CHAPTER 67: TO BE HER SHIELD

Sylvia swallowed her bitterness and asked quietly, "Did he find out who you are?"

Because if he didn’t... then what was all of this?

Had he simply found another woman to sate his desires?

Lorraine opened her eyes slowly, as if the question took effort to process. Her gaze remained soft, dreamy. "Who I am?" she echoed, as if the words tasted foreign on her tongue.

Sylvia didn’t blink. "Did he know you are the Swan Divina?"

Lorraine turned her head to the side, resting her cheek on the soft edge of the bathtub. Her wet lashes fanned against her skin like shadowed wings. "No," she said, after a pause. "He didn’t." And then with the ghost of a smile: "He took me as I was."

Sylvia’s jaw clenched.

As she was. A woman. A body. A conquest. A mystery to unravel, but not a soul to understand.

"And that’s enough for you?" Sylvia asked, quieter now, her voice wrapped in worry and weariness. Just days ago, he doubted her loyalty, accused her of being with another man... he had a mistress living under the same roof as his wife... And then he went there and took her like that? Without apology? Without knowing who she truly was?"

Lorraine sat up a little, her body glistening in the water, floral petals clinging to her skin like fallen stars. "He took me because he wanted me," she said softly. "Because he couldn’t stop himself. And I let him, because..." Her voice dipped low. "Because I wanted him too."

"But he used you, my lady."

"And I used him back," Lorraine said, her eyes suddenly clear. "I wanted to feel like I had him. All of him. His restraint, his fury, his need... I wanted it all." She looked down at her bruised arms and smiled faintly. "I wanted to be ruined by him."

Sylvia stared at her, horror twisting in her chest.

This wasn’t love. This wasn’t even power.

It was something broken masquerading as passion.

She’d seen it before in herself and those around her. When someone is broken young, especially by the hands meant to protect them, their compass is bent. Lorraine’s father had used a belt to teach obedience, to crush defiance, and somewhere along the way, the princess had learned to mistake pain for possession... to confuse ruin with intimacy.

You’d think someone who’d endured such cruelty would run from it.

But no, people like Lorraine, people who were shattered in their girlhood, often carried the shards into their womanhood. They didn’t flee the fire. They stepped into it, mistaking the burn for warmth, because pain was familiar, and familiarity was safer than the unknown.

Be it playing with poisons like they were pets, or risking everything to wear masks and walk in shadows... those were not the choices of women raised with tenderness. Those were the instincts of someone who had only ever known love laced with danger.

"My lady..."

Lorraine leaned back again, closing her eyes as if Sylvia’s words no longer reached her. "You wouldn’t understand, Sylvia," she said with a tired sigh. "You were forced to kneel for a man who disgusted you. I chose to lie beneath a man who haunted me. It’s different."

Sylvia swallowed the lump in her throat. "Are you sure?"

Lorraine didn’t answer.

Because maybe she wasn’t.

Maybe even a Divina could mistake obsession for intimacy... and ruin for something close to love.

Sylvia didn’t speak further but she knew that her princess might need her to be alert on her behalf.

-----

There was a knock at the outer door.

Firm. Steady. Unmistakably him.

Sylvia stiffened and glanced at Lorraine. Sylvia hadn’t finished brushing her hair, but the princess was already half-asleep again, sunk in the warmth of soft fur and the slow drag of exhaustion.

Another knock.

Louder this time. More insistent.

Sylvia set the comb aside and crossed the room. She cracked open the door, only enough to see the man standing behind it.

Prince Leroy.

Dressed not in full court regalia, but in a high-collared black tunic. Simple, yet somber. His eyes were half-shadowed beneath the lantern’s flicker, unreadable.

"I came to ask her for dinner," he said, his voice low.

"She’s resting, Your Highness," Sylvia replied, stepping halfway through and tightening her grip on the doorframe. Her body blocked the gap.

His gaze sharpened. "Without eating dinner? Get her ready. I’ll wait."

"With respect, Your Highness," she said, and this time her voice didn’t tremble and steeled, "she doesn’t want to see you tonight."

Emma, just returning with a jar of warmed wine, froze at the edge of the hall. Her eyes widened. Why would Sylvia say that? Wouldn’t the princess be happy to share a meal with her husband?

"She said that?" Leroy asked, his voice deceptively calm, though the chill in it seeped through the door like frost.

Sylvia didn’t blink. "Yes."

His jaw ticked... just a fraction. "Move."

"I said she’s resting. Deeply," Sylvia repeated, firmer now. "And she shouldn’t be disturbed."

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh. His gaze searched her face. She could feel him reading her, questioning her, wondering what he wasn’t being told.

But Sylvia stood like stone.

Finally, his expression shifted just slightly. "She’s not well?" he asked, quieter now. Almost hesitant.

"She’s... tired," Sylvia said, softer too.

A long pause. A beat of silence stretched taut.

Then Leroy stepped back. He gave her a short, tight nod, less command than concession, and turned away. The sound of his footsteps faded down the corridor.

Sylvia shut the door and pressed her palm against it, her shoulders sagging with the weight of what she’d just done.

Emma entered a second later, clutching the wine jar, her eyes round with disbelief. She opened her mouth, but Sylvia walked past her, saying nothing. She returned to Lorraine’s side and picked up the drying cloth.

Emma gave her a look... a silent accusation, but Sylvia didn’t return it.

She only resumed her place behind the princess and gently lifted a lock of damp hair.

She was not just a maid tonight. She was a shield.

"Why didn’t you let him in, Sylvia?"

The question came quiet. Unassuming. But Sylvia froze.

She looked and met the princess’s gaze on her.

Gone was the haze of sleep. Gone was the languid warmth. Lorraine’s eyes were clear now, sharp as cut glass. Of course she’d been listening.