Chapter 140: Hadrian’s Contingency Plan
Lorraine’s brows furrowed, irritation flickering behind her mask. "Why not?" she pressed, stepping closer to him.
It was the perfect plan. It was the truth, too. Better to kill Hadrian and lay his head before the Emperor than allow the web to tighten around them all.
But Leroy only looked at her. "The Dowager knows," he said quietly.
Lorraine stilled. Her past encounters with the Dowager flooded back; her veiled threats, her ties with the zealots, her shadowy manipulations. Yes, the old woman was plotting something. She might discuss it with Leroy later, but not here. Not with Hadrian listening.
And yet, out of nowhere, Hadrian began to laugh. Low, beaten down at first, but swelling into something sharper. It sounded less like a broken man and more like a phoenix clawing its way out of ashes.
Leroy turned toward him. Lorraine moved to stand at Leroy’s side, narrowing her eyes at the sight of her father. He looked far too sure of himself, as if savoring some private victory.
"She does know I’m in danger," Hadrian rasped between his chuckles. "Which is why you can’t kill me."
Lorraine’s voice was silk over steel. "What does she know?" She studied him closely. He was not entirely broken; he never had been. If she knew him at all, then somewhere he still had a contingency, allies waiting for his signal, a noose ready for anyone foolish enough to think him finished.
She was a little surprised it took the dowager’s name for him to reveal that.
Her tone sharpened. "Well, Hadrian... You’ve gotten me intrigued. What happens if Leroy walks into the royal hall tomorrow with your head on a golden platter? What will that woman do?"
Hadrian’s eyes gleamed, old wit sparking alive at last. The torchlight caught in them, and for the first time in a long while, he looked dangerous again. "She knows," he said, almost reverently, "that a devastation so great it would shake this nation to its core will follow. She would burn you all to cinders before letting it come to pass."
Lorraine for one knew Hadrian was not bluffing. That was the truth.
"Well, Hadrian..." Lorraine bent low, mask inches from his face, her voice dripping mockery. "Care to bring me into the loop?"
"Why?" His chin lifted, defiant, as if the Dowager’s shadow itself had breathed strength back into him.
"For one, your daughter’s life is in my hands and—"
"Do what you will with her." His laugh was bitter, edged with triumph. "Kill me. Try to kill me. She already knows I’m in danger. And she will rain hell on you and your stinking empire, Lazira, before she lets me die."
Lorraine’s smile faltered behind the mask. He was too certain. Too assured of some unseen hand hovering above him. In that moment, it felt as though Hadrian’s blade was raised high, while hers, unexpectedly and devastatingly, had fallen.
She glanced at Leroy. If he were not entangled in this, she would have gladly tested her father’s claims. But with him in the balance...
"Many times," Lorraine said slowly, straightening, "I’ve had men kneel before me and invoke the names of others. Some dared to whisper the Emperor himself." Her hand rose, fingers curling like a noose tightening. "And yet... look who still stands tall."
Hadrian’s bloody grin spread wider. "How many invoked the name of the Dowager?"
Lorraine froze. The air in the chamber seemed to thin. No one had ever dared to speak that name. The Dowager, that silent, smiling fox, was danger made flesh. She had held power so great in this kingdom that crushed any woman who dared to look up. That alone was proof of her resilience and cunning. That Hadrian clung to her shadow like a shield only proved he still had teeth.
Her glare sharpened. She flicked her wrist, signaling the guards. Whips cracked louder, Elyse’s cries joining Hadrian’s hoarse laughter. Lorraine turned, cloak whispering over the stone floor.
"Careful, Lazira," Hadrian rasped through the lashes, laughter bubbling in his broken chest. "I’ll have my revenge the moment she pulls me from your dungeon."
Then his gaze crawled upward, fixing on the tall figure that lingered near the door. "And you..." he spat blood, voice sharpening with cruel delight, "you’ll lose everything. Your wife dragged out before the court, humiliated so deeply in front of your eyes, you’ll beg for death before you watch her—"
He never finished. Leroy’s fist cracked across his face, sending Hadrian sprawling unconscious to the ground.
For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by Elyse’s ragged breathing and the drip of blood on stone. Leroy lowered his hand, flexing his knuckles, then strode out without a word.
Outside, Lorraine stood with her shoulders stiff, hands clenched so tightly her knuckles ached.
Leroy came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked quietly.
Her jaw tightened. Hadrian had been beaten into near surrender, but the moment the Dowager’s name was spoken, it was like watching a man suddenly catch fire. Leroy cursed himself—maybe he shouldn’t have let that slip.
Lorraine placed her hand over his arm, shaking her head. "No. I knew he’d been waiting. Took him this long to open up. Maybe he’s been silent all this time so the Dowager would move first." She ground her teeth. "Damn it—he’s smart!"
The thought soured her tongue. She hated admitting it, but her father was smarter than her. Maybe it was age. Maybe it was sheer ruthlessness. She still remembered the trail of brothers he had erased—accidents, they had called it. Inheritance gathered into his fist like a hunter collecting game. He had made and sustained an Emperor; surely, a man like that had seen every possibility.
And what exactly did the Dowager know?
She stiffened. Leroy sensed it, kissed her cheek softly, and murmured, "Damian met me earlier. Said he’s found the person your father’s been hiding."
Lorraine dismissed it with a shake of her head. "That’s just someone who knows he killed my mother."
"But..." Leroy turned her gently to face him, his eyes steady behind the mask. "He didn’t have to keep her alive this long just for that, did he?"
Her eyes widened. He was right. "We have to find out what else she’s hiding."
Leroy smiled, pulling off his mask at last. "But first—" He turned his head toward the silent man in black, who had been waiting like a shadow at the edge of the hall. "Our bath."
Lorraine blinked. "Now?"
"Now," he said firmly, taking her hand and leading her after the black-clad attendant.
Lorraine’s mind was still elsewhere, racing ahead. What could devastate the kingdom so badly that her father sounded so certain the Dowager would move to shield him? What could Hadrian possibly hold over her? The Dowager was too careful, too calculating. Clumsy was the last word anyone would use for her. Unless...
Her steps faltered as they entered the bath chamber.
The last time she had been here, it had been a neglected hall of mildew and shadows, the marble tub half-filled with stagnant water, the statue looming like a corpse. Now it was transformed. The marble gleamed as though newly polished, its veins catching the low glow of firelight. Steam rose in pale ribbons from the broad basin, carrying with it the heady perfume of scattered petals—rose, jasmine, something warmer beneath.
A single torch burned in the bronze sconce, not harsh but soft, painting the room in an amber haze. The great statue of the goddess seemed alive in the wavering light, her stone features softened into something almost tender, watching over them. The water itself glowed faintly gold, reflecting the flame, the ripples sparkling like liquid warmth.
The air wrapped her instantly, fragrant, humid, almost intoxicating. It was no longer a chamber of ruin but a space deliberately shaped into intimacy, with romance hidden behind decadence.
Lorraine froze at the threshold, her pulse tripping. This wasn’t just a bath. It was a lure—a trap set by someone who knew all too well how easily she and Leroy could be undone in a place like this.
The man in black bowed silently and withdrew, the heavy door shutting with a finality that made her breath hitch.
Leroy’s hand tightened around hers, tugging her closer.
"You look surprised," he said.
"I am..." Her voice faltered. She wasn’t sure she could do this here, not with her husband standing before her so clearly in the mood. "What could the Dowager—"
His finger pressed against her lips, silencing the question. In one smooth motion he swept her cloak from her shoulders, the fabric sliding to the stone with a soundless whisper. Then her dress and corset fell down. His eyes, sharp even through the haze of steam, moved over her slowly, as though he meant to memorize every inch of her as she stood in her chemise.
"You think too much," he murmured, stepping into the pool after removing his clothings. The water surged around his waist, clinging to the hard planes of his chest, the taut strength in his shoulders.
Her breath caught. "If I don’t think, the Dowager will—"
He reached for her before she could finish. His hand slipped over the curve of her hip, warm even through the heat of the water, pulling her forward with deliberate strength.
"Enough. Let’s think about us for some time."