Chapter 82: Not the Villains—Just the Consequence
[Rynthall Estate—Dawn | The Drawing Room]
The sky was just beginning to pale into soft lavender. The last wisps of storm clouds clung to the horizon like reluctant shadows, casting the estate in a pale, silvery glow.
But inside House Rynthall?
There was silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
No. This silence was the kind that made seasoned guards stand straighter. That made butlers tread lightly, as if the floor might judge them. Even the enchanted grandfather clock by the archway ticked slower—hesitant, almost apologetic, unsure whether it had permission to exist.
Because Lucien Rynthall was awake.
And he was not pleased.
He sat stiffly on the velvet couch—posture impeccable, expression unreadable. In his arms, lying peacefully against his chest, was the smallest storm ever born. His daughter. His heart.
The tiny heir of Rynthall was sound asleep—her breath even, her brow softly furrowed as if she were dreaming about all the things in the world she planned to one day disapprove of. One tiny fist curled near Lucien’s collarbone, the other tucked beneath her cheek.
But Lucien?
He was glowing with one thing only: controlled, maternal, incandescent rage.