Chapter Text
The windows. The damned windows. Francesca saw it as a weak point in a vulnerable moment of her life, and, with her family's coaxing, she gradually came to disregard her paranoia. When she had learned that men put their grubby hands on her, Michaela, she had almost lost her sanity. How dare they? How dare they touch the anchor of her life, all because of their prejudice? Oh, how she hated the hate, the violence, the looks, and the Queen for putting Michaela in such a position in the first place. Restless nights, brave facades, surprised tears, the responsibilities that borderline crippled her. The Queen was cruel for placing it all on nothing but a single woman’s shoulders. Never mind the fact that said woman was stubborn as a mule to suffer on her own, until Francesca slapped some sense into her.
Francesca could forget the pain of the night, only because:
Cracked and bloody lips grazed her knuckles.
Brown doe brown eyes looked up at her, despite the darkness and swelling confiscating her vision in one eye. The devotion and love were clear. A delicate kiss that linked a promise.
I want to spend the rest of my days with you.
She could forget her anger because she loved Michaela with all her heart, and in that love, she overpowered her hate. All she wanted was for Michaela to be okay.
It had taken time, but she had eased her compulsion to demand that the windows in every room be checked, no double-checked, if the duty had been done.
However-
Standing at the door of the wrecked Kilmartin office, hugging her trembling child in a embrace of protection and comfort, Francesca struggles to keep a brave face rather than burst into a cry of not only sorrow but—
All encompassing fury.
There was a special place in Hell for the person who wrote this document.
Michaela squinted to the point where she accidentally closed her eyes and had to dial it back a micrometer. Intelligence was never something she lacked; in fact, she outperformed John in analysis and comprehension. The problem was that this tended to be artistic works. Whoever decided political terminology must have a personal grudge against Michaela before the thought of her conception even crossed her parents' minds.
She rubbed her temple. Must this text be so incomprehensible? Perhaps she doesn’t need to finish it tonight. Maybe if she just slides it back into the drawer and pretends as if she never saw it, it never existed in the first place.
She nods. Yes, that is perfect thinking.
Hiding the document in the desk, Michaela leans back on the chair with a hefty sigh. She had taken to wearing John's clothing, a comfy beige pair of trousers and a loose white button-up. The ton would call it scandalous, she would call it fashionable. She looks rather good in it, at least that’s what Francesca thinks.
A song, nothing short of beautiful, slid through the cracks of the doors. A smile broke on her face. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
It would be a crime not to enjoy such a carefully crafted composition. Michaela put her hand behind her head and closed her eyes. She hummed the tune that Francesca played so insistently to perfection, enough for Michaela to memorize the notes. Moments like this beat reading papers for hours any time. She released a contented sigh. For now, she could let the notes carry her into a state of relaxation.
Chilly little cold hands clutched her trousers.
“OOoooooHhhh Shhiii-“ A girlish shout breaks the peaceful silence of the room. Unruly curly hair peeks from under the desk. His evil grin shows that he is unbothered by his behavior.
“Language, mama!” The little boy chimes despite leaving his mother in a state of half-death. Michaela wheezes, clutching her chest with a tight grip.
“Now, how in the world did you get there?” She tugs the toddler by the arms to her lap. He giggles uncontrollably even when she flicks his forehead. This boy….
“You were taking too long.” He whined. Michaela tilts her head. It couldn’t have been that long, could it? Her son seems to catch her worry, “Don't worry, you didn't miss dinner. Mommy would get really mad at you if you did.” He soothes.
Internally, she sighs in relief; there's no need to get grounded again. Honestly, it’s ridiculous, at her big age, being grounded. The worst part is, if she tries to speak up against it, she ends up banished from the room.
Michaela wiggles her finger in his pudgy chest, clutching his squirming body. “I must’ve been so focused (on not focusing) that I completely missed you sneaking in. A sly little minx, you are.” Jude makes a grunt of discontent before wiggling out of her arms. After all that laughing, it takes him a second to catch his breath.
“I’m not little!” He huffs with his chest puffed in manly pride. Michaela raised a brow, standing from her seat. She measures the top of Jude’s head, lining it up to her hip.
“I don't know…you seem pretty little.”
“No!” Jude whines.”I am big and strong!”
Michaela giggles at his childish display. Jude pouts at her amusement. “I’m not little like you, mama!” He squeals when she grabs his waist and flips him upside down. Peering at him curiously, she shakes him lightly. “Oh, just because I’m little, I’m not big and strong?”
“Put me down!” Despite his words, the pure joy in his face said otherwise.
“Not until you say I’m big and strong, little Jude.”
“You can not… You can't be little and big at the same time, it just doesn’t make sense!” Drats, he’s right. She snorts as she places him right side up.
“Alright, I'll yield to that point.” She tutts, wagging her finger as she kneels eye level.
(This position blocked her view of everything that mattered. This conversation, like many of the ones she had, sucked her entire attention and left her none the wiser)
“But I refuse to ever say that I am not strong.” She squared her shoulder with pride and tilted her chin up with overwhelming ego. The clothes were too large on her frame; they hid her muscles, but they didn’t hide the charm or the wink she shot at her son.
Like mother, like son, he gazed at her theatrics unimpressed.
“No, you’re not? A woman can’t be strong.”
Michaela blinked. Her face fell gradually as she crossed her arms. Suddenly, they felt oddly heavy. “Who told you such ridiculousness?” She sniffed.
Sensing the change in her attitude, Jude began to fidget. “Um…” He fiddled with the button of his shirt, avoiding eye contact.
Michaela pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m not mad at you, little Jude, I’m mad at the person who told you that.”
Now that knowing his mama’s discontent wasn’t aimed at him, Jude brightened only for a second before remembering he was passing blame to another. It wasn’t like he was passing the blame of a broken teacup to his cousins; it was him telling on an adult. It’s a change that leaves him unsure about how to proceed.
“It was um… Mr.Mac… Mac…?” He pondered by pressing a little finger to his lips.
“Macdonald?” Michaela guessed, voice light as not to scare Jude, internally, she was furious, almost murderous. Macdonald was Jude’s literature tutor, forgive her ex-literature tutor. She will not let him poison his prejudice into her sweet son's mind. She refuses to raise a man who never looked past his own nose. Macdonald will be cast out the minute this conversation ends, but first she must make amends.
“Yes!” He cheered. Michaela couldn’t help but smile, even with her brewing frustration. “That is his name!”
“What exactly did he tell you?” When Jude parrots the exact rude and ignorant sentences, she exhales with her whole body, shoulders dropping, and head falling. She should’ve picked a better tutor.
Michaela sat down, putting her back to the hard edge of her chair. She gestured for Jude to sit across from her. “Well, he’s wrong. Why?” She whispered as if she were sharing a dark secret. Jude couldn’t help but lean in close, feeling as if he was part of a secret investigation.
“Why?” He parroted his voice in a whisper.
She points at Jude's head. “Me?” He tilts his head like a confused puppy.
“Yes, you.” She giggles, grabbing his head gently with her fingers, spinning his head in a teasing manner. He squirms and protests, and she releases him with a cackle. The laugh fades, and the amazement hardens to a stern focus that rarely graces her face when Jude looks at her. Jude straightens his curls, gulping at the serious facade his fun mama never dared show him.
“To get to you, Mommy had to experience something no person should ever go through. She lost so much, so quickly, it was hardly fair. But she learned that fair is not synonymous with lost. Many…” Breaking eye contact, she bit her lip as she pondered, struggling to find the word. The only person who died was John, but there was more than that. The unborn. It wasn’t people who died, as those unborn never had a chance to be a person. They died before they even developed a heart that beat in tandem with their mother’s. So it was hard to call them people, as it is hard to imagine a fairer outcome, with them alive and calling Jude their little brother. So Michaela glazed over Jude’s unborn older siblings and decided to keep it to herself.
“…died in her path, but she never gave up on reaching you. And when she finally did. She fought to keep you here; every threat to her conquest was rendered minuscule because you were the most important thing to her. Tell me, does that make mommy weak?”
Jude shook his head frantically, practically twisting his head off. “…no, no it doesn’t.” He mumbled, feeling bad for his words. Even if he didn’t mean them, not completely, he still said them, and that hurt his mama.
“Exactly, love and care, those things they associate with women, a weakness, do not make you weak. In fact, I think it is the exact opposite; such compassion and persistence are strong traits. No matter how much you have suffered, you get back up, and you bare your heart to the world. It is your mother who possesses such strength. But I do not think that is a feminine duty; that is a trait of a decent man. Do you understand?”
“…yes, mama.” He nods, head low.
“Great. Then he says women cannot be in line of power. Do you know my position, Jude? I am in line with the men in parliament, do not worry about what that is yet.” She assured, sensing his puzzlement despite his head jet low. “Just know it is a man-dominated field, and I am the only woman there. I, like other men, run my estate; in fact, I run mine to very peak condition. I, like other men, stand in the line of danger to protect my family. Because I, like other men, love my family. Do you understand?” Michaela lightly taps his chin upwards so that their eyes can meet. She is not scolding; he must understand that she is educating.
“Yes, mama,” he nods.
“But it is more than being like other men, it is about being yourself. Unlike other men,” Michaela smiles, lifting her hand to admire the shiny diamond that beams from her ring. “I will break conventions, lines, traditions, boundaries because if anything, I love being myself more than I like being like other men. In fact, if I were born a man, I would turn the world upside down if it meant I could be myself again. What I mean to say is, you don’t need to be big and strong for mommy and me to love you, Jude. We will love you regardless, no matter who you turn out to be. Under the eyes of God, we are all equal; no one is better than the other. Do you understand, little Jude?”
“Yes, mama.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Great.
Her knees groan when she lifts herself. She's getting old. She ruffles Jude’s curly locs once again despite his protests. As much as she knows he dislikes the nickname and her treatment, she relishes the fact that he is small for the time being. Soon enough, he won’t be little Jude, and the day that happens, well….he’ll always be her little Jude that puked on her expensive dresses after she burped him.
Finally relinquishing her hold on him, Michaela hummed, nudging her head to Francesca’s playing. “Shall we join your mom?”
Jude cheered in agreement, skipping his way to the door. She was to join him, but a chill distracted her. Shivering, she turned to where the icy draft graced her back. The sun was setting, the dying light shining unforgivably into the study.
Had she left the window open? Couldn’t have been her because Francesca had made it a point that she was not allowed to leave windows open, God forbid— so in any case, the window was open, it was done by a maid, who was not in the room, so—
“MAMA!” Jude’s terrified scream sliced through the delicate melody in the air.
Michaela’s heart dropped.
Fuck
There was a dreading ringing in her ears as she slowly turned around. Her chest heaved, breath coming out ragged and uneven with panic overtaking her senses. Her vision swam once she met a devastating sight.
Near the door was Michaela’s world in a stranger's hands
There was a man. A man with a knife.
This man bore her child by the grace of his slim jaw, tilting it so the silver blade’s tip only dented the thin skin, but deep enough to show serious intent. Covered by a scarf and his hair tucked into a bandana, the only thing she could see was his pale skin that contrasted with his dark blue eyes.
“Wait.” She raised her hands to the pair, a universal sign of surrender. “Please...wait.”
Slowly, she rounded the table and made her way to the pair. Naturally, she reached her hands in the way you would gesture to a rowdy pony as you turned to calm them down. She winced as the knife carved deeper into Jude, breaking skin and leaving a bead of blood that almost made Michaela hurl. Jude was shaking like a leaf; every joy on his expression five seconds ago withered away and died in that man’s arms.
Poor Jude.
She’s not stupid, even a fool could tell what this all meant–why all of this even happened.
Michaela trudged slowly, keeping her eyes on the blue because if she looked down at hazel, she would shatter with guilt. She walked closer until there was a respectable distance between the two of them, showing she was of no threat.
(Francesca's music still played. It was Mozart's joyfully harmonious contrast with the taut atmosphere )
Michaela shut her eyes, and despite her best effort to remain calm and composed, her exhale came out shaky and wet. “You are here for me. Leave the boy out of this.”
No change. He knew Jude was leverage.
She bit the inside of her cheek, badly enough to draw blood. “Whatever it is you want, whatever you demand, you can have it. Money, land, ambiguity, a title, whatever it is, it is doable. Okay? Just not the boy.”
The man still didn’t move. At this point, she didn’t know how to change the situation. For all the times she’s been called stupid and a fool, Michaela never thought of herself as such, yet she did a foolish action. A lady such as her should never beg, should never kneel, but a lady such as her also shouldn’t be living this lifestyle without consequences.
(I want to spend the rest of my days with you.
Just another promise broken, but that's okay)
If this is it, then so be it, as long as Jude walks out of this room alive.
“Sir, I am begging you.” She places her palms together in a prayer, slowly getting to her knees. With her head low and a desperation on her tongue, she begs, "Just….just let him go.”
It’s not a second later that she hears a shrill cry of surprise. Anything that happened after was lost on her as a thick boot slammed into her ear. The sudden attack left saliva, and something white splattering across the wooden floor and some of the carpet Francesca tried so hard to keep clean (she would be furious).
Michaela hit the ground with no mercy. She had enough sense to block the other side of her head and roll into the momentum, lest she be knocked out cold. She landed on her stomach, but the room kept spinning without her permission. She slammed her eyes shut, trying hard not to release today’s breakfast across the floor. The ringing in her ears dies until she finally can hear Mozart again.
“Mama!” She heard Jude cry, albeit with a weird echo.
The man wasted no time straddling her back. He gripped the ends of her shirt and pulled her forward. It left her spine aching from being forced into such an awkward position. Her hands were forced to support her body weight lest she break something. The knife was on her throat, like mother, like son, they would say. She could’ve laughed when the hand on her shirt went to her carefully styled hair and ruined an hour's worth of work by her maids. It was stupid, but she was feeling deranged as of right now.
Slowly but surely, she opened her eyes. Jude was on the floor on his knees, sporting a bloody nose and crocodile tears. He screamed, banging the floor repeatedly. “Let her go! Let her—“
For the first time, the man spoke. She hated how it was to her son and not her. “Move, and she’s dead.” He rasped. His voice held no emotion, no sign of shame in his action.
Jude broke. He curled into a ball, his torso falling to the floor. “Mommy….” He sobbed into his knees. She doesn’t know who he was calling specifically. In this state, he couldn’t mean her or Francesca, maybe both. Starkly, she’s reminded that he is only four years of age. Once again, she takes a deep breath to compose herself. She needs to have some semblance of control. She is strong.
She is strong.
“What is it that you want?”
The blade clips into her skin.
She feels him come close, his scalding breath on her ear. “Quite the Parliament.”
Her nails raked the wooden board. It made a shrill noise whilst she raised her hands to a fist.
She is strong.
“That would be defying the queen's orders. Joining the parliament was hardly my choice.” She tried to reason.
The man didn’t amuse the logic. “You would not want your little boy to see mommy get murdered, would you?”
“Of course not—“
“Then tell me right here and right now you will surrender your position and confess to your—“
She is strong.
(It was strange, they could’ve killed more quietly, an untraceable way like poison in tea. However, something like that would be hard to get through with their trusted team. Though it is not impossible to pull off. So why not kill her right now? Quickly and quietly. Kill her son as well. Assassination is the most humiliating thing that could have happened to a politician... no, that would mean she was of importance. That would mean she had an impact. Killing was out of the question. That would lead to questions, investigations, and soon…answers. That left whatever hellish strategy this is; holding her life and her child's mind in her choice. So maybe this person wanted to make. A point. A violent, humiliating point.
That’s fine.
His first mistake was letting Jude go; she would have been much more complacent)
Knife be damned. With a grunt, she slammed her head backwards. She feels more than hears the crunch of a hawk's nose. That feeling brings in a rush of satisfaction.
The attacker shrieks in surprise. She doesn’t know what he does with his hands, perhaps clutches his nose, but his hands remove from her frame. Since he reels, his weight lessens on her back.
Perfect.
Michaela slams her torso to the floor, using her center of gravity to buck the man off her back. She quickly spun herself around and placed herself on her feet. She shuffles to create some space between the recovering man. With the way he glowers at her through the disguise and the blood that glistened from his all-black suit…he’s not pleased.
Without a second thought, Michaela turns to the ball on the floor, “Jude!” He cringes, peaking from the floor with hazy eyes. Michaela doesn’t give herself time to crack alongside him. Her eyes gaze at him sternly, and she sets her jaw. With all her might, she hopes he gets the message.
Squaring her shoulders, tightening her core, and raising her fist, Michaela faced the man who could’ve been 175 centimeters and at least twice her weight. The intruder circles his neck and faces the knife in line with her neck. This fight, short and intense, wouldn’t be forgiving.
“Be strong!”
The man attacked.
Run.
Jude wipes his tears, scrambling to his feet. He doesn’t look at the warfare; he knows if he did, he would only break, and that would not save his mama. In his small state, he couldn’t fight along with her, but he could be the cry for help she needed.
His little legs run to the door. The ruckus behind him is forced to become distant noise. Reaching for the knob, he almost said a no–no word when it didn't dislodge. He pulls with his weight to turn the knob.
Again, he strains harder. This time, he slips and crashes to the floor.
The stupid door won’t freaking open, and if he doesn’t do something quickly, mama will…
He slams his hands in the door, “HELP! HELP! HELP US! HELP-“ A sharp pain laces his pinky, and he withdraws with a sharp wince. Looking at his hands, he can see that his pinky is red and bent in an odd shape.
Surely someone has heard the ruckus, right?
The door rattles after he kicks it in frustration. He can’t just stand there and wait for someone to notice his cries; he needs to get help right now.
Another opening….
His eyes brighten.
Turning his heel, he makes way for the window. He slips on something on the ground, and even though he recovers, the noise garners attention. The man turns his attention onto him, and for a second, Jude is frightened for his life, but the feeling displaces when Mama slams her shoulder into the man, forcing them to the floor.
He keeps going.
It’s late, and people usually stay inside at this time, but he knows someone will hear him.
Once he reaches the window, Jude gulps in a big breath, “HELP, HELP! WERE BEING ATtACked.” The screaming of the day leaves his throat sore, and his voice cracks towards the end. Jude coughs harshly.
“HELP!” He cries. A stray figure gasps, but Jude feels compelled to do more.
He looks down and tries not to cry.
Be strong.
Gripping the edge, tears slipping once the weight is bared on his broken pinky, Jude tumbles into the tall bushes.
Michaela was lucky enough to dodge the knife aimed directly at her eyes. She tips her head in time for the man to hyperextend his reach.
She furrows her eyebrows- No doubt this man knew better than to let her into his space like this. It was almost as if he wasn’t a trained assassin. If not that, then who was he?
…No, this is good; someone reckless can mitigate the physical difference.
Michaela wrapped her arm around the arm and delivered a devastating knee to the stomach. She took the quick opportunity to slap the knife out of his hands and kick it across the room. She doesn’t realize, but it lands on Jude’s path. With the wind knocked out of him, the man keeled over and gagged.
To his credit, he recovers quickly with a backhand that catches her by surprise, though she quickly raises a hand to block the brunt of the blow. Michaela winced at the sting, stumbling at the force of it. The man pursues, taking her stumble as a rightful opening. Michaela jumps away from a face strike that would’ve knocked her unconscious.
She scales as she keeps retreating from the relentless attacks. She has no choice but to dodge; his punches were too heavy to keep blocking. Blocking would mean risking breaking something. So she moves further into the room, she skips until the sharp wood of her desk stabs her bosom.
Not good.
A meaty hand goes for the middle, and she has no choice but to roll over to the side, knocking over hours' worth of paper, hard work, and a good pot of ink across the floor.
(Fuuuuuuuuu-)
She can’t keep playing defense, she’s got to-
Jude stumbles in the corner of her vision. Why didn’t he take the door?! Something in her face must have given her away because the man turns and bolts after the boy, a behavior that Michaela would classify as very...arsehole-y.
“No!” Michaela pounces. Desperation stifles her, and she mindlessly rams her shoulder into a hard back. They stumble across the room, barely dodging Jude’s retreating form.
They roll until they run into a sofa. Michaela wheezes when an elbow jabs into her stomach in their forced stop. Luckily, she lands in front of him, the sofa being to his back and her back being to his front. Quickly, she vaults away, on all fours, before he could have her in his vices again. They’re near the fireplace. It burns bright and leaves her feeling overheated despite the chill running through her body and the sweat that beads on her temples. Her body couldn't decide if it was hot or cold. In the ruckus, the man’s coverings fell from his face at some point, revealing an unidentified man. She didn’t recognize him, not unusually, since she hardly focuses on men, but nothing about him seems to be of a higher status. The way his beard was rough and untamed, the way his bared teeth were crooked, the way the light illuminated the lines of age and stress.
He was just some lowly criminal. Perhaps offered enough money to pay for dinner.
The fire raged.
With that light, she can see silver reflect on the ground. Between the two of them to the right, the knife stood.
He, however, is closer.
The intruder leaps from the sofa and grabs the knife, recovering with a somersault. He doesn’t hesitate before charging at her once more. Panicking, she grabbed the nearest object, an accent table, and chucked it across the room.
"What the-You mad woman!” He curses, clumsily evading the desk. A mad woman? after intruding in her house and assaulting her and her kid? Oh, and she’s the mad one?
A candle from the table, extinguished from the excitement, fell to her feet. The wax was no use, but the holder... She bent to seize it quickly, darting up to meet the blade—
The metal and porcelain clash together. Michaela grits her teeth in effort as the intruder inevitably overpowers her. Quickly, she side steps, letting the man fall into her space; this time, she was to his stomach. With a shout, she swings the holder down to his jaw.
CRACK!
Upon impact, two things are audibly shattered: the holder and a jaw.
For a second, things are still. Michaela drops the crumbling pieces on the floor, bewildered. She didn’t expect the thing to...explode; in fact, she wished it had held on longer.
There’s a gash that stretches from the man’s cheek to his jaw, bleeding profusely and staining the floor. Blue eyes fluttered, brushing away the shock before sliding to meet hers.
Michaela realizes she no longer has a weapon to defend herself.
Oh,” Fu—“ she’s able to grab the man’s wrists before the knife embeds itself in her chest. There’s a period of struggle where they battle for dominance. Michaela could feel muscle veins pop through her skin in her struggle to win the battle; nonetheless, she was just a woman. The man began to gain ground. The knife hunts her. She has no choice but to fiddle back. They flounder down the room until her back strikes the bookshelf. Books rain onto their bodies, the hardcovers' harsh edges drilling painfully into their skin like the knife dangerously close to her chest.
His hulking frame pins her into the wall, and he growls at her continued exertion. “Just…give…up!”
White cloth rips, and the blade penetrates through her undergarments. She couldn’t win the battle; she knows that, but what she can win is the war.
Michaela's lips curl, “Not…happening!” She redirects her effort from pushing the knife back and instead forces it up so that the damage would be a gash instead of a stab wound. She winces as the shirt tears, not because it was cutting her skin, but because this shirt was John’s. God damn it was John's nice shirt! One of her favorites, too.
For a moment, she welcomes the relief of being free from the pointy end and the agitation of John’s ruined shirt until her feet sweep over her head. She yelps in surprise before hitting the ground with a rather brutal slam. The man pinned her before she could notice, taking the opportunity to strike his blade down.
At the very last second, she grips the metal of the blade. Not her smartest move, not at all, but she did anyway. Her lips curled in pain when silver tore through the meat of her palm unforgivably. Blood drips from her hands, falling into her lips and cheeks, and smearing the sleeves of the button-up. She whines at the pain and damage before clenching her jaw, “Who…sent…you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He grunts, word muffled by a swelling jaw.
Michaela glared. She used her free leg to push against the bookshelf to flip their positions. The knife (in the fiasco, the grip was loosened) was pushed forward and out.
Michaela raised a brow, leaning closer until their eyes couldn’t look anywhere but each other. “I like to think it does.”
And yes, she was quite foolish to get close.
He screamed in fury, in nasty irony, Michaela gets a face full of forehead to the nose. She yelps in pain, fighting the instinct to hug her nose.
Their positions fill again, this time the knife is much closer. It takes the vision of her swelling eye. “It won’t when I kill you.”
Michaela grips the blade tighter, arms shaking in an effort to keep her eye intact. And it's fabulous, she’s past the point of pain, the gashes cutting her hands in half would really hurt. She gives a humorless, bloody smile. ”I insist you rethink your decision.”
He doesn’t budge, and the life digs into her cheek.
She spits in his face. What can she say- she's petty even when her life is on the line.
She knows it’s a fruitless endeavor to struggle, but she fights anyway. She couldn’t help the way her eyes teared up from the exhaustion and anger of the moment. She can’t beat this man, but what she can do is not give him the satisfaction of seeing her give up.
So no, won’t beg for her life.
She won’t.
The doors bash open by the force of many shoulders. Immediately, a swarm of bodies floods the office. Michaela doesn't have a chance to shed that tear before the man is tackled from her person.
There’s no relief for her body, only shock that finally hits her after the adrenaline slowly dies.
Her arms fall limply to her side. There’s blood creeping into her eyelids, but she’s too fatigued to wipe the fluid away. When she breathes it with her mouth open, after all, her nose is broken and clogged with blood. Distantly, she’s aware of the situation being handled, but she’s busy staring at the chandelier above her. The ringing in her ear is insistent, nagging…Nauseating.
Two faces are blocking the chandelier. There’s a smaller face, crocodile tears falling into Michaela’s cheek, and another face, older and feminine, matching crocodile tears falling into Michaela’s other cheek. You see, there’s really no difference; they are both crying over her body, but it is not like she died.
She cackles as she closes her eyes.
Ha, she didn’t die.
Pale hands clench as she watches the doctors fuss over the limp figure on the bed, exhausted after hours of screaming and thrashing in her treatment.
Francesca’s rattles of the injuries in her brain like a broken record.
Concussion.
Fractured ribs.
Bruises all over the body.
Black eye.
Swollen jaw.
Broken nose.
Chipped molar.
Possible permanent damage to the eardrum.
Gashes of various degrees:
The incision on her chest was deep; however, it didn’t require stitches. It would scar.
Her hands….
Deeply damaged, stitched, wrapped, closely monitored, and 100%, the scar would not be pretty. She would have to work to regain the mobility she once had.
Her son was not spared.
Traumatized
Broken finger.
A notable cut on his neck.
Bruises and scratches from the fall into the bushes.
And a sprained ankle.
He lies in the small space available in the bed, curled in the corner, fast asleep. She watches his chest rise and fall.
All of this pain. All of this hurt. Under her roof?
No, this wouldn’t do.
She turns her foot and leaves the room.
It took time to prepare everything.
Anthony and Francesca Bridgeton were politely let into Lord Danton’s study. They smiled at the bowing maids before calmly settling into the sofa.
Lord Danton sat across, hardly sparing them a glance as he shuffled through documents on his desk.
Anthony didn’t mind; he had all day. He squared his shoulders with a huff, catching his sister's attention. Francesca set a calming palm on his shoulders. Patience, brother. Her hand said
He is reminded of his shortened fuse and takes a breath,
“May I offer you tea, Viscountess Bridgeton. Lady Kilmartin?” A maid asks. Francesca gives her a short nod, and Anthony thanks her for the kindness. She glances at them in surprise, clearly not used to respect before doing her job.
Lord Danton loudly grunts, setting his papers and reading glasses aside. “And why am I graced with the Bridgeton presence today?”
The maid returns with tea shortly, placing it on the coffee table in front of the Bridgetons. Francesca gives her a grateful smile as Anthony shoos away the maid's hands and pours their own teacups. The maid blushes and steps to the corner of the room.
“Simple business,” Anthony answered as Franscesa sipped on her tea.
“Something that couldn’t be discussed in a letter?” Lord Danton folds his fingers, looking marginally unamused.
“Why yes,” Francesca sets her tea cup down. “Something like sending a hitman for my wife?”
The air is sucked out of the room instantly.
Lord Danton blinks in astonishment before his cheeks flushed in fury. He slams his fist on the desk, rising to his feet. “What wild claims to throw! You Bridgetons and your craze! How dare you say something so absurd under my roof?! I want you gone at once!”
The maids and guards look at each other. They take a step towards the siblings. Anthony raised his hand, and somehow that simple gesture stopped them in their step. He took a sip of his tea before rising to his feet.
Quietly, he strode ahead until he was in front of Lord Danton's desk. The man in front of him was having a tantrum, but Anthony paid him no mind as he looked at the paper that overtook the wood. The documents looked like nothing of importance, Anthony summarized, like the man Lord Danton was.
“Is it such a wild claim you make it out to be when we have direct evidence of your…misdeeds?”
Lord Danton scoffed. He looked around the rooms. “Who would believe such a thing? Do you realize you are under my care, and my servants are under my rule in my house, no? I can have you out of here in seconds.”
Anthony makes a point to look around the room. Everyone seemed too disturbed to make the next move.
His roof, huh? His rule, huh?
And yet no one has pulled them aside yet. Anthony notes they watch (and listen through the walls) with wide eyes and jaws dropped. Their Lord is being accused of crimes, yet no one moves to his defense.
Anthony folded his hands behind his back. “We have your...employee under our care.”
Lord Danton slams his fist on the wood again, and the ink falls and splatters on hours' worth of hard work. With a red face and flared nostrils, he points to the door, “What employee?! Leave-“
“Benjamin Chapman?” A soft voice cuts through his tangent.
Danton turns pale.
Anthony turns to Francesca. She has her head tilted, looking at the ceiling in contemplation.
One look at Lord Danton and Francesca gets her answer. She looks delighted. “Oh, so he was not deceitful, good on him.” Francesca hums.
“Hardly an accomplishment.” Anthony deadpans.
“Leave at once!” Anthony grimaced when he felt spit on his cheek. He gave a man a sideways glance as he wiped the saliva with his sleeve, making sure to create distance between the two.
Having finished her tea, Francesca sets the teacup on the plate. “You can lie all you want, but…-“
Anthony continued, “For his honesty, we allowed his family to receive care from Kilmartin for the rest of our lineage, in contrast to your hefty reward. In addition, he would face some form of mercy from the queen for attacking her trusted pawn.” He taps his fingers on the desk, avoiding the spreading ink.
From under his lashes, he could see the horror dawning on the older man’s face. “You, on the other hand….”
Franca sat firmly in her seat, dusting her dress. She bowed to the maids as she rattled the pain Danton caused. “Broken bones, knife wounds, concussion, so forth...” She pauses after one of her bows, her back to the pair of men. Anthony could see how she wraps her fingers and places them in front of her person, no doubt controlling the fury she must’ve felt.
“…All that pain, yet none of it would amount to the pain and humiliation you will feel under the queen's scrutiny.”
Her shoulders sag as she sighs. She turns to the men, giving Danton a ladylike smile. She strides to the desk until she is beside her eldest brother. “You have thirty seconds before enforcements arrive. Here is a kind word of advice—“
Leaning close to the shell-shocked Lord, she whispers so only the three of them could hear.
“Do not fuck with me.”
The words of poison do not match the gentle face that recedes. Anthony feels a shiver of fear despite not being under scrutiny. Francesca turns her heel and leaves the room.
No one moves.
He licks his lips, “Right.”
“What…” Danton stuttered, “What did you do?”
What did he do? Anthony almost scoffed.
Nothing, that was all him.
Taking a step back, he scrutinizes the man with blatant disgust. What a disgrace for a man. ”Under the permission of the queen, your legacy shall dissolve and be absorbed into the Bridgeton and Kilmartin establishment. How shall you cope, you may ask? Here’s a word of advice—”
He does not smile as he leans in.
“Do not fuck with my family.”