Chapter 8: STOP HIM
Esme moved through the ballroom like she owned the space. The women parted for her like waves, their fans snapping shut as they gazed at her in awe and horror. None of them had dared to wear red, and certainly, none of them expected the Warlord’s bride to wear red.
She was halfway to the bar when an older woman blocked her path. The woman wore a tall wig and a gown so wide it took up half the corridor.
"Duchess Aldric," the woman smiled, showing her perfect teeth. "I am Lady Margaux. We didn’t expect you to attend...given the Duke’s nature."
"Of course," Esme replied with a smile. "But I know this kingdom thrives on gossip. It would have been a shame to deprive the capital a good story by staying home."
Lady Margaux narrowed her eyes at her boldness but kept smiling.
"How kind of you," she said, her eyes dropping to Esme’s dress. "Bold choice. Red isn’t usually worn at imperial functions. It sends a specific message."
"What message?"
"That one is either very confident... or very foolish." Lady Margaux replied, her smile turning sharp behind her fan. "The bets had you dead by noon. I placed my bet on dawn. You’ve cost me a considerable sum, Your Grace."
"Don’t worry. I’ll send a thank you note."
Lady Margaux immediately snapped her fan shut.
"You have a sharp tongue for a woman who should be trembling behind her husband."
Esme snickered.
"What do you expect me to say to a woman who approached me to complain about losing money on my death?" Esme retorted. "You should be thankful that my husband hasn’t heard about it. So next time you approach me, it better be with a glass of champagne and an apology."
Then she walked around Lady Margaux without another glance. Behind her, she heard Lady Margaux whispering something to her companion, but Esme had no interest in playing politics right now.
As soon as she reached the bar, a bartender with trembling hands placed a champagne glass in front of her without looking into her eyes. Esme took it and turned to scan the room.
Eveyr stood across the ballroom, talking to a general, but his eyes were fixed on her.
I need to give him a reason to snap.
Her gaze swept the crowd and landed on Lord Hartley, a middle- aged noble standing near the terrace doors. She remembered him from the novel. He was the kind of person who thought the world revolved around him. He was talking to a small group of nobles, laughing loudly.
"I told the minister, the southern vineyards are unmatched. The wine from the north can’t be compared to it."
A young noblewoman beside him laughed, touching his arm suggestively. Lord Hartley smiled, enjoying her attention.
Perfect.
Esme walked towards him. But Hartley didn’t notice her. He was too busy being adored.
"The ’47 Reserve is already being compared to the Emperor’s private stock. I have three cases in my cellar that I haven’t even opened yet. You can’t rush..."
"Lord Hartley."
He turned, his eyes travelling down her dress hungrily.
"Your Grace!" he exclaimed, puffing out his chest. "I didn’t see you come here. I must say, the rumours about your beauty don’t do justice to you."
Pervert!
"I’m grateful," she replied. "I heard your estates in the south produced excellent wine this year."
Hartley’s face lit up like a child given a cake.
"Indeed they did! The ’47 Reserve. Critics are calling it the finest in a decade. It’s a pity that someone as vibrant as you is trapped in the freezing wastelands of the North."
"Well...I’d love to visit the south someday," Esme said.
"You must allow me to send you a crate," he said, stepping closer. "Or perhaps you could visit? My estates are only a day’s ride from the capital. The sunsets over the vineyards are very beautiful. We could watch them together..."
"That’s very generous of you, Lord Hartley," Esme smiled.
"I’m a generous man, Your Grace. Those who know me say so," Hartley said, leaning in slightly.
Esme could smell the wine on his breath and see the hunger in his eyes clearly that he probably thought was charming. But she didn’t step back. She laughed. She tilted her head back to expose the long column of her throat and brushed the lapel of his coat lightly.
Across the ballroom, Eveyr stopped mid-sentence.
"The eastern pass is currently snowed in, Your Grace, so we anticipate delays in the..." General Thorne stopped abruptly, his brow furrowing. "Duke Aldric?"
Eveyr didn’t hear him. In fact, he couldn’t hear or see anything except for the sight of another man leaning into his wife’s space, another man looking at her throat, and another man’s coat under her fingers.
Suddenly, the chandeliers in the ballroom flickered. Every chandelier in the ballroom surged and dimmed simultaneously. The waltz ended.
Hartley’s hands flew to his neck. His fingers clawed at his skin as his eyes bulged, and his face turned red, then purple. He opened his mouth to scream but could only gasp. He couldn’t breathe.
The champagne glass fell from his fingers and shattered on the floor as he dropped to his knees. His body crumpled forward and his hands scrabbled at his throat.
Screams erupted across the ballroom. Nobles scrambled backward, colliding with each other, tripping over chairs and hems. Musicians abandoned their instruments, and servants dropped their trays as they watched the scene unfold in front of them.
Esme stood frozen, her champagne glass still in her hand. She looked down at Lord Hartley. His face had turned blue now, his lips purple, and his fingers scratched red lines down his own neck as he fought for breath.
Then she slowly turned her head. Eveyr was walking towards her slowly. His eyes were completely black. Frost crackled on the mirrors as he walked. He wasn’t looking at Hartley or the screaming crowd. His focus was solely on her.
[SYSTEM ALERT: MURDEROUS STATE ACHIEVED! +500 Points!]
Obsession Meter: 50% → 68%
CRITICAL ERROR: Collateral damage will result in imperial execution. STOP HIM.
