permitted Lady Anne to leave the premises?" he asked calmly.
Silence.
No one moved. No one breathed.
His tone sharpened as he raised his voice. "Which of you let Lady Anne out of this house against my explicit instructions?"
He turned his head slightly, eyes sweeping over them, then looked back at me—measured, unreadable.
That was when two of the guards stepped forward.
They stood stiffly, stammering, their confidence crumbling under his gaze.
"I—my lord, we thought—" one began.
Lucian didn't interrupt.
That was worse.
The first guard swallowed hard, his hands clenched at his sides.
"My lord… Lady Anne said you had granted her permission to go out today," he said, voice shaking. "She spoke with such certainty. We had no reason to doubt her."
The second guard nodded quickly, stepping in as though afraid silence would condemn him.
"She told us it was a personal allowance, sir," he added. "That you had given the order privately. We thought… we thought it unwise to question her further."
A murmur rippled faintly through the gathered staff.
The driver cleared his throat, bowing his head. "She repeated the same to me, my lord. Said you were already aware. I assumed the gate had been cleared through proper command."
The butler adjusted his gloves, careful, respectful. "Lady Anne has never spoken falsely before," he said evenly. "Her word carried weight."
I felt every eye drift toward me then. Lucian leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, gaze never leaving my face. He said nothing for a long moment. The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, until it pressed against my chest.
"So," he said at last, softly.
He rose again, slow, controlled, and stepped toward me.
"You told them," he continued, voice low, "that I permitted you."
He stopped an arm's length away.
"You spoke in my name," he said quietly, dangerously. "And every single one of them believed you."
His eyes dropped briefly—to my lips, my trembling hands—then lifted again, cold and sharp.
Lucian straightened to his full height, then turned slowly toward them again, his presence filling the room like a drawn blade.
"So," he said, voice calm but edged with steel, "none of you thought to confirm with me."
His eyes swept over the guards, the driver, the maids—then finally settled on the butler.
"You did not come to me," Lucian continued. "You did not send word. You did not ask." His jaw tightened. "If she had walked into danger—if my enemies had been waiting—every one of you would have handed her to them on a silver tray."
Silence. Thick. Suffocating.
"I was trying to shield her from what you cannot see," he said coldly. "And you chose convenience over loyalty."
His gaze returned to the butler, the man who had once served his father faithfully.
"You, of all people," Lucian said quietly, disappointment sharper than anger. "You knew better."
The butler did not speak. His face was unreadable, but something old and heavy passed through his eyes.
Lucian lifted his hand once.
"You are dismissed," he said. "All of you. Effective immediately."
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then chaos broke.
A woman fell to her knees, clutching her skirts. "My lord, please—my mother is sick. She's in the hospital. I beg you—"
Another voice broke through, frantic. "Sir, my wife just gave birth. I have a newborn—"
One man turned sharply, grabbing his pleading wife by the arm. "Enough," he hissed, fear twisting in his face. "You're making it worse."
A maid burst into tears. "No one will hire us," she sobbed. "If they hear we served you and were cast out—no one will take us. We swore loyalty—"
"Please," another whispered. "Just punish us. Do not send us away."
Voices overlapped. Begging. Crying. Desperation spilling into the hall.
Lucian did not flinch.
"Take them out," he said flatly.
The guards moved.
One by one, they were led away—still pleading, still crying—until only the butlers remained.
The elder butler stepped forward once, then stopped. He looked at Lucian for a long moment, something like understanding settling in his eyes.
He bowed.
Deeply.
Lucian did not return it.
The butler turned and left quietly, one arm around around a sobbing maid, guiding her away without a word.
Only then did I notice Fryn.
She stood near the wall, small and shaking, tears streaming down her face uncontrollably. She had tended to me the night before—gentle hands, soft voice, careful as though I might shatter.
Our eyes met.
She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, as if holding back a sound that might break her entirely.
And in that moment, as the last footsteps faded, I realized something terrible.
This was not a lesson.
This was a punishment.
And I—
I was the reason everyone had paid for it.
Fryn tried to hold herself together.
She bowed quickly, clumsy and trembling, then turned before anyone could see her completely break. Her steps were careful at first—measured, obedient—but halfway to the door her shoulders began to shake. She pressed her sleeve to her face, biting down on her sobs as tears slipped through anyway, blurring her path.