"I’ll see what he wants," Lorraine said casually, setting down her tea and brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. Her tone was serene. Her heart, however, drumd a victory march.
She fixed her hair with practiced grace, gave her reflection a self-satisfied nod, and walked out like a queen summoned to deal with peasantry.
When she entered Leroy’s study, he was stiffly perched behind his desk like a man sentenced to life among spreadsheets. The stacks of books towered like walls between them. Through a sliver of space between two ledgers, Lorraine caught sight of him: arms crossed, jaw tight, that telltale twitch back in his brow.
She signed smoothly, her face a picture of innocent concern.
"Zara’s not being open about it, but I think she’s suffering. You should call for a better physician. Soone thorough."
Aldric translated dutifully.
Lorraine knew exactly what she was doing. Throwing Zara into the conversation was a distraction grenade, one she expected Leroy to chase.
However, he didn’t.
His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker of interest in Zara’s health crossed his face. Instead, he stood.
Lorraine’s internal alarm bell rang once.
He looked at her. Slowly. From head to toe.
Twice.
Her spine straightened. What was that? Why did she suddenly feel seen? And not in a flattering admire- way, but in a why-is-it-so-hot-in-here way.
Leroy stepped around the desk.
Lorraine instinctively took a step back. Save yourself! Retreat!
"You’re coming with ," he said.
His voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be.
Lorraine shook her head with gusto, imdiately objecting to... well, whatever that ant. She didn’t like the glint in his eyes. It was the look of a man who had found purpose, and unfortunately, she was it.
She signed a firm No. Then underlined it with a double no. Then a third just for emphasis.
Leroy didn’t care.
He closed the distance, grabbed her by the wrist, not roughly, but definitely not with her consent, and began dragging her out of the room.
She looked back at Aldric, wildly signing, "Stop him! Do sothing! Help !"
Aldric, who had wisely lted into a potted plant the mont Leroy stood up, coughed and looked the other way. "Good luck, Your Highness," he muttered under his breath.
Lorraine considered biting Leroy’s hand. Or at least kicking his shin. But neither option guaranteed escape, and besides, she was wearing her nice shoes.
So instead, she resigned herself to being hauled off like a particularly opinionated sack of potatoes with Aldric following them.
Still, one thought rang louder than the clatter of footsteps and clinking weapons: What, in the seven burning heavens, was the mad Leroy planning now?
The answer?
Market Street.
That was it. That was the big plan.
Of all the outcos she imagined—imprisonnt, interrogation, a dramatic duel over estate ledgers—shopping hadn’t even made the list.
But there they were, in the heart of the capital’s luxury quarter, flanked by velvet-curtained boutiques and noblewon in trailing skirts, the sky blushing pink as the sun dipped toward the rooftops. The sll of fried batter, candied nuts, and honeyed ats hung in the air, tempting even Lorraine’s strategic self-restraint.
So, she indulged.
Fried bread, stuffed pastries, a syrup-drenched cake that defied gravity—it was all fair ga. She was full, warm, and mildly sticky. Perfect ti to return ho and pass out.
But no.
Leroy, with the focus of a man avenging an ancient curse, turned into a silk rchant’s shop like it was a battlefield.
And dragged her with him.
"Get what you want," he said, his voice clipped but neutral.
Lorraine blinked. What was she supposed to do here? Stock up on silks for the afterlife?
She was leaving in a few weeks. This was pointless.
Still, if the prince didn’t want another thunderstorm in his study, she figured it was safer to play along.
So she wandered. Slowly. Deliberately. Touched every roll of cloth. Comnted in signs about the thread count. Ran her fingers over brocade and lace and asked pointed questions about hand-stitching—none of which the shopkeeper could understand, but Aldric translated with the dead eyes of a man witnessing his own funeral.
Finally, Lorraine picked one fabric. Just one.
"Let’s leave," she signed.
Leroy’s eyebrows twitched. Ah. So that wasn’t enough.
She sighed. Fine. She grabbed a second roll.
Still not enough.
She raised an eyebrow at him, picked a third fabric—this one in a rich burgundy that would look gorgeous on Zara—and smiled sweetly.
"This one’s for Zara," she signed innocently. See? I’m such a considerate wife. Even choosing gifts for my husband’s mistress.
Leroy’s jaw clenched so hard she heard the grind. His glare could’ve cracked glass.
She turned to leave, smug.
But he stopped her. She let out a sigh so exasperated it deserved its own opera.
Was this punishnt? For leaving him the estate work? How petty could one crown prince be?
He marched past her toward the premium silks—the premium ones—and rifled through them like a man possessed. After a long stare, he pulled down a dozen pastel shades. Lavender, pearl, soft rose, pale blue, ivory.
He nodded, satisfied.
Then ca the seamstress.
Then the book of gown designs.
Then him gesturing for her to choose.
Lorraine stared. He wanted what now?
She gave a few lazy signs, just enough to appear cooperative, but her heart wasn’t in it. He noticed.
So Leroy chose the designs himself.
She didn’t even argue. She was too tired, too confused, and honestly too suspicious. What was the ga here?
Eventually, she wandered toward the collection he’d picked. The colors were beautiful—softer than her usual palette. She always chose muted tones that let her disappear into shadows and columns. But these? These were ant to be seen. Admired. Desired.
Pale blue silk shimred in the light, delicate as moonlight on water. She touched it, almost afraid to wrinkle it. Could she even pull that off?
She wasn’t a woman who liked to draw attention. She didn’t belong in that kind of spotlight.
So what was Leroy thinking?
Her thoughts were halfway to spiraling again when—
A splash of crimson interrupted everything.
Blood-red silk unfurled beside her like a wound across moonlight. Lorraine jolted out of her reverie.
And then ca the voice.
Low. Smooth. Too familiar.
"If you’re choosing silks, this one would suit you better, don’t you think, Lorraine?"
Her spine stiffened as the man’s sleeve brushed her forearm.
That voice. No. It couldn’t be...
She turned sharply. Her eyes widened.
The man beside her smiled, charming as a devil.
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