INWY~06

Chapter 06

“…The physician says Her Grace suffers from severe melancholia.”

Melancholia—among the nobility? 

And not just anyone, but the Grand Duchess herself. 

It was as good as saying the household staff had failed in their duties.

Margaret’s hands trembled as she clasped them tightly together. 

She braced herself for the scolding or punishment she surely deserved.

But after a long silence, Dante merely gave a faint nod.

“Continue.”

Startled, Margaret lifted her olive-colored eyes toward him. 

They wavered in confusion, but Dante only regarded her with his dry, steady gaze.

Collecting herself, she drew a slow breath and spoke again.

“…In truth, Your Grace… of late, the Grand Duchess has been sleeping much more than before.”

“Sleeping?” Dante’s brows furrowed. “At what hour does she usually rise?”

“If we do not wake her, she sleeps until the sun sets.”

“And when does she retire?”

“When fatigued… sometimes she skips supper entirely…”

So she spends the entire day asleep.

A short, incredulous laugh escaped Dante. 

How could a person sleep so endlessly, day after day?

His thoughts flickered back to the sight of his wife the night before—so thin, so frail. 

He had wondered why she looked so withered.

It couldn’t have been the food at Behern Palace; the kitchens there were impeccable. 

And she hadn’t seemed ill.

…Or was she?

His golden eyes narrowed. 

Sliding a cigar from its case, he placed it between his lips and asked,

“Other symptoms?”

“Her strength has declined greatly. She often refuses meals. At times she takes short walks, but even after fifteen minutes she tires…”

“And tell me,” Dante cut in sharply, eyes flashing as he lit the cigar, “why am I hearing this only now?”

Gulp.

Margaret nearly choked on her own breath. 

His sudden glare was terrifying—like a predator’s eyes fixed on its prey.

“…Forgive me, Your Grace. At first I thought it was merely fatigue. Too trivial to trouble you with.”

“The Grand Duchess has gone days without meals, lying abed all hours—and you call this trivial?”

His voice was not raised, yet it struck like thunder at her ear. 

Cold, merciless, it filled the office with ice. 

Margaret bowed deeply, her own voice shaking.

“I truly beg your pardon, Your Grace. Such negligence will never happen again.”

“See that it does not.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I shall never forget.”

Dante exhaled smoke slowly, watching her bowed head through the haze. 

At length, he crushed the cigar out in the ashtray.

“Leave me.”

Knock, knock.

Just minutes later, the same sound. 

Without waiting for permission, the butler entered, as was the custom.

“Your Grace, the board members and the legal counsel have been waiting since dawn.”

“Industrious, aren’t they?”

Though in truth, their punctuality owed itself to Dante. 

Word had spread of the time he once eviscerated an executive for being merely five minutes late. 

Since then, it had become an unspoken law to arrive at least thirty minutes early for any meeting with him.

Fastening the last button of his jacket, Dante adjusted his tie with habitual precision.

“Go to the courthouse.”

“…The courthouse, Your Grace? For what purpose?”

The butler blinked rapidly in confusion. Courthouse business was normally the errand of aides or clerks, not a duty given to him.

Dante glanced back, golden eyes glinting with mockery.

“It’s time to discard a useless card.”

His tone was light, almost playful.

Just then, sunlight broke fully over the horizon, streaming through the tall windows. 

It bathed Dante’s form in radiance, outlining him in gold—like the painted gods of ancient myth.

So perfect, so dazzling, one might almost have worshiped him.

But the butler knew better. 

He saw the cold gleam in those golden eyes, the slight curl of Dante’s lip.

And wisely, he bowed low, asking no further questions.

“…As you command, Your Grace. I shall see to it quietly.”

A few faces flashed through his mind—men and women whose whereabouts had since vanished into mystery. 

He swallowed hard. 

To cross the Grand Duke in this state was to court disaster.

***

The clear late-summer sky had darkened, choked with gray clouds. 

Soon, rain fell in slow, heavy drops.

“Your Grace, please. Just one bite. I beg you.”

It had been half an hour. 

Margaret had pleaded, scolded, even tried coaxing. 

But still she could not make Riena eat.

Though nearing fifty, Margaret had no way to break the young duchess’s stubbornness.

Four days had passed since the physician’s visit. Four days, and Riena had not once left her chamber, nor touched a proper meal.

Since her summons to the Grand Duke’s office, Margaret had been consumed with dread and urgency. 

Punishment was one thing—but worse, she feared her mistress might truly collapse.

“Your Grace, it has been four days! What will become of you if this continues?”

But the Grand Duchess remained buried beneath her quilt, unresponsive.

It was always the same. 

Margaret would prepare her bath and her meals. 

Riena would bathe, but the food was left untouched before she crawled back into bed.

Today, again, the lump beneath the covers refused to stir.

At last, Margaret sighed in defeat. 

For all her years of service, she could not force-feed her mistress.

She set the bowl of gruel on the table, covering it neatly. 

“The food is here. Even a few bites would be enough.”

Her words hung with worry. 

Then came the firm click of her shoes on the floor. 

The sound of the door closing should have followed.

But it didn’t.

The footsteps stopped. 

Silence pressed heavy over the chamber.

Riena, sensing something amiss, began to lower the quilt—

“Y-Your Grace the Grand Duke…” Margaret’s voice trembled.

For the first time in three years, Dante Benachert himself entered her bedchamber.

He cast a brief, dismissive glance at Margaret, then strode forward. 

Behind him, the door shut softly.

Step. Step.

The measured sound of polished shoes drew nearer to the bed.

“Rise.”

His voice was cool, flat, devoid of warmth.

Riena bit her lip hard. 

Not once in their three years had Dante sought her here.

Beneath the quilt, her body curled in a small, trembling shape. 

His shadow fell over her, unyielding.

“Get up before I make you.”

Her heart pounded painfully in her chest. She knew resistance was useless. 

Dante Benachert was a man who acted on his words.

At last, she pushed the quilt aside and sat up slowly.

Not out of defiance. 

She simply lacked the strength. 

Her chest ached faintly again, and she fought to hide it, bowing her head until her face was composed enough to lift.

When she finally raised her eyes, she found his golden gaze waiting—brilliant, piercing, merciless.

The silence between them deepened, so heavy it threatened to crush her. 

She almost wished he would shout instead.

Then, without warning, Dante tossed an envelope onto the bed.

“Sign it.”

The sight of it froze her breath. 

The same kind of envelope she had handed him days ago. 

She already knew what lay within.

A divorce decree.

Her lips twisted faintly. 

Of course. 

His pride had been wounded. 

He was a man of immense ego, and no doubt he had rewritten the document with terms more favorable to himself.

But if it meant she could leave him, she would sign no matter the cost.

She picked up the envelope, drew a steady breath, and opened it.

Her brow furrowed. Inside was not a single sheet, but a thick stack of papers.

“What is this…”

Her voice cracked. 

Her eyes widened as she scanned the contents, disbelief flooding her expression.

Dante’s gaze never left her. 

His lips curved in cold amusement.

“I told you, Riena. I would never grant you what you asked for.”

What he had given her was not a divorce decree—

…but a petition for annulment.