Darian's eyes narrowed as the carriage stepped closer, the scent of blood sharp in the cool night air. The woman pressed herself against the stone wall, her chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. He caught the flicker of gold beneath her hood before she yanked it further down as if to shield herself from his gaze.
But it was too late.
Recognition struck him like a blade.
Everlyne Vayne.
Armand Vayne's wife.
His suspicion deepened. What was she doing here, alone and bleeding in the dead of the night? The merchant was known for many things-wealth, influence, and the air of a man who collects debt in blood. But he paraded his wife like a trophy, a symbol of his status. She was never seen outside the manor without him at her side. And yet, here she was-fleeing.
Everlyne turned to run, but the pain in her side betrayed her. She stumbled, barely catching herself before her knees buckled. Darian took a step forward. "You're hurt. "His voice was low, measured. She flinched as if the words themselves were a threat. "Stay away." her voice was hoarse, raw with fear. He didn't move, only studied her closer. The bruises along her arms and the split in her lower lip weren't an accident. Someone had done this to her.
"You need help," he said. Everlyne's hands curled into fists. "It's nothing," she said. Fear was evident in her eyes. Then, with a final glance over her shoulder, she turned and disappeared into the night. Darian remained still, watching as the darkness swallowed her. His lips pressed into a thin line. Armand had secrets, that much was clear. But if his wife was running, bleeding, and desperate enough to vanish into the city alone...
Then, those secrets were far darker than he had imagined.
Everlyne ran burned in her lungs, every step sent a fresh wave of agony through her ribs, but she could not stop yet. The city blurred around her, twisting shadows and flickering lanterns, but all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart.
And the phantom echoes of Armand's voice.
She pushed forward, her bloodied fingers gripping the walls for balance as she weaved through the empty streets. The manor wasn't far now. She could see the towering iron gates in the distance, their cruel spikes reaching for the sky like the talons of a beast.
Her sanctuary. Her prison.
She reached the entrance, pressing herself against the gate's cold metal bars. The guards stationed outside barely spared her a glance before pulling it open. They know better than to look at Armand's Vayne wife. Everlyne dragged herself up the grand staircase, every step a battle against the searing pain in her ribs. Her hands trembled as she clutched the railing, blood from her scraped palms smearing against the polished wood. She could not afford to be seen like this-not by the servants, and certainly not by Armand.
Her chambers were at the far end of the corridor, past the heavy double doors gilded in gold. The hallway was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows against the wall. Each step felt like walking through a gauntlet of ghost whispers of her former self lingering in the corners, watching, waiting. With a shaky breath, she reached her door and slipped inside, pressing it shut behind her.
Safe.
But not for long.
Everlyne wasted no time. She stumbled toward the basin, grabbed a cloth, and soaked it in cool water. The moment the fabric touched her skin, she hissed, biting down her lip to stifle a cry. The salt from the docks had seeped into her wounds, burning like fire. She scrubbed away the blood, the dirt, the stench of the streets. The torn remains of her gown were discarded onto the floor, replaced by a fresh silk robe. Her reflection in the mirror was a cruel reminder of the night's horror-pale, gaunt, with hollow eyes that held too many secrets.
She barely had time to compose herself before a commotion erupted downstairs. The front doors slammed open, followed by the sharp click of boots against the marble.
Armand was home.
Everlyn'e breath caught. She hurried to the vanity, smoothening down her robe, ensuring no trace of her escape remained visible. The deep murmur of Armand's voice drifted up through the halls-low, sharp, laced with barely restrained fury." Find them," he snarled. "Find whoever was watching my estate and bring them to me, alive or dead." His men had failed. The spy had evaded them.
Everlyne forced herself to take slow, measured breaths, schooling her expression into practiced indifference. A Knock came at the door. "My lady," a servant's voice called."lord Vayne has requested your presence." Everlyne swallowed hard, casting one last glance at her reflection.
Then, with the grace of a woman well-versed in deception, she rose to meet her husband.