"Leave us."

Vincent’s voice was dangerously low, vibrating with a quiet, lethal command that brooked absolutely no delay.

Francis and Martha didn’t need to be reminded. Bowing their heads, they practically scrambled past his towering frame, desperate to place as much distance between themselves and the shrine as possible.

The heavy oak door shut behind them with a definitive, echoing thud.

Vincent stepped closer, his heavy leather boots tracking bits of mud across the dark granite floor Penelope had just been inspecting.

He did not look at her.

His attention remained fixed on the altar.

"What are you doing here?"

His tone didn’t sound furious to Penelope, but it was devoid of any inflection, which made it infinitely worse.

"I won’t hold this against you," he continued, casually shoving one hand into his trouser pocket. "If that is what you are worried about. But never come here again. You may play the curious detective elsewhere, but not here."

Penelope swallowed.

The sudden change in him was unsettling. The man before her no longer felt like Vincent, but the Marquis of Aelgard. The man everyone else saw and feared. Still, Penelope forced herself to stand her ground. She refused to let the sudden icy shift in his demeanor push her back.

"Vincent," she said quietly, "what is it that you cannot tell me? We are married. I wanted to see your parents’ altar. I wanted to pay my respect. Is that really such a terrible thing?"

A short, hollow sound escaped him. It didn’t sound like a laugh, not even amusement, but something far empty and dry, like he found her words ridiculous.

"Respect," he repeated, the word sounding foreign in his tongue. He turned to look at her, his expression entirely deadpan. "Ask yourself something, is that truly why you came here?

"What are you–"

Vincent exhaled softly, the sound cutting her off more effectively than any interruption.

His gaze shifted to the altar, the dark roses, the dark stains on the floor, and the tablets bearing his parents’ name.

"You already know the answer," he murmured, his voice maintaining that same blunt, rhythmic monotony. "You didn’t come here to pay your respect. You came looking for proof. You wanted to find the cracks in my armor, the same way everyone else does, hm?"

Penelope opened her mouth to speak, but he continued before she could answer.

"I wanted to keep you on the brighter side of my life, Penny." Something bitter resurfaced beneath his calm. "But it seems that was never going to happen, and it would never be enough. Sooner or later, curiosity always wins. When that happens, people begin searching for more reasons to justify what they’ve already decided to believe."

Penelope stared at him, genuinely stunned. "Justify what?"

"The disgust," he replied, the words landing heavily between them.

At this point, Penelope’s confusion was immediate and sincere.

"Vincent, what are you talking about?" she stepped closer. "I’ve never looked at you with disgust. Ever since we got married, I haven’t harbored a single negative feeling toward you. I made my feelings clear already. So where... is all of this coming from?"

"The patterns never change," he countered. "They smile. They tell you they’re different. They tell you it’s safe to trust them. And then, the moment you aren’t looking, they start digging. Why are you concerned about the relationship I had with my parents? To validate the rumors, and the questions, am I right?"

"That is completely absurd and you know it!" Penelope’s own temper flared, her heart hammering against her ribs as she faced his stubborn bitter wall. "I came here because I wanted to understand you, because I care about you."

She shook her head in disbelief.

"Why is your first instinct always to assume the worst? Why do you continue to act like I’m looking for faults in you when all I’ve ever done is try to get closer to you."

"Because no one digs into a man’s madness purely out of affection," Vincent replied automatically, his delivery completely clinical as he finally met her burning gaze. "People love the version of you that already exists in their minds. The version that makes them comfortable. I understood that a long time ago. They rarely care for the reality."

His voice grew quieter.

"I was willing to be whatever version of me you thought of, Penny."

Something in Penelope’s chest tightened at that.

"But I am not a good man. I’ve never been." He averted his gaze. "The butler must have told you no one is allowed here. Yet you came anyway. You knew I forbade anyone from entering this place, yet you came searching regardless. I tried my best, but very well, I’ll give you the answers you’re looking for."

He then stepped directly into her personal space, and Penelope found herself staring up into those storm-gray eyes.

"If you haven’t discovered it already," he said quietly, "then allow me to confirm the rumors for you."

His gaze never wavered.

"I killed Arthur Devereux," he confessed, the words landing like a hammer blow. "And his wife. I tampered with the carriage beforehand. I only intended for the accident itself to happen."

His eyes flickered briefly to the altar, staring at the stark, unblinking white marble of the tablets.

"But I was concerned they’d survive. So I made certain they didn’t."

For the first time since entering the shrine, Vincent smiled, but it was not a pleasant expression. It was hollow—a brief, chilling crack in his emotionless facade that revealed a terrifying depth of emptiness underneath.

He turned his gaze back to the imposing granite walls of the fortress. "This is not a sanctuary. It never was. This is a prison, a punishment. Apparently, I wasn’t content with killing them."

The words carried no emotion.

"I couldn’t even allow them the dignity of rest."

"Vince–" Penelope’s voice was barely a whisper, her throat tight as she tried to bridge the immense, frozen chasm he had just built between them.

"This place exists because I wanted them to watch," he continued. "To watch me inherit everything they built. To watch me take their precious title, land, and name."

The silence that followed felt suffocating. Then his gray eyes shifted back to her. He laid his dark secrets out between them like weapons, fully expecting her to turn and run.

"So yes," he murmured. "The rumors were right. I hated them. But I still miss them. When you’re young, people tell you that hatred and love are opposites. But they’re not. Sometimes they’re so tangled together that by the time one dies, the other is already buried with it."

He looked Penelope straight in the eyes as he said, "I made my choice. You wanted to know the type of man I am. So what will your choice be?"