Stolen by the Rebel King
Chapter 322: The Fake

Chapter 322: The Fake

Atticus had severely underestimated this woman’s drinking capabilities.

’Daphne’ had already downed at least six glasses of red wine and a flute of champagne, yet she was still on her feet, bubbly and bright as ever. She mingled with the guests, practically dragging Atticus around with her as she did her rounds.

That, in Atticus’s opinion, was a clear enough sign that this woman definitely was not his wife. Daphne wouldn’t have been able to walk straight after the third glass, much less prance about like Saint Nicholas’s reindeers.

Finally, the women who had come over to give their well wishes left, leaving the couple alone once more. ’Daphne’ rubbed her sore neck, glancing at Atticus for a split second, desire lacing her eyes.

"My shoulders and neck feel so sore..." she grumbled, a whine tilting her tone at the end of her sentence. "Could you give me a rub?"

The request — and the way it was spoken — caused shivers to run down Atticus’s spine. He was waiting for the woman to crack and spill her secrets on her own but it was taking too damn long. Too much of the night had passed and yet, he was still stuck here in the ballroom with this dupe while his real wife was out there doing who knew what.

An idea dashed through his mind.

It was alright. Atticus needn’t expose her right in the open and cause a commotion on Daphne’s big day. He could easily lead her into a corner of the castle, have the imposter admit the truth, and then dispose of the body. Either that or present this uncannily similar fake to the real Daphne.

She would make for an excellent mannequin when the seamstresses needed measurements. Perhaps Sirona could figure out a way to preserve the body and prevent it from rotting.

With the morbid idea in mind, Atticus visibly brightened.

"Perhaps we should find a room?" Atticus suggested, smiling awfully genuinely. However, it was for all the wrong reasons― or at least, they weren’t the reasons that ’Daphne’ would’ve expected.

She brightened up and nodded, eagerly grabbing onto Atticus’s arm. The latter wanted nothing more than to shake her off and out of the nearest window, though he held onto that desire.

Later.

He would be able to do just that later. He might even put his hands around her neck and rub the life out of her.

She led the way eagerly and Atticus followed. The further they got into the palace and away from the ballroom, the more familiar the corridors got. It was then that Atticus realized that she was headed straight for where their bedroom was.

Additionally, it was also the very same corridor Drusilla’s bedroom was.

True enough, she had made the mistake of stopping right in front of Drusilla’s bedroom door first before faltering and moving one more door down to where Atticus and Daphne were supposed to stay. That short moment of hesitance was enough.

A purple hue had grasped hold of the woman’s throat within seconds, sending her slamming against the wall with a thud. The force caused the paintings on the wall to shake and the vases around them to tremble. ’Daphne’ let out a choked gasp, her hands reaching up for her neck immediately, clawing at the force.

"Who are you?" Atticus questioned, his gaze darkening as the woman struggled against his magic’s grip.

She gasped, twisting and turning in an attempt to break free, but to no avail. It was nearly impossible to break free from the magic of Atticus’s telekinesis. After all, it wasn’t anything material.

"I― I’m Daphne," she said, her voice choked and uneven. "Atticus, what is going on―"

"Cut the act," Atticus said, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Or should I answer the question for you, Princess Drusilla?"

"H-How..." The woman sucked in a deep breath of air the moment Atticus dropped her to the ground. She collapsed, her hair falling wildly around her as she coughed and hacked, her hands resting around her throat as she struggled to regain her breathing.

Then, slowly and unsurely, she looked up at Atticus. Her eyes welled up with tears, glistening brightly under the dim lighting. She looked every bit as pitiful and endearing, especially when paired with Daphne’s ethereal looks. However, Atticus’s expression remained stoic and his eyes stayed cold.

She was not Daphne. He didn’t take to imposters very well.

When Drusilla realized that Atticus was not buying her act one bit, she bit her lip and inwardly cursed.

’How?’ she thought to herself. ’How did he find out?’

She had perfected her act and had fooled everyone else that she had interacted with. There was no possible way anyone could’ve thought she wasn’t Daphne herself, right in the flesh. Even her mannerisms and behavior had been replicated perfectly, much more her appearance and even her voice.

Even Alistair had been proud of the transformation.

So how did Atticus find out so quickly?

Before Drusilla had the time to decide between continuing her act or just dashing away as quickly as she could, Atticus had knelt down to her level. His gaze found hers, clashing in a frozen tidal wave, cold as the northern winters. In the dark, his golden eyes seemed to have luminance, glowing brightly like the afternoon sun.

However, it held no warmth.

Drusilla felt a wave of Atticus’s magic holding her down in place. While it wasn’t straight out choking her this time, he made sure she couldn’t move any of her limbs. She was stuck there, forced to meet him in the eye and reply to his queries.

"I am not a very patient man," Atticus warned. "Answer my question before I deem you too useless to keep alive."

Drusilla bit her lip. She didn’t dare to risk it.

"Alistair," she said.

Atticus frowned, though the action was minuscule and could easily be missed if it weren’t for the fact that they were poised so close together.

"Ah, yes, the annoyingly useless former crown prince," Atticus mocked. "This is his bright idea? To turn you into Daphne so that you could seduce me and replace my real wife?"

Drusilla tried to nod at first but soon realized she couldn’t move her head. "Yes," she said instead.

"Where is he?" Atticus pressed. "And where is Daphne?"

Before Drusilla could reply, screams tore through the palace. Even from such a distance away from the ballroom, Atticus could hear them loud and clear. He had no clue what was going on at first until he peered out of the window, just in time to see a familiar figure crash right into the palace gardens.

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