"No, Father, Penelope is only allowed to love me!" William barked, his face twisting into an ugly, fuming mask of rage as he recalled the embarrassment he had been forced to endure in open court.

His father, the Count, frowned deeply from behind his heavy desk, watching his son pace back and forth across the rug like a caged animal. There was a frantic, manic edge to William’s movement that made the old man profoundly uneasy.

"You will do no such thing," his father reprimanded, his voice sharp and unyielding. "Have you lost your senses? I do not know what manner of spell that woman has cast upon you, but she no longer belongs to you. She is married to the Marquis. Do you realize you are chasing after a married woman? The wife of the Empire’s most lethal commander? You are not only courting disaster, but you are foolishly inviting the ruin of this entire family!"

"The marriage is a farce!" William shot back, slamming his fist onto a nearby side table hard enough to rattle the crystal decanter resting upon it, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "She does not love that man! She can’t. I won’t allow it!"

He dragged a hand roughly through his blonde hair, breathing unevenly.

"I know for a fact that there is something going on, and I won’t stop till I get to the bottom of it. She is playing some twisted game to punish me for reasons I cannot comprehend. But she must answer to me, Father. She will stand before me, and she will explain exactly why she is doing this to me! I deserve that much from her!"

Despite the violent rage consuming William’s heart, a desperate, hollow ache throbbed in his chest. Beneath the anger, he felt totally, miserably disheartened by the chilling hatred he had seen in Penelope’s eyes.

For years, he had been entirely accustomed to being worshipped by that woman. He was used to her pure, unwavering, and desperate love toward him. To William, her adoration wasn’t just a given– it was his birthright. It was a possession he owned, a fundamental law of the universe. And now it was being ripped away from him. The thought of her looking at another man— especially an annoying hypocrite like Vincent– with even a fraction of that devotion, filled him with a vicious, suffocating jealousy that clawed mercilessly at his throat.

She couldn’t just stop loving him. He wouldn’t allow it. Even if he had to break her spirit to force her back into place, then so be it. After all these years spent at his side, she could not brush him off like their relationship meant nothing.

No.

He closed his eyes, and the memories flashed behind his eyelids, vivid and mocking. He imagined her beautiful, bright smile whenever they spent time together, the cute, adoring twinkle in her gorgeous brown eyes whenever he so much as glanced her way, as though his attention alone had been enough to light her entire world. She had belonged to him completely.

Her life had revolved around him.

So where did it all vanish to?

How could she look at that monster Vincent with anything but horror? Since their childhood, he had made sure to carefully poison her thoughts against the Marquis, painting him as nothing but a ruthless monster lurking behind his noble title and military glories.

So what changed?

He shook his head sharply, a manic, frantic denial wrapped tightly around his mind.

She was testing him.

Yes... that had to be it. Penelope was merely trying to make him jealous, to punish him for his affairs with her sister. The realization almost made him laugh bitterly. Who would have imagined that his Penelope possessed such a spine? But it would not matter in the end.

She would return to him.

And if she did not do so willingly... then he would simply make certain she had no other choice.

Meanwhile, the Count stepped out of the chamber, looking utterly exhausted and unable to endure his son’s delusional sense of stupidity for a second longer.

He found his wife waiting anxiously near the entrance of the corridor, her hands tightly clasped together. But the moment she saw the sheer, dark hopelessness in his eyes, her shoulders sagged in immediate defeat.

"Knock some sense into your son," the Count commanded, pointing a rigid, trembling finger back at the closed door while his sharp gaze remained locked on his wife. "I only secured his release because the high society vultures were starting to circle, and because you would not cease your weeping and pleading. He has already brought enough disgrace to our family name. I will not extend a shred of leniency a second time."

Before his wife could even open her mouth to defend the boy, the Count turned on his heel and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing down the marble hallway like an angry storm.

******

The following morning, Penelope was set to leave the estate for her parent’s manor.

Vincent was already waiting outside by the carriage, looking every bit the imposing Marquis in his impeccably tailored dark coat.

When he heard the heavy estate doors open and turned to see her approaching, the command he usually held over himself vanished. He found himself staring, momentarily frozen.

Penelope was breathtaking.

She descended the steps in an exquisite gown fashioned in the elegant rococo style, its rich, layered fabric shimmering in a deep, sapphire blue beneath the morning light. The layered skirt flowed around her like water, every delicate detail crafted with impossible refinement. The off-the-shoulder neckline framed the graceful line of her neck and collarbone, while fine lace cascaded down the fitted bodice in soft, intricate patterns.

The color suited her perfectly, deepening the warmth of her complexion and making her brown eyes appear even more luminous than usual.

To Vincent, she looked almost unreal. Like a fairy stepping out of a storybook.

The moment Penelope noticed him staring without blinking, a brilliant, knowing smile broke across her lips.

Watching her smile like that, Vincent felt his heart thump violently against his ribs. The sensation was so sudden and unfamiliar that it genuinely unsettled him. It was heavy, uneven, almost disorienting, and for one absurd moment, he found himself pressing a flat hand against his chest to truly confirm the erratic heartbeat belonged to him and was not some strange illusion carried by the wind.

Even the guards waiting beside the carriage seemed momentarily captivated by their Marchioness’s radiant presence.

By the time she was standing directly before him, Penelope noticed how his piercing gray eyes suddenly darted away, completely unable to meet her gaze. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his usual stoic countenance entirely compromised.

"My Lord," Penelope teased, her voice a low, melodic purr as she leaned in, "do you always stand idle whenever you see a beautiful woman?"

Vincent cleared his throat at that, meeting her gaze briefly before his eyes darted away again.

"And what exactly are your intentions here, hm?" he asked, trying and failing to sound stern.

Penelope tilted her head slightly.

"So... you do not think I look beautiful in this dress then, is that it?"

He noticed how her cute face was frowning at him now, her lips forming a slight pout that made his chest tighten even more. He realized he had said the wrong thing. Panicking internally, he tried to rectify his words before he actually upset her.

"I did not say that," he muttered quickly, his voice dropping to a low, rough sincerity. "Far from that. You’ve always looked beautiful in my eyes, Penny."

For a heartbeat, Penelope simply stared at him.

Then she smiled once more, her triumphant, radiant grin instantly melting away any lingering tension. Not even William had ever spoken to her with such open sincerity before, and somehow, that realization struck far deeper than she expected.

Standing a few paces away, the guards by the carriage subtly exchanged bewildered glances. They shifted their weight, silently checking if the others were witnessing exactly what they were seeing.

Their master’s crumbling composure was a phenomenon they had always assumed was just an estate myth. But seeing it with their own eyes now, proved the ancient saying was, in fact, entirely true.

Even heroes are powerless against beauties.

"Shall we?" Penelope asked, gesturing toward the open carriage door. She looked back at Martha who was also set to follow them before turning to Vincent.

Vincent simply nodded, finally regaining enough of his senses to extend his gloved hand to help her up.

Penelope was just about to climb the carriage when the heavy sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the courtyard. Elias came rushing toward them, his face tense as he adjusted his spectacle. He stopped short and bowed his head at once before the couple, his breath slightly shallow.

"Your Lordship, I... I am afraid we might not be able to escort Her Ladyship to the Viremont estate."

Both Vincent and Penelope froze at those words. Vincent looked at Elias, his gray eyes instantly snapping back to their default.

"And why is that?"

"His Majesty... has summoned your presence to the palace," Elias reported, keeping his voice lowered but urgent. "He sent his personal envoys, and they claim it is a matter of utmost national security. You must come immediately."