CHAPTER 112: ON THE VERGE OF FRACTURING

Lorraine bowed her head until her forehead thudded against the hard table. The sound echoed dully, like the hollow knock of a coffin lid.

It all made sense now... Now it made sense why their mother had withered and died within a year of the dowager duchess’s passing.

The whispers of the old servants returned to her ears—how her father had married her mother not for love, but because his family had insisted. The woman he had truly desired, Illyria, was unworthy of the Great Arvand name. And yet... he wasn’t willing to lose his inheritance for his love for Illyria.

He chose to have it all. Upon his mother’s insistence, Hadrian had taken Lorraine’s mother as his wife. He had fathered two children with her.

Emmeline Ashwynd... A woman of grace and kindness.

Lorraine’s mother, so unlike the proud nobles of her rank, never wore her title like armor. She had been gentle, humble, warm. A woman who offered companionship to a lonely mother-in-law in her twilight years. A woman who did not know poverty but knew kindness, and gave it freely. A woman who never raised her voice, never demanded her due, never placed her own happiness above duty.

That same woman remained loyal to Hadrian, even as the entire household knew of his mistress, even as he flaunted his love for Illyria openly. She bore it all with quiet dignity, and still gave him two children—children she cherished more than her own life.

And in return... he sent her to her death.

Mother... Lorraine’s throat ached, the word breaking in silence. Did you know? Did you know your husband would kill you for his mistress? When you hugged me that day in the carriage, did you know it was the last time?

Her vision blurred. Perhaps it was better if you didn’t know. Better if you left this world believing he was cruel only in neglect, not in betrayal.

The memory she had pushed away for so long hit her out of nowhere, hard and without warning. She was laughing with her mother, talking about... something. Then...The carriage shuddered when the axle snapped, wheels screeching, horses crying out. The world tilted, then spun in a chaos of splintering wood and shattering glass.

Her mother seized her at once, pulling her into her arms, crushing Lorraine’s small body against her chest. With a bone-crunching hug, her mother shielded her head, her back, taking the blows upon herself with desperate strength. The crash hurled them across the carriage, each impact slamming into her mother’s body instead of her own.

Lorraine remembered the frantic beat of her mother’s heart—the wild, desperate rhythm against her ear. Arms trembling but unyielding, clutching her so tightly as though sheer will could hold the world together. Blow after blow landed on her mother’s body, never on her own.

Until... that heartbeat slowed. Faltered.

And then there was nothing.

No sound. No warmth. Only the crushing stillness of arms that would never hold her again.

Her mother’s embrace had been her shield, her final gift... her daughter’s life bought with the price of her own. A mother’s love, fierce and wordless.

Oh, Mother... Oh, Mother...

Lorraine’s tears did not fall, but they burned behind her eyes, scalding her heart. She wept within, for the woman who had given her life twice—once at birth, and once again in that carriage.

And that man she had once called Father...

For so long she had believed his hatred stemmed from her deafness, that she was the flaw in the perfect marble of the Great House of Arvand. But no. The truth was far fouler.

He had wanted her dead. He had killed her mother. He despised her not for her silence, but for surviving when she should have perished. For defying the death he had written for her.

Had he loved Elyse so fiercely that he could slaughter his wife, and cast aside another daughter, just to raise his mistress’s child to the place of honor? Had he truly harbored not a single grain of love for the daughter born of the woman who gave him ten years of loyalty, dignity, and children?

She searched her memory for scraps of tenderness, fragments of those years when her mother still lived. Those rare moments when his gaze had rested on her. Did she not impress him even once? Was she so unworthy in his eyes that he could condemn his own blood to death?

And all those cruelties that followed—she had thought them shame, anger at her disability, his pride bruised by a daughter who could not hear. But no.

Perhaps he had simply been trying to finish what he began. Every blow, every humiliation, another attempt to break her body or her spirit until she surrendered to death.

Her lips curled, not in laughter, but in exasperation, in bitter recognition of her own blindness. She should have known. She should have questioned. She should have torn apart the silence surrounding her mother’s death.

Why hadn’t she?

She wanted to cry, scream... wail until her throat tore. Her heart hurt so fiercely she thought it might burst.

But she knew better.

Crying accomplished nothing. That had been the first, cruelest lesson of her life.

So she swallowed it all—the burning sobs, the ache in her chest, the desperate craving for a caring shoulder. She raised her chin, hardened her face, and signed with steady hands:

"Do not confront Father. Let this go—for the sake of your family."

Her brother’s eyes flickered with protest, but she sat with him until his resistance broke. She knew Hadrian Arvand too well. He would not hesitate to make Lysander’s son suffer—kill him—or worse, hold him hostage to bend Lysander’s will.

The tunnels felt colder on her way back. She walked in silence, her lips pressed tight. Sylvia tried to speak, but Lorraine could not even force herself to listen. She could not break now. She needed to wear her mask, to act as though nothing had changed.

Until she was ready to end it.

Hurting her was one thing. But killing her mother. Trying to kill her husband. And perhaps, someday, using her brother as a pawn... No.

Hadrian Arvand had to be dealt with.

Lorraine changed her clothes and stepped out of her room, her steps steady though her stomach was knotted tight. She sensed unrest even before she reached the grand stairs.

There, Zara was being carried out for her daily "walk" in the park. Once elegant, now frail, she was cradled like a doll in the arms of a servant.

The moment her eyes met Lorraine’s, her voice rang sharp and venomous: "I knew your curse would taint Leroy."

Lorraine froze.

"You bled on him and put his life in danger. You are a curse. Who will miss you when you disappear? Just disappear from his life!"

The words struck like claws. Lorraine’s fists curled tight, nails biting into her palms. Normally, such venom would have slid off her skin like rain. But today...

Today, the wound was already open. Her sobs clogged her throat, threatening to spill.

And for one terrifying heartbeat... she wondered if Zara was right.