Five Years Earlier — The Great Marquise Nightshade’s Southern Seaside Estate
Silence draped the room.
Thick.
Suffocating.
Matthew sat frozen, cup clenched in his hand, eyes locked on the fire like it might tell him this was all some elaborate lie.
Striker didn’t move.
Didn’t fidget.
Didn’t soften.
He just sat there—quiet and grim—letting the weight of Layla’s words settle where they belonged.
In Matthew’s bones.
Then Striker spoke again.
“But Ed…”
Matthew’s eyes flicked up.
Striker’s voice grew bitter.
Ragged at the edges.
“Ed told her not to do it.”
Matthew’s jaw clenched.
Striker continued, voice turning darker.
“He said her hands were too delicate.”
“That she might slip.”
“That she might accidentally poison herself.”
Matthew swallowed.
The wine in his stomach turned sour.
Striker’s gaze stayed fixed on the fire.
“He begged her to let him take the worms.”
“Promised he’d do it for her.”
His mouth twisted.
“Told her no one would ever love her the way he did.”
Matthew’s fingers tightened around the cup.
Because he could already see it—
could already feel it—
the shape of the trap.
Striker’s voice dipped.
“She believed him.”
Every word landed like a nail.
“Every lie.”
“Every broken promise.”
“Even as the years slipped away…”
Striker exhaled, slow.
“…she still believed.”
The storm outside rumbled again.
Rain struck the windows harder.
The fire hissed.
But Matthew sat perfectly still.
Because moving felt dangerous.
Like one wrong breath might break something inside him.
Striker’s eyes lowered.
His voice softened—not with kindness.
With disgust.
“Even as her pages filled with growing madness…”
He swallowed.
“As if she believed she could write him into existence.”
Matthew’s throat tightened.
Striker paused.
Just long enough for the silence to become unbearable.
Then—quietly—he finished.
“Until the end.”
His throat worked.
He stared into the fire like it hurt him to say the next words.
“Three years passed.”
“No letters.”
“No visits.”
“Nothing.”
Matthew’s gaze dropped.
Striker continued.
“She started writing that dark forces must’ve kept him away.”
“That only evil could keep them apart.”
Matthew’s stomach twisted.
Because Layla wasn’t a villain.
Not in those pages.
Not in that story.
She was—
a child.
A lonely girl.
A girl who had been chosen, cornered, fed a love-story like poison…
and discarded the moment she stopped being useful.
Striker’s voice lowered further.
Somber now.
Heavy.
“Then one day…”
“She woke up…”
“…and slit her wrists.”
The words fell into the room like ash.
Matthew’s eyes flashed up.
Striker didn’t look away.
“Leaving only his letters on the pillow beside her.”
The fire cracked.
Once.
Twice.
Then even the flames seemed to still—
as if the room itself had gone quiet, in respect of something too tragic to touch.....
As if the walls had finally realized what they’d been made to hold.
Not a scandal.
Not a family shame.
A girl.
An innocent life.
A girl’s pain.
A girl’s voice pressed into paper—
because no one had ever intended to listen.
And suddenly it wasn’t only Layla in that silence.
It was every girl who had ever been told to hush.
To be a good girl.
To follow the lead of others.
To stay in line.
To never question.
To never demand.
Because the moment a girl raised her voice—
she became dramatic.
Rebellious.
Difficult.
A problem to be corrected.
But what had truly been Layla’s crime?
She had been young.
She had been reachable.
She had been purposely molded into an object that was easy to manipulate and control.....
The room stilled so completely it felt like the whole estate was listening.
Not even the flames dared to flicker.
It was as if a ghost—
and the ghosts of millions like her—
cried out... finally being seen...
Matthew’s voice cracked through the quiet.
“My father always told me…”
“…that she died in a riding accident.”
Striker’s eyes didn’t change.
Matthew’s voice trembled.
“That she loved a man once.”
“That he died in some skirmish near Talathe.”
His throat tightened.
“He said she never got over it.”
“Lived like a widow…”
“…but never wore the dress.”
Striker’s expression didn’t soften.
But his voice did.
“She wasn’t well, Match.”
Matthew stared at him.
Striker continued, quieter now.
“It’s all there.”
“In her handwriting.”
“Ten years worth of diaries.”
Matthew’s eyes burned.
Striker’s gaze held steady.
“I gave them to my father.”
“He passed them to the King.”
Matthew’s breath hitched.
Striker nodded once.
“Mages tested every single one.”
“No magic.”
“No alterations.”
“They were real.”
Matthew’s eyes went glassy.
He looked away quickly, wiping his nose on his sleeve like a child—
like someone who couldn’t afford to be seen breaking.
Striker’s voice turned firm again.
Final.
“And they cleared your father’s name.”
Matthew swallowed.
Then forced the question out.
“Then what’s the problem?”
Striker hesitated.
Just a beat too long.
And Matthew felt it—
that sick little drop in his stomach.
The moment before another hard truth was about to land.
“The diaries cleared him of the poisoning,” Striker said slowly.
“But they don’t explain his recent behavior.”
Matthew’s jaw clenched.
Striker continued.
“His silence.”
“His refusal to attend court.”
Matthew’s hands curled into fists as Striker pressed on.
“And some nobles think…” Striker added, voice bitter, “…that speaks louder than the past.”
Matthew’s voice went dangerously low.
“My sister was born fragile.”
He stared into the fire.
“I was too.”
“But I got stronger.”
His throat tightened.
“Emmy didn’t.”
Striker didn’t interrupt he let Matthew continue.
“My mother’s body never healed.”
“And my father…”
His voice cracked.
“…my father took care of us.”
“Of her.”
“He became everything my mother couldn’t be.”
Matthew’s eyes burned.
“Many would call that noble.”
Striker didn’t answer right away.
But when he did—
his voice sounded like he hated himself for saying it.
“Others…”
“…call it dereliction of duty.”
The table groaned beneath Matthew’s fists.
The sound was sharp.
Ugly.
Like the house itself protesting the violence in his chest.
“Take that back, Strike!”
Striker rose instantly—hands half-raised in peace, eyes wide with the realization that he’d finally crossed the line.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I take it back. I shouldn’t have said that.”
But the apology didn’t settle.
It didn’t soothe.
It didn’t undo the fact that the word had been spoken at all.
Matthew’s pacing began—fast and jagged.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Like a caged animal that didn’t know where to put its teeth.
Striker stood there for a moment, watching him.
Quiet.
Patient.
Not defensive.
Not angry.
Just… resigned.
Because he knew Matthew well enough to understand this wasn’t only about the King.
Or the diaries.
Or the court.
This was about something deeper.
Something Matthew had never learned how to name without choking on it.
Striker’s voice came softer.
“I crossed a line.”
Matthew didn’t answer.
His jaw was clenched so hard it ached.
Striker swallowed.
Then took a step back.
“I’ll take my leave now,” he said quietly.
“Give you some room.”
Matthew didn’t look at him.
Didn’t nod.
Didn’t dismiss him.
He just kept pacing—fists clenching and unclenching, like he was trying to hold his own heart together by force.
So Striker took that silence as answer enough.
He turned.
And left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And suddenly the room felt—
too big.
Too quiet.
Too full of ghosts.
The fire crackled.
Rain battered the windows.
Lightning flashed faintly against the walls like a memory trying to return.
Matthew stood there, breathing hard.
Then finally sank back down onto the couch like his bones had given up.
His hands shook.
He stared at the wine bottle in front of him.
At the half-eaten mountain of spuds.
At the hearth.
At the shadowy corners of his sitting room where the world seemed to collect the things he wasn’t ready to face.
Layla.
Dead at twenty-five.
Wrists slit.
Letters on the pillow.
A child who had been preyed upon at fourteen—
and then abandoned.
A child who had written murder into existence like a prayer—
because paper was the only place she could speak without being corrected or punished.
And worst of all—
a child who had carried his family’s blood.
Matthew dragged a hand down his face.
Slow.
Heavy.
Then whispered into the room like it might answer him.
“My father…”
His voice cracked.
His father—who had raised him.
Protected him.
Held the weight of a fragile daughter and a broken wife and a crumbling kingdom—
and still somehow managed to look Matthew in the eye every day.
Still managed to keep his voice steady.
Still managed to be the Great Marquise.
And now…
Now the court whispered.
Now the nobles watched.
Now the King doubted.
And Matthew—
Matthew had been in the dark.
Oblivious.
Coddled.
Busy with petty luxuries and childish sulking.
While Striker had been doing the real work.
While Emmy—
Emmy had been doing the realest work of all.
Finding the diaries.
Knowing where the truth was buried.
Matthew’s throat tightened.
His eyes stung.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know if what he felt was anger…
or shame.
Or fear....
Or all of it braided together so tightly he couldn’t separate the strands.
That night, sleep refused to find him.
The storm passed.
But the thunder stayed inside his chest.
Matthew lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling like it might crack open and show him something he could understand.
His mind wandered the cliffs of memory and betrayal.
His aunt’s madness.
His father’s burdens.
Striker’s words.
Emmy’s illness.
His own lack of strength—
each thought crashing against him like waves.
Over.
And over.
And over.
And for the first time…
he feared the weight of it all would drag him under…
…and never let him rise again.
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