CHAPTER 11: DINNER DUST AND NIGHT SHADOWS

Lucian’s POV

Dinner in the grand dining room was turning out to be precisely the endurance test I had anticipated.

Lady Genevieve Sterling sat to my right, resplendent in shimmering sea-green silk that looked entirely out of place against the warm, aged oak of Valenridge Manor. Her dark hair was styled into intricate capital coils, and she held her silver fork with the delicate, practiced disdain of someone who had never encountered a single hardship in her life.

“The roasted pheasant is... acceptable, I suppose,” Genevieve remarked, poking at her plate with a small, theatrical sigh. “Though the seasoning is remarkably heavy. The cooks in the capital use far lighter wine reductions. Once Lucian and I are wed, I shall certainly bring my father’s head chef down to Valenridge to manage the kitchen. Your staff’s methods are terribly antiquated, Lady Eleanor.”

A heavy, microscopic pause settled over the long dining table.

My father’s jaw tightened imperceptibly over his wine glass. Across the table, Leo bit into a dinner roll with sudden, suspicious intensity, his shoulders twitching as he desperately suppressed a burst of laughter.

Mother, ever the fortress of poise, merely placed her fork down with smooth, quiet grace. “Our head cook has served House De Witt for twenty years, Lady Genevieve. My family prefers simple, hearty northern flavors.”

“Of course,” Genevieve offered quickly, a bright, strained smile flashing across her face as she tried to recover. She leaned slightly toward Mother, desperate to prove her refinement. “I only mean to say that, as the future Duchess, I want only the absolute finest standards for Lucian. The Sterling name is accustomed to a certain level of elegance.”

I kept my eyes fixed on my glass, the dark wine reflecting the flickering candlelight.

She was exhausting.

It wasn't merely her arrogance. It was the calculated, desperate way she tried to assert dominance over a household she did not yet belong to. Mother remained impeccably gracious, answering Genevieve’s constant chatter with quiet warmth, but the stifling discomfort in the room was thick enough to choke on.

I took a slow, measured breath, staring at the woman seated beside me.

I cannot marry her.

The thought settled in my mind with cold, absolute certainty. I would rather face a blade on a battlefield than spend fifty years trapped in a cold room with her endless vanity.

If Father refused to break the betrothal contract, I had only two choices left: find a legitimate, politically airtight reason to cancel the union myself, or make myself so utterly unbearable that Genevieve would demand her father break the agreement from her end.

Either way, this marriage was not going to happen.

Eva’s POV

While the grand dining hall echoed with clinking silverware and laughter, the West Wing was a silent, empty tomb.

I wasn't assigned to the dinner service tonight. While Laura and the other maids were upstairs serving soup and wine under Mrs. Gable’s watchful eye, I moved through the dim, candlelit corridor like a shadow, my soft wool slippers making no sound against the runner rug.

The stolen original treaty sat tucked safely beneath the bodice of my apron.

Reaching Lord Lucian’s study, I slipped inside, closing the heavy oak door until the latch clicked silently into place.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the pale moonlight spilling through the high glass windows. I hurried over to the massive mahogany desk—and stopped dead.

The desk was completely bare.

The scattered Sterling ledgers, the tax records, the inkstand—everything Lucian had been reviewing earlier had been cleared away. The mahogany surface was polished smooth and empty.

A cold prickle of sweat broke out along my neck.

If I leave the original paper lying alone in the middle of a clear blotter, he will know instantly that someone brought it back.

It would confirm his worst suspicions.

My mind raced.

I turned away from the desk, scanning the tall, shadow-draped bookshelves lining the walls. Near the high window stood the estate’s archival shelf—a series of thick leather binders where active trade contracts and historical land agreements were filed.

Holding my breath, I glided over to the shelf and began sliding my fingers across the dark leather spines.

11th Century Trade... Eastern Granaries... Northern Border Agreements.

There.

A thick, dark brown ledger labeled Sterling Co-Signed Treaties.

With steady hands, I pulled the heavy binder forward just an inch. I withdrew the original yellowed treaty from my apron and carefully slipped it back into its exact chronological slot between the heavy parchment pages.

I pushed the leather volume smoothly back into line with the others until it sat flush against the wood.

I stepped back, inspecting the shelf in the dim moonlight.

Everything looked completely untouched.

Natural.

Unremarkable.

A quiet, triumphant breath escaped my lips.

Lucian would simply assume he had filed the document away himself during his evening work and forgotten about it. The duplicate copy was safely hidden in my own mattress downstairs, ready to be used when the time was right, and my trail in this room was completely erased.

I turned and slipped back out into the quiet hallway, a cold, dangerous sense of relief settling over my heart as I faded back into the dark.