A DUKE'S CRIMSON SCANDAL

"I’ve been checking on you every day. Don’t ever scare us like this again." Rowan trailed off, jaw tightening.

Elian sighed, his heart twisted from the absence of the Duke. He looked away, staring at the stone ceiling. "Did they find the shooter? Or the Duke can’t be bothered by what happened to a traitor?" he asked.

Rowan’s silence was answer enough. He squeezed Elian’s hand. "They couldn’t find him. But you have to know... Rowena was shot, too. Even if he doesn’t do it for you, he would want to catch the perpetrator for Rowena," he explained quietly.

Elian scoffed softly. "I understand..." he murmured.

It all made perfect sense now. The Duke did not come see him because he was sitting by his fiancée’s side. What would the world say if they learnt that the Duke abandoned his fiancée for his attendant, a traitor’s son... a man...

He was the one getting ahead of himself. He was meant to never forget that the Duke was an engaged man, and he should be ashamed of himself for doing what he was doing with an engaged man. He would not like for someone to do that to him either.

Rowan gritted his teeth, hating the way Elian felt about himself simply because Lucien hadn’t decided which side he wanted to go.

"He..." Rowan paused, narrowing his eyes as he pondered if it was the right idea to try and make Lucien look good in front of Elian. Maybe it would be good if he let Elian completely despise Lucien.

After all, there was never a future ahead for both of them.

"He what?" Elian croaked, staring at Rowan’s face expectantly.

Perhaps there was some good thing Lucien did for him?

Rowan sighed. He’d just say it as it is.

"Lucien... he locked himself in his study since the attack. Barely eats. Snaps at everyone. But he hasn’t stepped foot in here. I’m sorry."

Elian closed his eyes. "I know he hasn’t come, Rowan. But locking himself and refusing to eat was not for me. He was probably distraught over his woman’s injuries." A fresh wave of pain crashed over him.

The memories of the royal cabin—the slow, majestic lovemaking, Lucien’s whispered "just us," the way he had come apart so beautifully inside him—felt like a cruel dream now. His mother’s voice rang louder: *Kill the Duke.*

Rowan leaned closer, brushing a damp cloth across Elian’s forehead with surprising tenderness. "You scared us all. Especially me. I kept thinking... if I had been faster that night, if I had gotten to you before the arrow... maybe—"

"It wasn’t your fault," Elian whispered. His voice was still raspy, fragile. "None of this is."

Rowan’s eyes softened with something deeper than friendship. He lingered, thumb tracing small circles on the back of Elian’s hand. "When you’re stronger, I’ll take you away from here for a while. Fresh air. No politics. No... him. You deserve better than this cage, Elian."

Before Elian could respond, the door opened again. Soren returned, pausing at the sight of Rowan so close to his patient. The doctor’s grey eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing as he set down the supplies.

Elian’s mind spun. Rowan’s kindness felt like a lifeline, yet every gentle touch only reminded him of Lucien’s gloved hands, his obsessive whispers, the way the Duke had fucked him senseless against the closet just days ago. He was trapped between hatred, longing, and the growing pressure from his mother to end it all.

Rowan stayed for nearly an hour, feeding him small spoonfuls of broth and talking softly about trivial things to distract him. But when he finally stood to leave, he pressed a light kiss to Elian’s temple.

"Rest. I’ll come back tomorrow." His voice dropped. "And Elian... you’re not alone in this. Not anymore."

As the door clicked shut behind Rowan, Elian exhaled shakily, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. The war inside him raged harder than ever. Lucien’s absence cut deeper than any blade, and his mother’s command echoed like a death sentence he wasn’t sure he could carry out.

---

The wheels ate into the tiny gravel path as Lucien’s carriage approached the white gates.

They had traveled all night, and with the sun slowly streaming through their window, Lucien’s anxiety grew tenfold.

Chester suddenly opened his eyes, blinking slowly as he stared out the window. "Thank goodness we’ve arrived. You’re unbelievable, Lucien. Making us travel all night long," he muttered, yawning quietly.

Lucien was quiet, watching the tall gatekeeper open the gates for them. He hadn’t slept a wink all night. How could he? His mind was racing with millions of things.

Elian, his father, his impending marriage, his future, and the most disgusting thought... his past.

The horses trotted to a stop in front of the white house, the small courtyard falling quiet as the wheels settled.

"Welcome, Your Grace, Master Chester," a butler pulled the carriage door open, bowing his head.

Without saying a word, Lucien got down from the carriage, walking toward the house.

Chester followed, catching up with Lucien’s long strides.

"This way," Chester said, leading Lucien through the opened door and into the spacious living room.

"We had to change his chamber because my father suggested so. He needed more light and ventilation," he informed, heading toward a hallway.

Lucien remained silent. All he wanted was to see his father and truly confirm if Chester was right. If his father really did ask for him, then he could officially say that his healing had finally started.

"Right in here," Chester paused in front of a door, glancing at Lucien.

Lucien nodded, waiting.

Chester knocked once. "Open the door, Henry," he ordered.

Soon, a short young man pulled the door open from the inside.

"Good morning, Your Grace. Good morning, Lord Chester." Henry bowed, stepping out of the way.

Lucien acknowledged him with a gentle nod and stepped through the door.

The room was bathed in the morning sunlight streaming in from the opened windows. The scent of clean laundry and jasmine tea filled the air. It was welcoming, healing.

Lucien turned his head toward the bed, a soft white curtain shielding the person on the bed from the rest of the room.

He could see his father sitting, a cup of jasmine tea in his hand as he sipped leisurely, not concerned with the visitors in his room. His chest tightened. It had been years since he last saw his father. At some point, he liked to believe that his father was dead.

But there he was, sipping hot tea.

"Leave us," Chester said to Henry.

Henry bowed one more time and walked out of the room, shutting the door quietly.

Chester nodded at Lucien, signalling him to go on.

With a deep breath, Lucien walked toward the bed. His heart was drumming in his chest, his gloved hands sweating nervously.

He paused in front of the white curtain, breathing heavily. Before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled the curtain aside and stepped in, letting the curtain fall back in place to shield them from Chester.

He was met with his father’s back, his hair now completely grey compared to the last time he saw him. Pain shot through him. This was the man who had raised him with love, now stuck in a room like a prisoner.

"You are not Henry the caregiver. Who are you? Come forward," Lucien’s father spoke, his voice hoarse and weathered, carrying the faint tremor of age and long isolation. It was thinner than Lucien remembered—once a commanding baritone that could silence entire halls, now reduced to a raspy whisper edged with suspicion and fatigue.

Lucien remained frozen for a heartbeat, the sound of that familiar-yet-broken voice striking him like a blade. He swallowed hard, then began to walk slowly around the bed, each step deliberate, boots quiet against the wooden floor. The white curtain brushed against his shoulder as he moved, sunlight casting long shadows across the room.

He came to stand directly in front of his father.

The older man sat propped against pillows, grey hair neatly combed but still looking unkempt, eyes still sharp despite the frailty of his frame. For a long, suspended moment, their gazes locked.

Recognition flashed bright and raw in his father’s eyes—wide with shock, a spark of something like hope, even love, cutting through the fog of illness. His lips parted, trembling as if to speak a name long buried.

Then, just as suddenly, the light vanished. The recognition dissolved into blank confusion, the spark smothered beneath layers of forgotten years and fractured memory. His father’s expression settled into wary detachment once more.

"Who are you?" he repeated, voice now flatter, guarded. "You are not one of the usual attendants. State your business, stranger."

Lucien’s chest tightened painfully. The brief flash of recognition had been enough to crack something deep inside him. He stood motionless, gloved hands clenched at his sides, staring down at the man who had once been his world—now a ghost trapped in his own mind.

"Father," Lucien said quietly, voice low and rough. "It’s me. Lucien... your son."

His father tilted his head slightly, studying him with mild curiosity, as though the name meant nothing. No further recognition came. Only polite, distant confusion.

"Lucien..." the old man murmured, tasting the name like a foreign word. "I once had a son named Lucien. Strong boy. Stubborn." A faint, bitter smile touched his lips. "But he stopped visiting long ago. The Duke, they call him now. Too busy with power and blood to sit with an old, broken man."

Lucien’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. He wanted to reach out, to touch him, but the gloves stayed firmly in place. The secrets they hid burned against his skin.

"I’m here now," Lucien forced out, the words thick. "I came as soon as I heard you asked for me."

His father sipped his jasmine tea, gaze drifting toward the window, already losing interest. The brief moment of clarity had slipped away completely, leaving only the hollow shell of the man who had raised him.

"My son?" Lucien’s father frowned slightly. "Then tell me, Duke... if it’s really you, you must have punished the sinner, right? You must have surely spent these years putting sin to a stop. Am I right? Have you avenged us?" His voice lowered, but his eyes were suddenly filled with hope, as if Lucien’s positive answer might actually be all the healing he needed.

Lucien’s breath hitched, chest tightening painfully. He saw it—the hope in his father’s eyes—and it killed him that he was going to dash that hope... again.

He dragged in a long breath, clenching his jaw painfully. "No, Father... I have not," he answered truthfully.

His father’s hand trembled slightly, the tea almost spilling, but he closed his eyes and smiled, a distant, dismissive smile.

"Then you are not my son. My son would have done the right thing a long time ago," he said, turning his face away from Lucien.

Lucien’s eyes fluttered shut, a lone tear streaming down his cheek. A son hearing a father say he wasn’t a son was the most painful thing for a man to bear. Years of love and laughter all wiped away without remorse.

"I will avenge us, Father, I promise you. Just..." He moved to touch his father, but the man pulled his hands away, scowling at him.

Lucien nodded, swallowing the painful lump in his throat. "Just stay alive a little while longer, Father. I will surely bring you the news you deserve... Goodbye, Father." He bowed deeply in respect, then straightened and walked away.

"We shall return now," he said without pausing, leaving the chamber without looking back.

"Right... now..." Chester cleared his throat and hurried after Lucien.

Lucien’s determination was renewed. He had really wasted a lot of time on unnecessary things... like Elian. Almost forgetting his primary goal, this time he was falling back in line, welcoming all his darkness and guilt.

For only an angry man’s rage was the fuel for fruitful actions.

No more stalling. More action.

’Soon, Father. I will make them all pay.’

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