At the threshold, she paused.
Just for a second.
As if she wanted to look back.
As if she wanted to say something.
But she didn't.
She pulled the door open and slipped out, the soft sound of her crying swallowed by the closing wood.
The hall was empty again.
Lucian stood very still. For a moment, Anne thought he might speak, might explain, might soften.
He did none of those things.
He turned away instead.
Without looking at anyone—without looking at her—he moved toward the staircase. His steps were slow, controlled, each one heavy with something unspoken. The chandelier light caught his profile as he ascended, carving his expression into sharp lines of resolve and restraint.
Halfway up, he stopped.
His hand tightened on the railing, just once.
...
Anne ran.
She didn't think, didn't breathe properly, didn't even care that the hem of her dress caught on the gravel as she burst outside. Her heart hammered painfully as she searched the yard, the corners, the servants' path—anywhere Fryn might have gone.
"Fryn!" she called, her voice breaking. "Fryn, please!"
She heard crying.
Not one voice—several.
A few maids stood clustered near the wash area, eyes red, whispers sharp and unforgiving.
"So it was because of her."
"Look at her now, pretending to care." they said this with fear in their voices.
Their stares cut deeper than any blade. Guards nearby avoided her gaze, their silence heavy with judgment. Anne slowed, guilt crashing over her in waves. She had been selfish. Thoughtless. She hadn't even stopped to consider who would pay the price.
Then she saw the small servants' quarters at the far end.
She ran again.
She ran again.
Inside, the narrow corridor smelled faintly of soap and old wood. Anne stopped in front of a little door—a door far too small, far too plain. From behind it came quiet, broken sobs.
She knocked immediately.
"Fryn… it's me."
The crying stopped.
The door opened just enough to reveal Fryn's swollen eyes. The moment she recognized Anne, her back straightened instinctively. She wiped her cheeks quickly with her sleeve and lowered her head.
"My lady," Fryn said, forcing a courtesy, voice trembling but proper.
Anne's chest tightened.
"No—no, Fryn," she rushed forward, kneeling without caring for the floor or her dress. "Please don't do that. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to. I only wanted to visit someone, just for a little while…"
Her voice cracked completely now.
"I never knew he would do this to you all. I swear I didn't. If I had known—if I had even imagined—" Tears streamed down her face. "It was all my fault. I was selfish, and you're the one hurting because of it."
Fryn's hands clenched at her sides, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she stood there, caught between duty and the aching urge to cry again.
Fryn's shoulders trembled. When she spoke, her voice was quiet—so quiet it hurt more than shouting.
"But… he told you," she said, not lifting her eyes. "He gave you an instruction, my lady. Not to leave the house. Everyone knows better than to disobey him."
Anne froze.
Fryn swallowed, tears spilling again despite her effort to be composed.
"Most of us are not like you," she continued painfully. "You come from a family of wealth—for as long as anyone can remember. Your father has always been favored. And now you are married to Lord Lucian." Her lips quivered. "He has even greater power."
She laughed weakly, a sound broken and bitter.
"Most of us stay here just so our parents can wear clothes. Just so they can eat bread. We cannot return home." Her voice cracked. "If we do… we would starve. We would die."
Anne's hands shook as she reached out, but Fryn stepped back, clutching her sleeves.
"My sister," Fryn whispered, pressing a hand to her chest, "she is in an abusive marriage. I was saving money—to move her out of France. To bring her here, somewhere safe." Her breathing became uneven. "Now I can't. I can't, my lady."
She covered her mouth, sobbing openly now.
"He would kill her."
Anne felt like the room was collapsing around them.
"I won't even have money to send to my mother," Fryn went on, voice breaking apart piece by piece. "She can't work anymore. She'll be worried—wondering what she did wrong, wondering why the money stopped."
She looked up then, eyes red and shining with fear.
"The guard," she added softly. "His wife just gave birth. How will he support them? Their little family?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What if he is left with the choice to put the child in an orphanage?"
Silence swallowed the room.
Anne's tears fell freely now, her guilt no longer abstract, no longer distant. It had faces. Names. Lives.
"I didn't know," Anne whispered, broken. "I didn't know it was this deep."
Fryn shook her head slowly.
"We live with consequences," she said quietly. "You live with choices."
Anne stepped closer and caught Fryn's hands before the girl could retreat into panic.
"No," she said firmly. "Don't let anyone leave."
Fryn looked up, startled, tears clinging to her lashes. "My lady?"
"Tell everyone to stay," Anne repeated, lowering her voice but not its certainty. "No one runs. No one disappears in the night. That would only make things worse."
Fryn swallowed hard. "Lucian will be angry."
"I know," Anne said quietly. "And I will face him."
She squeezed Fryn's hands, grounding her. "Your sister will leave France. That much I promise you. She will be safe. You will keep your position. All of you will keep your work.
Fryn's composure finally broke. She nodded rapidly, tears spilling as she covered her mouth, then pulled herself together and turned away.
"I'll tell them," she said hoarsely.
The mansion felt heavier when Anne re-entered it, as though the walls themselves were waiting. Servants froze at her passing, eyes lowered, breath held. She moved through them like a woman walking into judgment.
At the foot of the stairs, she stopped.
Should she see him like this?
The question lingered only for a moment.
No. She needed to be composed—if not for him, then for herself.
Anne turned and went to her chambers.
She dismissed her attendants with a brief gesture and removed her clothes slowly, deliberately, as though each layer carried the weight of the evening with it. She took a quick shower—nothing elegant, just enough to steady her breathing and clear her thoughts.
When she emerged, she gathered her hair into a simple bun, neat and unadorned. She chose a long, flowing gown—soft, modest, and comfortable, more comfortable than the nightwear but modest enough to stand before Lucian without looking daring.
She studied herself once again in the mirror.
She stopped before his door and lifted her hand, knocking softly.
No response.
Anne hesitated, then knocked again, a little firmer this time.
From inside came a low groan, strained and tired.
"Come in."
She pushed the door open carefully.
Lucian sat in the chair near the desk, his legs spread slightly apart, his coat discarded, his head thrown back against the wood. The sight struck her unexpectedly—it reminded her of that night in the carriage, the same posture, the same tension carved into him.
For a moment, he looked at her.
Then his eyes closed again, as if even that small effort was too much.
Anne crossed the room at once, her steps quick but quiet. She stopped in front of him, her voice instinctively soft.
"Lucian… are you alright?"
She searched his face, the tightness of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. Her chest tightened.
"Is it your head again?" she asked, worry seeping into every word. "Should I send for Damien? Or a nurse? Please—just say the word."
She leaned closer, unsure whether to touch him or not, her concern unmistakable, written plainly across her face.
Something about the air, the heaviness of it, made her pause at the threshold. She lingered there, fingers curling slightly at her side, unease settling in her chest.
"Lucian?" she said again, softer now. "What's wrong?"
He didn't answer.
His breathing was shallow, uneven. Pain had hollowed him out so completely that even speech seemed beyond him.
Her eyes dropped to him, then back to the door behind her.
"What medication are you on?" she asked quietly, already half-deciding. "Let me call the nurse."
She turned to leave.
Before she could take a full step, his hand lifted—weak, unsteady—and caught her wrist.
The touch startled her.
She looked down at him. His eyes remained closed, his grip loose but desperate, as though letting go would cost him more strength than he had left. He didn't say anything, yet the message was clear.
He didn't want anyone else.
Anne swallowed.
"Alright," she murmured, surrendering. "Alright. I'm here."
She guided him carefully, bracing herself before slipping an arm around his back. He was heavier than she expected—dead weight, all tension and no balance. Moving him felt like lifting a puppet whose strings had been cut.
"Easy… I've got you," she whispered, though she wasn't sure she did.
Step by step, breath by breath, she dragged him toward the bed. By the time she eased him down onto the mattress, her arms trembled, her lungs burning. She stood there for a moment, bent slightly forward, catching her breath, strands of hair clinging to her temples.
Exhaustion washed over her—but there was no time for it.
She straightened abruptly and left the room, hurrying back to her own chambers. Her hands shook as she searched for the small tin, fingers fumbling until she found it.
Aspirin.
She returned quickly and knelt beside the bed, lifting his head just enough to help him take it.
"Here," she said gently. "Swallow."
His skin was burning.
Anne pressed the back of her fingers to his forehead, then froze.
"Oh—Lucian… you're burning up."
Her worry sharpened into urgency.
"You have a fever," she said, more to herself than to him. "A bad one."
She stood, already thinking ahead.
"I'll get you a cold bath," she decided, voice steady despite the tension in her chest. "And I need a thermometer. I have to know how high this is."
She reached for the hem of his shirt, hesitating only a second before lifting it, her movements careful, practical—focused entirely on what needed to be done.