Married To Darkness
Chapter 288: Escorting Genevieve Today

Chapter 288: Escorting Genevieve Today

In the lavishly appointed chambers of the Young Men’s Princes’ Wing, the bustle of servants attending to their duties was interwoven with the playful banter of two young royals.

Benedict Velthorne, the second prince Spencer’s illegitimate son, sat on a cushioned stool, his striking green eyes flicking over the polished mirror in front of him.

His crimson-red hair was in the process of being brushed and styled by a maid, and despite the air of activity, Benedict exuded an effortless composure.

Across the room stood John, the son of the fourth prince, Jaron.

Though less striking in appearance, with his sandy blond hair and a face that always seemed to be on the verge of a grin, John was no less spirited.

The two young men shared a camaraderie born of proximity, though their personalities often clashed in amusing ways.

"You know, Benedict," John began, lounging casually in a chair as his attendants fussed with his sleeves, "for someone who’s technically a bastard, you certainly do act like royalty. It’s almost charming."

Benedict didn’t even flinch. "Ah, John," he replied smoothly, his tone dripping with mock sincerity. "It must be exhausting for you, having to rely on such witless insults. Shall I help you come up with something better?"

The maids stifled their laughter, glancing nervously between the two princes.

John, unfazed, smirked and leaned forward. "Why bother? You seem to enjoy the attention, anyway. Look at you—preening like a peacock while the rest of us just try to get dressed without a fuss."

Benedict arched an eyebrow, his green eyes glinting with mischief. "Preening, you say? Well, forgive me for caring about my appearance. Unlike some, I refuse to look like I just rolled out of bed. Though I suppose that’s all you can manage with what little you have to work with."

The maids couldn’t hold back their giggles this time, and even John’s servant chuckled softly.

John, ever the good sport, grinned. "Oh, you’re good, I’ll give you that. But let’s see how clever you are when the king’s watching tonight. One wrong move, and even that perfect red hair of yours won’t save you."

Benedict adjusted the cuffs of his embroidered shirt, his expression unbothered. "Don’t worry about me, John. I know how to behave in court. I can’t say the same for you, though. Perhaps I should prepare a little speech on your behalf? Something simple enough for you to remember?"

Before John could retort, one of the servants chimed in, emboldened by the playful atmosphere. "Perhaps Prince John should simply stand quietly and let Prince Benedict do the talking. It might save him some embarrassment."

John gasped in mock outrage, pointing an accusing finger at the servant. "Traitor! You’re supposed to be on my side!"

The room erupted into laughter, with even Benedict cracking a rare, genuine smile.

As the dressing continued, Benedict remained the picture of calm sophistication.

His tailored attire—a deep emerald-green doublet with gold embroidery, paired with crisp white trousers—suited him perfectly, highlighting his unique coloring.

John, on the other hand, fidgeted as his attendants fussed with his royal blue tunic, muttering under his breath about how "ridiculous" all the preparation was.

"You know, Benedict," John said as he tugged at his collar, "for all your smugness, you’d better hope the king actually notices you tonight. Otherwise, all this effort will have been for nothing."

Benedict stood, inspecting himself in the mirror one last time. "The king will notice me because I have something worth noticing. As for you, well..." He turned to John, his lips curling into a smirk. "Just try not to trip over your own feet, and you might survive the night."

John rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress his grin. "I hate you sometimes."

"I know," Benedict replied, brushing past him toward the door. "It’s part of my charm."

The servants quickly finished their tasks, and as the two young men made their way out of the chambers, their banter continued, filling the corridors with a lively energy.

Despite their differences, there was a bond between them that neither would admit aloud—a bond forged in the chaotic world of royal politics and sibling rivalries.

As they walked toward the grand hall, John nudged Benedict with his elbow. "If you embarrass me tonight, I’ll—"

"Don’t worry," Benedict interrupted, his voice light with amusement. "I’ll make sure everyone’s too busy admiring me to notice you."

John sighed, shaking his head. "Why do I even try?"

The answer, of course, was obvious to everyone but him.

Despite his sarcastic barbs and biting wit, Benedict was the kind of person people gravitated toward—confident, intelligent, and endlessly entertaining.

And as the two princes stepped into the bustling hall, it was clear that this night would be no exception.

~~{─────────

Wyfkeep Castle, Wyfn-Garde

~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~

Rowan, the young lord of the Trivelle family, stood poised outside the lavish chambers of First Princess Genevieve.

He had arrived early, as always, dressed impeccably in a navy blue suit adorned with silver embellishments that hinted at his noble lineage.

His sandy hair was slicked back, and his sharp features were set with determination.

For years, Rowan had been tirelessly pursuing

Genevieve, not out of love, but for the power her position could grant him.

Becoming part of the Velthorne dynasty was his ambition, and Genevieve—cold and haughty as she was—was his most logical path to the crown.

The air was tense as Rowan cleared his throat, waiting for the maids or guards to grant him entry.

But his presence had barely been acknowledged when the door cracked open, and one of Genevieve’s senior maids peeked out with a guarded expression.

"Lord Rowan," the maid began with a strained politeness, "the First Princess has instructed us to inform you that she will not be needing your company today."

Rowan’s jaw tightened, his grip on the silver cane he carried momentarily tightening.

He had expected this—Genevieve was always difficult, her arrogance almost unmatched—but the open dismissal still stung.

"Did she now?" he said, his tone low but laced with disdain. "How very typical of her."