“Answer?”
My voice is quiet, but the word carries weight, pressing into the silence between us.
Madeleina does not move.
For a moment, I wonder if she will ignore me entirely, if she will simply sit there in her perfect, practiced stillness, waiting for me to grow bored of the question.
But then—
Her lips part.
“It is irrelevant to this conversation.”
Ah.
A carefully chosen answer, precise and calculated. Neither confirmation nor denial, simply removal—as if the very idea of acknowledging it would give the question power.
I exhale through my nose, amused. A soft chuckle escapes me as I lean back against my chair, watching her with renewed interest.
“This is quite unlike you,” I muse, tilting my head slightly. “Even though I gave you an honest answer, this is how you repay mine?”
Her eyes narrow, sharp and cutting. “You didn’t give me an honest answer.”
“Oh, I did,” I counter smoothly. “It’s just that you didn’t accept it.”
Silence.
A flicker of something crosses her expression—gone before I can name it.
She inhales slowly, as if steadying herself, before shaking her head. “It is pointless to argue with you.”
I smirk.
“Ah,” I hum, as if pleased. “Finally, something we can agree on.”
She does not dignify that with a response, but I can see it—the faintest tightening at the corner of her lips, the barest shift in her posture.
This conversation is frustrating her.
Good.
I want to see how long she can hold onto that perfect composure before something breaks.
Because the truth is, no matter how much she justifies her actions, no matter how much she tells herself that what she did was necessary—
She cannot stand it.
And I want to see it.
She exhales, slow and measured, pressing whatever irritation she feels back into the depths of herself.
A moment passes.
Then—her eyes sharpen.
“If you know so much,” she says at last, her voice steady but laced with something careful, something probing, “then tell me—how did it happen?”
I tilt my head slightly, letting the question settle between us.
“How did what happen?” I ask, all light amusement, all deliberate nonchalance.
Her fingers tighten ever so slightly against her sleeve.
“You know what I mean.”
I do.
But I want to hear her say it.
So I wait.
She watches me, unmoving, then exhales sharply through her nose, as if annoyed with herself for playing into this.
“How did you save her?” she asks, the words quiet but edged. “How did you know how to cure Aeliana when no one else could?”
I hum, considering her question.
There are so many ways I could answer.
I could lie. I could twist the truth. I could offer her a thousand explanations, each one plausible, each one a game of half-truths and misdirection.
But I don’t.
Instead, I lean forward, resting my elbows against my knees, watching her closely.
“Would you believe me if I told you?”
Madeleina does not answer right away. Her jaw tightens.
“You expect me to believe you came from another world?”
I smile, slow and knowing. “Ah, so you were listening.”
She does not react. But that, in itself, is a reaction.
Then—
Something shifts in her expression. A flicker of something quiet, something dangerous, something unspoken.
And then she says it.
Not directly. Not with outright accusation.
But close enough.
“If you knew how to cure Aeliana,” she murmurs, watching me carefully, “then why did you wait all this time?”
The question is soft.
But beneath it—beneath the carefully measured words, beneath the veil of neutrality she tries to maintain—there is something else.
A protest.
A whisper of resentment.
Not for Aeliana.
For herself.
Because before—before Aeliana was cured, before this moment—there was still a chance.
A chance for her to hide her intentions. A chance to weave a future where the truth was never uncovered.
But now?
Now, Aeliana has returned.
Now, the past cannot be buried.
Now, she cannot be saved.
Because with Aeliana alive, with Aeliana healed—the truth will be revealed. After all, Aeliana must have witnessed it directly.
Because I know one thing for sure, even though I did not witness that scene directly.
She was there, in that moment—at the edge, at the brink, staring into the abyss of her own end.
And Madeleina was the one who sent her over.
But it’s never just silence, is it?
No.
People like Madeleina—people who convince themselves they are right, even in their cruelty—never leave without a final remark.
A final whisper to cement their actions.
It is oftentimes the same for criminals.
It’s never just about the crime.
It’s about owning it.
It’s about experiencing that final moment, savoring the knowledge that they were the one to orchestrate it.
That they were the one in control.
They don’t always choose the mistake-proof method—the clean, perfect way that ensures there are no loose ends.
Because deep down, they want the victim to know.
They want them to hear it.
They want to bask in the moment, to have that one fleeting instant where they confirm their own power, their own justification.
Madeleina is no different.
She would not have left Aeliana in that abyss without giving her something to hold onto—something that, to her, felt like truth.
And now, as I sit across from her, watching her watch me, I know—
She is wondering if I know what she said.
What words passed through her lips in that final moment.
I smile.
Not because I know the exact words.
But because I know her.
And that is enough.
“If I knew how to cure Aeliana, why did I wait this time? That is a really good question.”
I raise my head, my black eyes locking onto hers.
Madeleina does not look away.
Good.
I want her to see this.
To feel it.
Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, I utter the words—
“Would you believe that if you had done your job properly, I would not have managed to cure Aeliana most likely?”
Silence.
Sharp. Unyielding.
A flicker of something crosses her face—not shock, not fear, but calculation.
And then—
“What do you mean?” she asks, voice steady, measured.
I chuckle, tilting my head slightly. “Even if I were to tell you, for you to understand everything, I would need to explain things for three hours straight.”
I exhale, shaking my head as if genuinely regretful.
“But sadly,” I murmur, my voice smooth, “we don’t have such an amount of time, do we?”
And as if on cue—
Knock. Knock.
The sound echoes through the room, sharp against the quiet tension.
Madeleina’s gaze flickers toward the door, but her posture remains rigid, her focus still on me.
Then—
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A voice.
Soft, deferential.
“Mister Luca.”
A maid.
“Master is waiting for you.”
Ah.
Of course.
The Duke.
The man whose world is about to become far more complicated.
The maid steps forward, bowing slightly before continuing, “I was sent to prepare you for the audience. As well as etiquette.”
Ah, etiquette.
How utterly charming.
I glance at Madeleina, smirking ever so slightly.
“Looks like we’ll have to cut this conversation short,” I muse. “A shame, isn’t it? Just when it was getting interesting.”
Her expression does not change.
Well, wrong. It changes.
“But, it should be good enough for your final conversation.”
After all, she knows it too.
After learning the truth from Aeliana, the Duke will never spare her, after all….