Chapter 34: There Was Someone Else

She had braced herself for the storm. She had imagined the lash of his tongue, the bite of his cold dismissal, the way he could strip her spirit bare with a single careless glance. She thought she knew the shape of his cruelty by now. Anything, she believed, would have been easier than this. Thisunexpected bewildering softness.

His eyes that was always so merciless now looked at her with an unfamiliar weight, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds only to burn instead of warm. He was still stern, yes, he was still commanding as always, but it was stripped of that icy edge that used to leave her shrinking.

Since eight years ago, she has been waiting for the day he would finally looked at her warmly, but now that he did, although not fully, she did not know what to feel. It was a warmth that unsettled her more than any scorn ever could. Not because it was bad, but because it was too good to be true.

Her thoughts scattered like startled birds, impossible to catch. She could not even tear her eyes away, afraid this…strange version of him would vanish.

Why now? Why like this? Did he truly want honesty from me? Or is this some fleeting trick of the moment?

His gaze pressed on her like a hand over her heart, heavy and inescapable, rooting her in place. She felt as if she stood in a cage made of light and shadow, every breath betraying her, every twitch of her lashes betraying her, and still she could not move.

Her lips parted to say something, a thousand words trembling on the brink, yet the air held them hostage. For a girl who once spilled words like water, it feels like she had turned into a dry, silenced well.

Levan did not so much as blink. He studied her as though she was a scripture written in trembling ink. He watched every small quiver, every restless breath, every half-swallowed word a line he refused to misread.

And then, Kathryn’s words returned like a phantom whisper: “A wife does not wither when her husband spares her more than duty.”

But that was all she was — a duty. A chain around his wrist he had no choice but to carry because the people and this kingdom demanded it. He told himself that and he believed it, and yet the weird ache crawling through his chest feels like it was trying to force him to think otherwise. It feels like an old wound reopening, and now it was bleeding again in her presence.

He thought his heart has long been buried in frost along with the only person who ever gave him the world, but now here it was, beating painfully and absurdly for the woman he never thought was possible. Perhaps it was just a passing stir, a trick of the moment. It was probably nothing more than weariness making him imagine what was never there. After all, Ilaria and Seraphine is the same, it was just that Seraphine was more demanding.

Levan spoke again. His voice, low and edged, carried more than command this time. “Was it me?”

The answer was carved into her bones. Yes. Frankly, everything that contributed to the ache in her chest has everything to do with him, but to speak it aloud would be to place chains of guilt on him he never asked for. He had not invited her heart in the first place, so he should not be forced to bear it.

“No…it’s not you,” she whispered, fragile as a glass about to shatter. “I’m just sad…”

Sad. Such a small word for the sea rising inside her.

Levan did not buy it, of course. She obviously looked unhappy, but there was more to it than what she just said. He asked, “Sad because of me?”

Her head jerked in denial. The truth pounded against her ribs, begging to be freed, but her fear built walls too high to climb. Because she knew that if she confessed; if she dared whisper that she envied the place another held in his heart, he would probably laugh at her folly, or worse, turn colder. He was already distant, she does not want him to be more far away.

She had never outrightly confessed to him anyway, if he did not know yet. Admiration, praises, stolen glances — yes, she had offered him those in excess, but that was not the same as being seen; that was not the same as being acknowledged.

Levan watched her nibbling her lower lip while giving the tome extra attention by idly caressing it. She might as well have worn her sorrow like a veil. He was no stranger to fear and loathing. Well, people either looked at him that way or nothing at all. But sadness? It was almost ridiculous for her to look at him that way.

“You know,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to the tome in her lap before drifting back to her, “you were far more honest when we were younger. Back then, you spoke without second guessing yourself.”

Her cheeks burned at that. Yes, once she had been unguarded, a girl bathed in laughter and warmth. And as she grew up, she had learn to watch her words and be shameful, just like how a proper lady should. But why would he remember that, when there were so many brighter fragments of her past? Why remember her voice, of all things?

“You said it wasn’t me,” he pressed, his tone softened but unyielding, like a hand tightening around hers. “Then what is it?”

Her grip on the tome hardened, her words were testy but petulant. “I’m just in one of my moods. People can be moody if they want to.”

He did not believe her. His hand came down without warning, closing the tome with a sound like a coffin lid shutting and set it aside, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Excuses. Your moods don’t bleed like this.”

Her breath hitched as though it was her shield being ripped away. “What are you doing—”

“Was it because I didn’t visit yesterday?” His voice was calm, but his gaze was a blade pressed to her throat. “After the Blithe’s incident?”

Her head snapped up, panic flashing. Yesterday? “What? No. I-I didn’t even expect you to come. Why would I?”

He studied her for a long, punishing silence, then gave the barest shake of his head. His features did not betray anything he might be feeling, but his actions looked as if her words had just offended him. The air between them thickened, heavy as wet wool.

Ilaria’s hands fiddled with each other as she meekly shrunk back now that the tome was nowhere, wondering if she had said something wrong. He could not be mad at her, right? It was the truth, she did not expect him to check on her knowing how he is.

“Do you plan to sit here forever?” came his question after a moment of silence, sharp like a knife, as if he was beginning to question why he even lingered here to coax the words out of her in the first place.

Ilaria’s head dipped, her lips pressed thin, catching the gist of annoyance returning into his voice. She said, “You don’t have to be so persistent. It’s not…it’s not even that serious.”

Levan’s jaw flexed, his eyes narrowing just faintly. This is getting harder than he thought. Why would he care? He had no reason to. And yet, there it was, that unsettled crease between her brows, the restless shifting of her fingers, the unsatisfied downturn of her mouth. It itched at him in a way he could neither ignore nor explain, like a thorn that refused to be left alone.

“You’re complicating things,” he clicked his tongue and said at last, harsher than he intended, the weight of his own confusion spilling through.

Ilaria blinked in bewilderment. “I’m complicating things? You’re the one who keeps asking!”

“Because you refuse to answer.” His reply dropped like stone into water, rippling through the fragile air as he looked at her like she has messed with his head.

Ilaria stared at the way he was berating with himself, sulking deeper, but something inside her shifted. Foolish, perhaps. Delusional, certainly. But the fact that he stayed, that he pried instead of walking away, let a fragile light unfurl in her chest. Because she genuinely thought he would rather be somewhere else planning his perfect war plan.

Unknowingly, she was already smiling before she realized it. Not her usual bright smile, but a softer one, almost sheepish given the sullen mood she had been in just moments ago. She smoothed her gown and lowered her legs to sit properly in the chair, inching slightly closer to his side.

“I’ve just…been meaning to ask…” she trailed off, hesitating before the words slipped out, quieter than she intended. “…who is Lady Seraphine?”

He did not flinch at the name, but his gaze sharpened as if the thought itself irked him. “She is a representative of House Dorovian,” he said evenly. “A commander’s daughter raised in strategy and steel. She often stood at my side during campaigns.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her now. “How did you know her?”

Ilaria shifted uneasily, saying, “She…introduced herself when I visited you some days ago.”

Her lips still carried their practiced curve of that unfailing brightness she always wore, but he could see the strain behind it, the faint stiffness in her shoulders. It was enough to tell him that she would not ask the real question outright, perhaps too afraid of the answer.

He wondered if that was what weighed on her, if Seraphine had said something to upset her. The very thought needled at him.

“She was my fiancée,” he said bluntly, watching the way her expression shifted from solemn to surprise. “But no longer. That bond was severed three years ago for reasons that do not concern you. What matters is that it is nothing you need to trouble yourself over.”

“Fiancée?” The word slipped past her lips before she could stop it.

He had a fiancée before her?

Ah…then that would explain why they…at the Ivory Study…

Ilaria’s chest tightened, a dull ache blooming where she fought so hard to keep her composure once again. She was about to ask more when a low rumble of boots echoed.

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