Chapter 627: Chapter-627
Samuel stood in the center of the war room, practically radiating a lethal, suffocating aura. He was fully prepared to tear the room apart, interrogate every single doctor on the estate, and forcefully chain her to a bed until she recovered.
Heena, however, just stared at him. She looked completely lost for a brief second, entirely unfazed by his demonic anger. She knew this stubborn bastard would rush back the moment the capital’s political landscape shifted.
She leaned back against the edge of the map table, crossing her arms casually.
"You are back so fast?" Heena asked, her tone flat and completely calm, acting as though he had simply returned early from a casual hunting trip.
The absolute audacity of her casual tone made the veins in Samuel’s neck jump. He took a slow, menacing step closer.
"Well," Samuel replied, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I came back after quite a few days. So, I think I have literally completed the task you set for me."
Heena hummed thoughtfully. She did the mental math in her head. ’Yeah... he has been gone for almost a week. It doesn’t really matter if it wasn’t the full eight days. The Ministry of Revenue is destroyed, the letters are in the Emperor’s hands, and most of my heavy lifting is already done anyway.’
Instead of arguing with him or explaining the treasonous maps covering the table, Heena completely changed the subject, dropping a bomb that derailed his brilliant mind entirely.
"Do you want to get married?" Heena asked smoothly.
Samuel’s terrifying, murderous aura instantly vanished, replaced by sheer, unadulterated shock. He completely froze, his golden eyes blinking as his brain struggled to process the sudden pivot.
"Excuse me?" Samuel asked, genuinely wondering if the blood clot had finally made her hallucinate.
"Let’s get married," Heena repeated calmly, looking him dead in the eye. "The official ceremony. The grand banquet. Everything."
Samuel stared at her. The furious predator was gone, leaving only a deeply confused, highly suspicious genius. "Are you really serious, Wife?"
"Yeah," Heena shrugged, ignoring the throbbing pain in her head. "You wanted to, right?"
"Of course I do," Samuel said immediately, his voice completely raw. But his eyes narrowed, searching her pale face for the hidden trap. "But... didn’t you explicitly say that we should wait for a while? You told me we needed to wait for ’good timing’ and for the capital to settle down."
Heena waved her hand dismissively, completely brushing off her own previous arguments.
"No, it’s okay," Heena stated with absolute, terrifying finality. "Let’s just get married. Three days from now. Book it."
"Three days?!" the System shrieked from the ceiling, entirely losing its mind. "Host, you are planning a political purge AND a royal-level wedding in three days while your brain is bleeding?!"
Samuel’s perfectly composed facade completely cracked. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, the logistics of an aristocratic wedding suddenly crashing into his mind.
"Wife, how on earth would we prepare for this in three days?" Samuel asked, entirely exasperated but undeniably hooked by the idea. "We need so many things. Auspicious dates, the guest list, the imperial decrees, the ceremonial silk—it takes months to plan a Vanguard wedding!"
Heena walked forward, her steps heavy but steady. She stopped right in front of him, reaching out to grab the lapels of his dusty, forest-green traveling robes.
"We have been preparing for this for so long," Heena said softly, her dark eyes looking up into his golden ones. There was no manipulation in her voice this time, just a quiet, heavy urgency. "The estate has the silk. The kitchens have the food. I don’t care about the perfect auspicious date, and I don’t care about the guest list. It’s fine."
She smoothed the wrinkled silk of his collar, her voice dropping to a gentle whisper.
"Let’s just do it."
Samuel looked down at her. His brilliant, hyper-analytical mind finally caught up to the reality of the situation. She wasn’t just being spontaneous. She wasn’t just trying to distract him from the treason.
She was rushing the wedding because she genuinely believed she was running out of time. She wanted to secure him, protect him, and give him exactly what he wanted before the clock ran out.
The anger completely melted out of Samuel’s chest, leaving behind a profound, agonizing ache. He reached up, gently covering her cold, trembling hands with his own warm ones.
"Three days," Samuel murmured softly, his golden eyes shining with a fierce, unbreakable vow. "I will handle everything, Wife. You just rest."
Heena stood perfectly still in the center of the underground war room, her dark eyes quietly fixed on Samuel’s retreating back as he walked out to begin the impossible task of preparing a royal-level wedding in three days.
She didn’t move or speak until the heavy iron doors clicked shut behind him. She just watched him, committing the breadth of his shoulders and the confident, protective stride of his walk to her memory. It was as if she wanted to meticulously carve this exact image of him into her mind, preserving it for the quiet, dark moments when her time finally ran out.
.
.
.
The very next day, the tense, fortified atmosphere of the Vanguard estate was shattered by a massive, chaotic ruckus.
The old Marchioness—Heena’s formidable grandmother—had finally returned to the capital.
The servants scrambled, running back and forth across the courtyards to prepare for the matriarch’s arrival. The heavy, armored carriage rolled through the main gates and bypassed the guest reception entirely, coming to a smooth halt inside the grandmother’s private, heavily guarded inner courtyard.
Heena walked out calmly to the courtyard, standing beside her grandfather, the old Marquis, to welcome the matriarch home.
"Grandma, you are back," Heena greeted, her voice soft but steady.
The carriage door opened, and the old Marchioness slowly stepped down. She looked up, her sharp, experienced eyes immediately finding her granddaughter.
But instead of smiling, the old woman completely froze.
"Child?" the grandmother asked, her voice faltering, heavily laced with sudden, profound confusion and dread.
Heena had spent an extra hour at her vanity mirror that morning. She had applied a thick layer of expensive powder to hide her deathly pale skin, painted her lips a vibrant, rosy red, and carefully arranged her hair to look as regal as always.
But a woman who has survived decades of aristocratic court life knows exactly when makeup is being used to enhance beauty, and when it is being used as a desperate mask.
The grandmother’s eyes scanned Heena with terrifying accuracy. Beneath the heavy powder, she could see the faint, undeniable bruises of exhaustion and the dark circles clinging to Heena’s lower lashes. She looked at the neckline of Heena’s robes—her collarbones were sharply prominent, a glaring sign that she had lost a dangerous amount of weight in a very short time. It was a forced, tragic beauty, entirely built on cosmetics.
And as Heena almost never wore heavy makeup, the matriarch instantly knew something was catastrophically wrong.
The old woman stepped forward, her trembling hand reaching out to gently touch Heena’s cheek.
As her fingers brushed against her granddaughter, her eyes darted up to Heena’s hairline.
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