Married To Darkness
Chapter 289: LonelinessThis Morning.

Chapter 289: LonelinessThis Morning.

The maid lowered her gaze, clearly uncomfortable, as Rowan straightened his shoulders.

Inside the room, muffled laughter could be heard—Genevieve, no doubt, mocking his persistence.

"I’m afraid I must insist—" Rowan began, but his words were interrupted by the loud, imperious voice of Genevieve herself.

"Tell him to leave! I don’t have time for his groveling today."

Rowan’s lips pressed into a thin line. His icy gray eyes flicked toward the closed door as if he could burn a hole through it with his gaze alone.

Still, he forced a thin, composed smile and took a step back.

"Very well," he muttered, more to himself than to the maid. "Her Highness always knows how to make a man feel welcome."

As he turned to leave, his mind churned. He didn’t truly care for the princess—she was vain, insufferable, and utterly dismissive—but she was useful.

If he could secure her hand in marriage, he would be one step closer to power, to being called a Velthorne.

And between Genevieve and her foolish, lesser sisters, she was still the more bearable option.

His thoughts were interrupted by the subtle giggle of a maid lingering by the hallway.

Rowan glanced sideways and noticed a pair of them, their eyes sparkling with mischief as they whispered to each other.

One of them, a dark-haired girl with a boldness in her gaze, took a step forward, her movements deliberately coy.

"My lord," she said with a soft curtsy, her voice dripping with sweetness. "It’s such a pity the princess doesn’t appreciate your dedication."

Rowan raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable.

"Indeed," he replied coolly.

The second maid, a blonde with a shy smile but calculating eyes, chimed in. "If only Her Highness could see what the rest of us see."

Rowan’s lips curved into a faint smirk, though his eyes remained sharp and detached.

He knew the game they were playing—the subtle attempts to draw his attention, to perhaps win his favor.

Normally, he would have dismissed them without a second thought, but today, after Genevieve’s humiliating rejection, he let the moment linger.

"How very perceptive of you both," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm but not entirely devoid of amusement. "I trust you’re not speaking out of turn?"

The dark-haired maid bit her lip, feigning innocence. "Never, my lord. We only speak the truth."

Rowan chuckled lightly, though there was no warmth in it. "Well, truth or not, I suggest you focus on your duties. I’m sure the princess wouldn’t appreciate her maids gossiping about matters above their station."

The maids blanched slightly, their flirtation cut short. Rowan tipped his head in mock courtesy and strode away, his cane clicking against the marble floor with each deliberate step.

As he descended the grand staircase, he sighed, his frustration bubbling beneath his calm facade.

Genevieve’s treatment of him was grating, but he wouldn’t give up. She might be a "bitch," as he privately thought, but she was a stepping stone to everything he desired.

And if she thought dismissing him would dissuade him, she was sorely mistaken. Rowan Trivelle was nothing if not persistent.

~~{────────

4th Prince Chambers

Wyfkeep Castle.

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

Princess Irene sat before her gilded vanity, her reflection staring back at her with an emptiness that felt as vast as the palace itself.

Her long, dark hair cascaded down her shoulders as her maids worked meticulously to pin it into an elegant updo.

The golden accents of her morning dress glinted in the sunlight filtering through the high windows, a stark contrast to the storm cloud of her mood.

The lead maid tightened the sash at her waist, and Irene flinched slightly. Her patience was thin today—thinner than usual.

"Careful," she muttered, her voice clipped.

"Yes, Your Highness," the maid replied, bowing her head nervously before continuing with lighter hands.

Irene glanced toward her lady-in-waiting, a sharp-featured woman named Clarisse, who stood nearby with her hands folded.

The princess’s gaze softened momentarily. "Clarisse, are my daughters being attended to?"

Clarisse stepped forward with a gentle nod. "Yes, Your Highness. Madison and Anastasia are in good hands. I checked on them myself earlier this morning. They were playing in the nursery with their governess and seemed happy."

Irene sighed, leaning back slightly as another maid fastened an intricate necklace around her neck. "Good," she said quietly.

Her voice lacked its usual authority, replaced by a hollow tone that made Clarisse glance at her with concern.

The maids continued their work in silence, brushing powder over Irene’s pale cheeks and applying a soft pink tint to her lips.

Her beauty was undeniable—a striking woman of grace and poise—but today, even the finest jewels and silks couldn’t mask the shadows beneath her eyes or the tension in her jaw.

"Has there been any word from Jaron?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Clarisse hesitated, exchanging a glance with one of the maids before answering carefully. "Not yet, Your Highness. He... did not return last night."

Irene’s fingers clenched the armrests of her chair.

She already knew the answer, but hearing it aloud made her heart ache anew.

It was becoming a familiar pain, one she’d learned to hide behind layers of duty and decorum.

Her husband, Prince Jaron, had always been an enigma.

Obsessed with power, politics, and, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, his younger brother Alaric, Jaron had little room left in his life for her.

Their marriage, while outwardly perfect, was one-sided—a union of convenience more than love.

She had tried, in the early days, to win his heart, but over time she had come to accept the truth: Jaron’s ambitions would always come before her.

"Do you think he’ll even bother to show up for the king’s birthday?" Irene asked bitterly, her eyes fixed on her reflection.

Clarisse hesitated, then spoke with measured words. "It is a significant day, Your Highness. I’m sure Prince Jaron will make an appearance."

Irene scoffed, the sound low and humorless. "An appearance. That’s all he ever does."