Penelope’s soft footsteps were the only sound filling the chamber, a rhythmic pacing that mirrored the frantic ticking of her heart.

Every few seconds, her gaze would snap to the door, the one with the fresh, jagged splinter-hole where her hairpin had driven through.

The sight was deeply unsettling.

Who exactly had been standing outside the door to warrant such a reaction?

And more importantly...

Why did Vincent leave without so much as a word to her?

"That man," she whispered to the empty room, her voice trembling with a mix of frustration and anxiety. "He truly has no regard for his own health. None at all."

She bit lightly against her lower lip as she resumed her restless circuit around the chamber, her violet skirt whispering softly against the floor behind her.

Vincent should be resting by now.

The physician had practically ordered confinement to the bed. In her opinion, he ought to be lying face-down among those soft pillows. But instead, he was out there wandering the palace corridors.

Unbelievable.

Penelope pressed a hand briefly against her forehead. Her thoughts drifted helplessly to that laugh of his. The memory alone made heat creep embarrassingly into her cheeks again.

But beneath that embarrassment lingered something else now.

Did Vincent truly find her concern amusing?

Or perhaps...

Perhaps he was simply so accustomed to being treated like a weapon, like a creature built solely to endure pain and inflict it upon others, that the idea of someone worrying over him felt absurd.

It wasn’t impossible, and the thought made her chest tighten painfully. Because now that she stopped to consider it, did Vincent actually have anyone?

Any family relations?

Any friends?

Anyone at all beyond frightened subordinates and political allies who valued him only for his usefulness?

A knock on the door made Penelope freeze. When she went to open it, it was two servants carrying trays laden with their evening meal.

"Ah... this way," she stepped aside quickly, letting them in.

She guided them toward the large mahogany table, her stomach giving a traitorous pinch at the sight of the trays. Only then did Penelope realize how hungry she actually was.

Neither she nor Vincent had eaten since morning.

The steam rising from the roasted meats and buttered vegetables should have been comforting, enough to make her stomach tighten with belated hunger. But Penelope felt too worried to eat anything.

Not when all she could think about was Vincent and if he was alright.

Where could he possibly have gone?

As the servants finished setting the dishes and bowed their way out, one of them pulled the heavy door shut.

But the latch failed to catch properly.

Penelope moved automatically to close it— then stopped, the hushed voices belonging to the servants drifting back through the narrow gap.

"The Marquis’s wife is far prettier than I expected," one of the servants whispered. "It feels strange to see it with my own eyes. The Marquis is finally married now."

"With a reputation like his, I never believed any woman would willingly get married to him," her companion whispered back. "The Marquis still carries the stain of what happened to his late parents. Half the capital still believes he is the one responsible for the carriage accident. They say he is the reason it went over the cliff. Because why was he the only one who survived while everyone else died?"

A chill crept up Penelope’s spine. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

"It is a valid question," the first servant admitted uneasily, her voice dropping lower. "The coachman died. His parents died. Everyone inside that carriage was crushed beyond recognition, yet somehow the young Marquis was found unscathed. I heard he still refuses to speak about what happened all those years."

The second servant nodded.

"I heard when the council accused him of murdering his own parents to inherit the title before turning eighteen, he said nothing in his own defense."

"How was he even allowed to walk free after that? Surely the law—"

"The King finds him far too useful for a scaffold," came the grim reply. "There is a reason they called him the Mad Hound. Have you not heard of the massacre at the northern border? Whatever ugly task the Crown requires, the Marquis carries it out without hesitation. It is one of the reasons His Majesty favors him so heavily. And since no one could ever truly prove he was responsible for his parents’ death... the matter was quietly buried."

A softer sigh followed.

"I almost feel sorry for the poor lady inside that room. Imagine living at the center of a storm like that."

The voices gradually faded as the servants disappeared further down the corridor, leaving Penelope standing in a silence that felt heavier than before.

Her fingers remained curled tightly around the handle, and she fought the sudden urge to chase after the servants and rebuke them.

Because how could she?

Not when, once upon a time, she had thought the very same things.

Everyone around him had long since accepted the monstrous image the Empire had placed upon his shoulders so completely that no one even questioned it anymore. Including her.

In her former life, she had viewed Vincent through the lens of pure, unadulterated terror. It wasn’t just his obsession that chilled her, but the blood-soaked reputation that clung to him like a second skin. Those terrifying stories had followed him everywhere.

As a child growing up within the aristocracy of Aelgard, Penelope had heard those tales so often they became inseparable from the man himself. Her parents had warned her repeatedly to keep her distance, and William only added to her worries with his own grim opinions. She had feared Vincent long before she ever met him. Despised him long before he ever spoke to her.

And perhaps worst of all—

She had judged him without ever once trying to truly know him.

The first time Penelope had genuinely spoken to Vincent Devereux had been the day he sought her hand in marriage. He hadn’t exactly given her a choice, so a part of her loathing back then was still reasonably justified.

Before that, he had existed only as a frightening figure lurking at the edges of political conversations and whispered warnings.

Never a person.

But now...

The stories no longer fit as neatly as they once had.

Penelope slowly lowered her gaze.

From what she remembered hearing years ago, Vincent had not even been born a Devereux by blood. The late Marquis and Marchioness, who were unable to have children of their own, had adopted him while he was still very young.

And by all accounts—

They had loved him dearly.

So how could a child cherished that deeply suddenly murder his own parents?

It did not make sense.

No matter how she turned the story in her mind, something about it felt terribly incomplete.

As though a vital piece of the truth had been deliberately buried.

Penelope looked toward the darkened window, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. There had to be more to the story than what the Empire believed, and this time, she intended to uncover it.

No matter what it took, she was going to help Vincent in every way she could.

Even if the lingering feeling that she did not deserve to stand by his side never truly faded, she would still remain.

Because that was the promise she had made to him.

And Penelope intended to keep it.