Chapter 05
“Please, grant me a divorce, Your Grace.”
The words, spoken again, shattered the silence that had cloaked the study.
Riena’s calm voice carried words far too disruptive for its serenity.
She looked steadily into the gleaming golden eyes of Grand Duke Venachert, unflinching, and continued.
“You no longer have any need for me.”
For a heartbeat, Dante said nothing.
Then, with a slow hand, he took the envelope she had pushed toward him.
Rustle.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
He pulled it out, skimmed its contents, and gave a short, incredulous laugh.
[Recipient: Dante Venachert]
At the bottom, a neat script spelt his full name beside the title of the recipient.
The audacity.
This impudent woman had walked into his study, holding the very divorce decree he himself had once procured—and was now demanding separation with it.
[Riena Bronte]
She had cast aside the name of Venachert, signing instead with her lowly birth name, Bronte, as if to declare herself once again what she had been before him.
“…No longer needed, you say.”
Dante murmured the words as if tasting them, then let out a soft chuckle.
“Is that so?”
Lifting his head, he raised a brow at her.
His golden eyes found hers—those steady brown eyes, calm on the surface yet trembling faintly, rippling like water at the moment their gazes locked.
But she did not look away.
Like a frail prey animal daring to meet the eyes of a predator.
Foolish.
Insolent.
“That’s only what you think, Riena.”
His voice had sunk deeper than usual, roughened by fatigue and shadowed with amusement that he made no effort to hide.
“Besides… It was you who needed me first. Wasn’t it?”
The corner of his mouth curved, his tone laced with a biting mockery.
Riena held his gaze.
Her reply, when it came, was sharp.
“Was it only a one-sided need, then?”
Her words, uncharacteristically cold, flicked at his pride.
Dante’s eyes hardened at once.
“And what I needed,” she pressed on, her tone unwavering, “wasn’t truly you. What I needed was security. Protection.”
In that sense, he had been the perfect shield—undeniably.
“I needed to avoid being sold off. I needed money, and a safe home. And so, yes—I sought your help.”
Her gaze, resolute despite the tension in her voice, fixed on him.
“But for you to take that seat, Your Grace—you needed me as well.”
The words, insolent and cutting, fell like a gauntlet at his feet.
For a moment, the study froze in brittle silence.
Dante leaned back slightly, his face unreadable, then spoke at last.
“I recall telling you before—someone like you was of little use to me.”
His tone was flat, detached, but his eyes glinted with frost.
Perhaps she was wounded; the faint tremor at the corners of her eyes betrayed it.
His lips twisted in a sardonic smile.
“Well. I can give you that divorce, certainly. But…”
From the beginning, it had been his decree.
Their marriage had always been a contract bound for its end.
There was no reason to refuse.
And yet—
A bitter taste lingered.
His gaze swept slowly over her.
She was gaunt, fragile, so thin it seemed she might collapse at any moment.
So she had been the one to speak of divorce first?
With a flick of his hands, Dante laced his fingers together, resting them elegantly atop his knee.
“My wife comes to me in the middle of the night to ask for a divorce. As her husband, at the very least, I should hear her reasons.”
The words were smooth, graceful, like his posture—like the brilliant smile that spread across his handsome features.
The sight startled her.
For a moment, she found herself staring, almost captivated, before shaking free of it.
She remembered the women at society gatherings, their cheeks flushed under that same glittering smile.
She had been no different then.
But now she knew better.
She knew what that smile truly meant—an expression he wore when facing merchants or investors, when he meant: Speak all you want.
None of it matters.
And knowing this, her steady facade began to waver.
“Or perhaps,” Dante drawled, eyes glinting, “you’ve been siphoning away a bit of a slush fund?”
“…I may need money,” she replied, her voice tight, “but I would never stoop to stealing from the royal treasury.”
Her eyes, dark and resolute, betrayed no shame.
Yet it was her choice of words that made his lips curl in irritation.
Royal treasury, she had said.
“Mm. Or perhaps,” he mused coldly, “that decrepit old man you were once promised to—perhaps he has finally died? At over eighty, with illness besides, it’s no surprise.”
Riena’s brows knit sharply.
“It’s not for the reasons Your Grace imagines.”
“Then why, Riena? What reason could you possibly have to seek divorce?”
His head tilted, genuinely curious now.
“…Because I can never truly be your duchess. If it’s discovered I was nothing but a penniless commoner, it would bring shame upon you—”
“Ha.”
Dante cut her off with a sharp scoff.
“Don’t bother feeding me nonsense.”
He didn’t need to hear more.
She had played the duchess well enough until now, only to suddenly claim otherwise in the dead of night?
Absurd.
Riena bit down on her lip. Lies would never sway him. And yet… she could not tell him the truth.
That she had been sentenced to death. That she had no more than two years to live.
No—her pride would not allow it.
So at last, with a shuddering breath, she gave him another truth.
“Because I’m tired. Worn down.”
Her words spilt like a sigh, stripped of pretence.
“There are many reasons to end this arrangement. But above all, I am exhausted. Regretful.”
Her fingers whitened as they dug into her palms.
She would regret confessing even this, she knew.
And yet—
She forced the last, most important plea.
“So please, even now, even if it’s shameless of me—grant me this divorce. I beg of you.”
Her head bowed low, her voice weighted with resolve.
Dante’s gaze lingered on her trembling hands. Frail, yes—but unwavering.
The conviction in her plea was real.
At length, he reached for the papers on his desk.
Her eyes widened as the sound tore the silence.
Rip.
The decree split in half in his hands, the pieces fluttering to the table.
“…!”
How dare she?
“You think I should grant your request?”
His voice, cold enough to chill bone, crashed down on her.
His golden eyes blazed, fierce and merciless, fixing her in place.
For three years she had never once felt this from him—this crushing pressure.
“Leave.”
The word was a low growl, reverberating through the study.
“Y-Your Grace…”
Her mind blanked, her eyes falling helplessly to the torn scraps of paper.
“Ah.”
He drew out a cigar, lips curling in disdain.
“Don’t mistake this for a command. It is simply a dismissal.”
***
Margaret drew in a deep breath and lifted her hand.
Knock, knock.
A quiet, dignified sound.
She waited a moment, then turned the handle.
No answer came from within, but silence itself was permission.
Everyone who served the Grand Duke knew this.
“You called for me, Your Grace?”
Dawn’s first pale light bled through the windows, a cold blue glow.
Though it was early, Dante was already in his study, perfectly dressed, not a hair out of place.
Margaret was reminded of a drunken conversation between the butler and the head chef: Do you know what it feels like, seeing a master who never falters, not even once?
Now she understood.
“I heard the physician visited yesterday,” Dante said, his tone flat.
“…Yes, Your Grace. With your permission, I summoned him at once—”
“And?”
He pressed a finger to his temple, cutting her off.
He wanted no explanations, only the conclusion.
“That is… well…”
Margaret faltered.
The physician’s verdict—melancholia—was not something easy to speak aloud, especially when she bore responsibility for the duchess’s wellbeing.
Dante’s eyes narrowed at her hesitation.
If she could not answer, it was not trivial.
Not that he had believed her words at face value to begin with.
“Margaret.”
His voice was sharp, cold. “You know well I dislike repeating myself.”
The dawn light sharpened the frost in his expression.
It made the air feel glacial.
Margaret squeezed her eyes shut, and at last, forced the truth out—
So FL knows he’s managing the royal businesses, it seems