Chapter 70
The heavy oak doors of the palace groaned open, and Duke Damien stepped into the foyer of his ancestral home. His entrance was not merely a return; it was a reclamation of space.
As he moved, the rhythmic click of his boots against the marble floor served as a metronome for the precision he demanded. Guards snapped to attention, their salutes sharp and brittle, but Damien didn’t spare them a glance.
He moved with a singular, driving purpose, his focus narrowed toward the grand hall, effectively rendering the whispers and lingering gazes of the staff invisible to him.
He expected solitude. Instead, he found his mother, Adele, seated in the center of the hall, her frame appearing fragile against the cavernous room. What made the air turn cold, however, were the two men flanking her: his uncle, Leo, and his cousin, Henri.
“Mother,” Damien said, the word clipped, his greeting falling like a stone. He acknowledged his relatives with a tightening of his jaw, a silent dismissal that did little to mask his mounting irritation.
He had been knee-deep in the volatile waters of Monaco’s parliamentary elections, and being summoned away for a vague, urgent mystery felt less like a duty and more like a distraction.
“Damien!” Adele’s face lit up, a soft, serene smile reaching her eyes—eyes that, upon closer inspection, were shimmering with the glassy weight of unshed tears. “Please, sit. You must hear this. The private investigator has finally uncovered something… a lead regarding Eugénie p>
Damien stood rigid, his pulse quickening despite his best efforts to maintain a mask of stoic indifference. His gaze shifted from his mother’s hopeful face to the two men beside her. His expression darkened, his shadows deepening until his eyes were two cold, piercing flint stones directed at Leo and Henri.
“Why are they here, Mother?” he asked. The question was a low, jagged rasp, forced through clenched teeth.
Adele’s smile faltered, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “Oh, forgive me, dear. I… I neglected to mention that it was Leo who hired the investigator. He’s the one who brought the news p>
“Then the news is worthless,” Damien declared. He didn’t bother to soften his tone, pivoting toward the two men. “And tell me, Uncle—how much did you squeeze from the estate’s coffers this time to pay for this latest fiction p>
Leo’s face contorted, a mask of wounded pride slipping over his features.
“Lord Damien, let us not be crude. We are not vultures. I merely facilitated the service. Surely, you can appreciate the effort to bring your sister home p>
Damien let out a sharp, hollow laugh that held no mirth. “I’m certain you know exactly where she is. You’ve likely known for years. Tell me, Leo, what is the endgame here? How long do you intend to keep up this charade p>
Leo turned to Adele, his voice dripping with a calculated, plaintive hurt.
“Adele, are you listening to him? Does he truly believe I would sink so low as to orchestrate the disappearance of our own blood? Does he truly think I would harm our princess p>
Damien looked at his mother. Her heart was a beautiful, terrifying vulnerability—a compass that always pointed toward the light, even when it led her straight into the mouths of wolves. He watched as she absorbed Leo’s performative grief, and a deep, aching exhaustion settled into his bones.
This was the cycle. The Monroe tragedy was a wound that refused to heal, kept raw by the very people who claimed to be the salve.
The history of it was etched into his soul like a scar.
Eugénie was the miracle child, the first girl born into their line in ten generations. Their grandfather had been so intoxicated with joy that he had signed away the vast Monroe fortune to an infant who hadn’t even taken her first breath.
Damien, meanwhile, had been left with the mantle of the Dukedom—the cold, heavy inheritance of titles and duty.
Then came the day of the kidnapping. His father had died in the fray, a violent end that left the estate in shambles. Leo had been the one to “discover” the body. No one else had been there to witness it. No one had been there to see Leo’s eyes when he realized the heir was gone and the young, vulnerable Duke was all that remained of the line.
The mistress responsible had been caught, yes—but she had died in the dungeon before she could speak a word, silenced by “mysterious circumstances” during a time when Leo had been in charge of the investigation.
“Uncle Leo,” Damien said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, lethal calm. “With all due respect, leave. I have business with my mother, and I have none of the endless leisure time you seem to enjoy p>
Leo and Henri rose, the chair legs screeching against the stone floor. Leo didn’t leave without one last, pathetic play. “I see. Since my brother passed, the warmth of this family has cooled toward me p>
“No, Leo, please,” Adele whispered, reaching out. She looked at her son, her eyes pleading for a scrap of kindness. “Damien, tell him. Tell him you respect him p>
Damien felt the lie bitter on his tongue, but he swallowed it for her sake. “Right, Mother,” he said, his voice flat. He turned his eyes back to Leo, a silent, predatory warning that vibrated in the air between them.
Do not test me.
Leo, ever the coward when backed into a corner, offered a thin, measured smile. “I won’t keep you, then. I will settle the account with the investigator and ensure they delve deeper. We will find her, Damien. We will p>
As they exited, Damien stood in the quiet of the hall, the silence heavy with the ghosts of his father and the phantom sister he hadn’t seen in a lifetime.
He would endure these vultures, these disingenuous ghosts, but only for his mother. The moment she was no longer here to protect, the palace would be cleansed—and Leo would find that the Duke’s patience was not a resource that could be replenished.