Chapter 19: His plan

He obeyed. He knelt, head bowed, pleading though she had said nothing that needed pleading. Around him, the basement held its collected breath.

Flora watched from behind the crowd, her fingers white on the hankerchief at her back. At the sight of Gail flattened and small, her smile unfolded — not the smile of triumph but of relief, that strange sensation of shackles cracking. It passed quickly but....Flora’s face tightened when her eyes fell to Aiden.

She pushed through the cluster of knights, and whatever composed her before now fell into pieces as she leaned down beside him.

She found his chin, lifted it to see his face. The bruise that framed his eye was swelling purple. The cut on his lip had dried in streaks of dark wine. Blood dotted his shirt. He looked like a man who had been scrubbed against the rough edge of the world.

Flora’s breath hitched.

"Was I too late?" she breathed, and the sound itself looked like repentance.

"No," Aiden whispered. The voice came thin, a wire between them.

"...just in time." He voiced, as He heard the viscountess clear her throat as she approached.

"....You are Aiden?" Lady Catherine’s tone was softer than her arrival had been but firm. "Gerald told me... he said you’d make a good butler for the family." Her eyes slid to Gail with something close to pity, which was worse for his pride than anger.

She bent and set a hand on Aiden’s shoulder, the touch as firm as a contract. "Rest. Gail will be judged and... You will be taken to our best healer."

Aiden only nodded, the motion slow, deliberate—his head tilting just enough for the torchlight to catch the bruises, the split skin, the swollen edges of his lips.

It wasn’t just his face he showed the viscountess—it was the silent accusation in his eyes. Guilt had a way of multiplying in silence, and the more she looked, the heavier her breath became.

Her composure cracked. The proud viscountess lowered herself, skirts pooling around her like a surrender flag. One gloved hand settled on his shoulder, hesitant at first, then firm.

"Don’t worry," she said, voice smoothing over its own tremor, "Gail will be judged for his crimes. What he did will strip him of title and rank. Rest assured, justice will come to you."

Her words sounded like a verdict, but in the cold basement air, they felt more like a confession.

She raised one elegant hand, and from the shadows, two armored soldiers stepped forward. The clink of their greaves against the stone floor was sharp, each step punctuating her command.

"Take him to our finest healer." Her tone carried the weight of command but none of the warmth of comfort.

The soldiers obeyed, lifting Aiden under each arm. His head lolled for a moment, then straightened. Blood traced a slow, deliberate path down his neck, dripping from his jaw and marking the floor with a trail they could follow back to this moment if they ever dared.

Flora stood off to the side, her gaze fixed on his back. She watched until the torchlight swallowed him, until all that remained was the faint memory of blood on stone.

Only then did her eyes drift to the broken figure still kneeling. Gail—the knight who had once boasted of honor—was now weeping into his own shame.

"...Pathetic." The word left her lips in a breath, not a declaration, yet it still carried.

"Pathetic indeed," Catherine’s voice cut in, colder than her daughter’s. Her blue eyes gleamed as she gestured for the knights to drag Gail away. "Remove him. His very presence makes this place foul."

Two more soldiers obeyed instantly, seizing Gail beneath his arms and pulling him across the floor. His boots scraped against the stone, a sound almost pitiful in its lack of resistance.

Catherine’s eyes did not follow him. "I told your father not to trust him," she said, her voice sharpening into the blade of old grievance. "I saw the rot in him from the start... but your father? He cares only for connections and politics."

There was weight in that last word—politics—like it was filth.

Flora’s lips curved in a small, satisfied smile. "It’s fine, mother. Now we can break the arrangement. His true colors are out in the open."

Catherine turned to her daughter then, those ice-blue eyes seeming to see past skin and bone, straight into the marrow. She smiled, slow and deliberate.

"...You are becoming more like your father, though."

Flora blinked. "Mother? What do you mean?"

Catherine’s smile thinned into something almost amused. "Haha... nothing, dear." She reached out, taking Flora’s hand in hers—a gesture soft enough to disguise the weight behind it.

"Just saying you’re growing up now."

Her other hand slipped into her sleeve and emerged holding a folded piece of cloth. She pressed it into Flora’s palm.

Flora glanced down. It was the same handkerchief she had once passed to Gail—only now, the pale fabric bore the faint smudge of her own kiss mark. The ink below was blurred but still legible.

...I will be yours, forever and ever, if you do me one service... please, please, knight Gail, deal with the white-haired servant fouling my name...

Flora’s breath caught. Her eyes rose to meet her mother’s, but Catherine’s expression was unreadable. Only a slight smile.

"Don’t use that boy too much," Catherine whispered.

The words struck harder than any accusation.

"...What do you mean, mother?" Flora asked quickly, her fingers curling to hide the handkerchief behind her back. Her tone was sharp, defensive—like a child caught stealing sweets and pretending she hadn’t.

Catherine didn’t lower her voice this time. "What I said," she replied plainly.

Her gaze flicked toward the basement door where Aiden had been taken. "My instincts say... he’s dangerous."

Flora turned too, her eyes narrowing slightly. Dangerous? Perhaps. But wasn’t that part of the appeal? Even so, a part of her—small but persistent—agreed.

Because in the end, every twist, every accusation, every downfall in this basement... it had all been part of his plan..