Inside Future Industries, the company he had built with his own hands, the atmosphere was more tense than ever.
Arthur had received no letters from Kensington Palace for two whole days.
This was highly abnormal.
Since he and Victoria had established their secret channel of communication, their correspondence had never been interrupted—not even for a single day. That sudden silence made Arthur immediately sense the stench of conspiracy in the air.
He sent people to inquire near Kensington Palace, and the information they brought back was that the entire palace was under martial law. Entry was allowed, but no one was permitted to leave, under the pretext that "Her Royal Highness is unwell and requires rest."
"Unwell?"
When Arthur heard this, he scoffed inwardly, again and again. He knew exactly what was happening. Conroy—that madman—was making his final, desperate move, cornered like a beast, and had effectively placed Victoria under house arrest!
He paced anxiously across his office, like a tiger trapped in a cage. He knew Victoria was confined, yet he had no legitimate reason or evidence that would allow him to storm a royal palace to rescue someone.
Just as anxiety was burning a hole through his chest, Fat Henry came running in, panting all the way.
"Arthur… Arthur! Something—something has been delivered!"
"A letter?" Arthur spun around, his blue eyes blazing with expectation.
"No… not a letter." Henry shook his head, his expression strangely tense. "It's from the laundry at Kensington Palace. They sent… a dress belonging to Her Royal Highness. They said it was stained with tea and specifically requested that it be washed using our finest scented cleansing soap."
"A dress?" Arthur's brows furrowed instantly.
At such a critical moment, instead of a letter, they sent a dress? And specifically asked for his soap?
That was far too strange.
Arthur immediately understood there had to be a hidden meaning. It must be a distress signal—something Victoria had risked everything to send while under tight surveillance!
"Where is the dress? Bring it to me—now!"
Henry quickly fetched the laundry basket containing the garment.
Arthur put on white gloves and carefully lifted the white silk dress. Across the bodice was a large brown tea stain, completely dried. He leaned in and sniffed it—it was the strong scent of the tea he had given her.
"Tea…" Arthur's mind began racing.
Victoria knew he had taught her how to prepare it. She knew he had explained the difference between the two kinds of tea. Now she had deliberately stained the dress with black tea and sent it to him… What was she trying to say?
Black tea… green tea… the opposite! She's telling me her current situation is the complete opposite of what is usually described! She is not safe!
Arthur's heart dropped like a stone.
His fingers began inspecting the stained area meticulously, inch by inch. Silk, lace, embroidery… Then suddenly, within the lace lining near the bodice, his fingertips brushed against something tiny, hard, and flat.
His pulse began to thunder.
He quickly used a pair of tweezers to extract the object from between the delicate folds.
It was a flattened tea leaf—slightly damp, but perfectly intact.
A tea leaf from the very tea he had gifted her.
The moment he saw it, something exploded in Arthur's mind—a sudden boom as every clue finally interconnected.
The black tea stain signaled immense danger—an abnormal situation.
The tea leaf hidden near the chest represented her—and her deepest, most urgent cry for help.
And sending that hidden leaf within the dress was an implicit message: she had been imprisoned.
"That foolish girl… She must have gone through so much trouble to come up with something like this."
A wave of fierce emotion surged inside Arthur's chest.
Conroy.
You wretched man.
How dare you touch my future wife?
A tidal wave of fury—violent and blinding—surged from Arthur's chest straight to his head. His usually clear, bright blue eyes were now bloodshot with sheer rage.
He had never been this furious in his life. Conroy's previous dirty tricks—his business schemes, his legal harassment—seemed like children's games compared to this.
This time, Conroy had crossed Arthur's absolute reverse scale.
"Barrett!!" Arthur roared, his voice shaking the entire building.
"Chief!" Captain Barrett burst into the office like a gust of wind—and froze when he saw Arthur's terrifying expression.
"Gather all the men! Bring our best equipment!" Arthur's voice was as cold and sharp as falling shards of ice. "And fetch the largest battering ram from the workshop—the one we use for breaking down walls!"
"Chief, are we…?" Barrett hesitated.
"We are going…" Arthur's eyes gleamed with a nearly deranged determination. "We are going to Kensington Palace—to rescue our future Queen!"
"What?!" Henry and Barrett gasped, certain they had misheard.
Assaulting a royal palace? That was… that was treason!
"Sir! Please, calm down! This is a capital offense!" Henry's legs nearly gave out from sheer terror.
"A capital offense?" Arthur sneered, striding toward the office safe and retrieving a small box.
Inside was no gold or silver—only a small badge, a personal gift from Lord Melbourne, symbolizing the Prime Minister's trust.
"I have the Prime Minister's authorization." Arthur's voice carried an irrefutable authority. "If I declare this to be a matter of defending the monarch and protecting the sovereign—then that is exactly what it is!"
Of course, he had just made that up. The badge held no real command authority. But today he would gamble—on Lord Melbourne not daring to let anything happen to him, and on the fact that no one in all of London would dare lay a finger on the man considered the future Prince Consort.
He was about to unleash hell for the sake of the woman he loved.
He would show everyone what happens when someone touches Arthur Lionheart's future wife.
In less than half an hour, a fully armed squad had assembled in the square of the Future Industrial Park.
Fifty elite guards, clad in black combat uniforms, wielding gleaming iron bars. At the front, eight of the strongest workers carried a gigantic battering ram carved from a massive oak trunk, its head reinforced with thick iron plating.
The entire unit radiated unstoppable, fearsome momentum.
"Move out!"
At Arthur's command, he mounted a tall black horse and charged forward, leading the assault toward Kensington Palace.
The entire East End of London trembled at the sight of this sudden "army." Citizens leaned out of windows, stunned as the force thundered through the streets with a massive battering ram in tow. They had no idea what was happening, but they felt something monumental was about to erupt.
Arthur galloped at full speed, the cold London wind slashing his cheeks—yet it could not cool the blazing inferno inside his chest.
Victoria, hold on.
I'm coming for you.