Chapter 45: The Prince With Secrets

Lorraine’s eyes widened. Standing before her, clad in a sleek velvet coat and an even sleeker smile, was none other than Prince Damian. What in the seven burning heavens was he doing here? "This red will suit you better," he said smoothly, his hazel eyes glittering like secrets under sunlight. He plucked the bolt of crimson silk from the rack, letting it unfurl like a river of blood between his fingers. "It brings out your eyes. Look." Before she could object or make a quick exit, he had already draped the fabric across her shoulders and was gently steering her toward the mirror. The reflection that greeted her was... stunning. Knock me with a feather, she thought. He’s right. Where Leroy had chosen pastels that made her look innocent, dainty, and vaguely royal-adjacent. But this blood-red color? It made her look powerful. Dangerous. Like herself. The scarlet turned her pale skin luminous and made her icy blue eyes gleam like polished daggers. It flattered the arch of her cheekbones and the cold curve of her mouth. It made her look like the woman she actually was: the one who’d built a quiet empire in the shadows, who dealt in secrets and survival. This color told the truth. And now? Now she wanted it. She tilted her head, lips twitching. I suppose I don’t look terrible. Damian caught the spark of appreciation in her gaze and chuckled. He raised a finger to call the shopkeeper. He spoke quickly and easily, naming fabrics, textures, and styles. Lorraine watched his mouth move, amused and quietly impressed. He kept talking, tossing out design ideas with such fluidity that Lorraine had to blink. Why did he know so much about women’s fashion? Then again, this was Damian—scandalously charming, infamously ambiguous in every way that made the Vaelorian nobility nervous. He was not what anyone would call a typical man. Or prince. Meanwhile, just beyond the silk-draped aisle, a tall figure stood very, very still. Leroy. Watching. His wife, his silent, secretive, utterly maddening wife, was smiling. Laughing, even. With him. With that peacock of a prince, the one known to flirt with both courtiers and their husbands in equal measure. Leroy’s jaw clenched. How was it that when he tried to buy her clothes, she looked like he’d sentenced her to be quartered and displayed at the gates, but Damian pulled out a bolt of fabric, and suddenly she was glowing? Something inside him snapped. Leroy stalked forward like a man possessed. Just as Lorraine turned, catching his stormy expression. She blinked slowly. Ah. So the thunder returns. "I’ll be over there," she signed to Damian, ignoring Leroy entirely as she floated past him. Like a queen. Or a cat who’d just knocked over another priceless vase. Aldric, who’d been pretending to browse gloves with suspicious focus, peeked up just in time to see the flash of jealousy storm across Leroy’s face. He sighed quietly. The prince and princess were both idiots, in his humble and painfully observant opinion. Because while Lorraine walked away, pretending she hadn’t noticed Leroy practically growling like a bear in velvet, Leroy glared daggers at Damian. "Touchy today, aren’t we, Leroy?" Damian murmured, not bothering to hide his smirk. Leroy didn’t answer, but the look he gave could’ve wilted roses. Lorraine, meanwhile, had moved on, both physically and emotionally. She plucked a new bolt of fabric from the stack, this one a pristine ivory that gleamed like fresh snow under the chandeliers. She held it up, squinting critically. It was elegant. Understated. Faintly funereal. Yes, this would do nicely. She turned to the shopkeeper, already negotiating prices with the ease of someone who could buy him and the entire shop without blinking. She tilted her head, envisioning the fit. The modest sleeves. The flowing hem. Something poetic, perhaps. Something soft and expensive to cradle her when the time came to lay her to rest. A mourning dress. For her favorite little nemesis. For Zara. If she commissioned it now, she could have it ready, just in time for her funeral. Planning ahead was a virtue. Oh, Lorraine, she thought dryly, you’re just too kind-hearted sometimes. She smiled to herself, lips curled with mock pride, and gave her own shoulder a discreet pat of approval. Such magnanimity. Truly, the world didn’t deserve her. "It’s for Zara," she signed when Damian came over. Of course it was. The crown prince’s mistress. How... sweet. Damian arched a brow at that but said nothing. He did, however, glance toward Leroy, who looked like he was going to rip the entire shop apart if one more word passed between them. Lorraine, sensing chaos, tried to pay for the crimson silk herself. But Damian stopped her. "I insist," he said gallantly, reaching for his coin pouch. "Oh no, you don’t," Leroy growled, finding his way between them now. Both men stood frozen, hands halfway to the counter. The shopkeeper looked between them, pale. Lorraine raised an unimpressed brow and quietly walked away. Let the fools fight. From across the store, she heard the tense murmurs. Leroy’s voice was low and clipped. Damian’s was amused, a touch theatrical. There was something else there, too. Something darker simmering beneath their words. She couldn’t quite place it. History, perhaps? Old grudges? Hidden deals? Were they ever close, though? Or maybe it was just two moderately powerful men who hated the idea of losing to each other. Whatever it was, Leroy won. He handed the money to the shopkeeper with a curt nod, claiming victory over a gown Lorraine didn’t even want. Damian gave her a look: part amusement, part apology, and something she couldn’t decipher. Then he followed her to the door and leaned in. Too close. She could smell him. Amber and cardamom; warm, spiced, familiar in a way that made her stomach twist. Unnervingly so. His voice brushed her ear like silk soaked in blood. "So... how did you like my first gift...?" A pause. Then, a whisper like the flick of a blade: "Wasn’t Cassian’s brain prettier when it was splattered on the floor?" Lorraine’s heart stilled. Is he talking to me? Is he assuming I can hear, or does he know? Is he trying to figure me out? Her breath caught mid-thought. So... it was he that night. He had killed Lord Cassian. But... why? Questions bloomed like poison vines. Why would someone in his position dirty his hands with something so brutal, so deliberate? Cassian wasn’t just a noble; he was her problem. Did Damian do it for her?