MLS Chapter 15
by Brie“Why… why are you doing this…?”
Lorena’s trembling voice cracked under the weight of terror and disbelief. Her struggling grew weaker as the overwhelming strength of the man before her—her husband, Vaye Levantes—pinned her down mercilessly.
Her dress clung to her damp, trembling frame, soaked with blood, ink, and tears. The oppressive weight of his body, combined with his unyielding grip, made her feel like a bird with its wings torn apart, incapable of flight or escape.
“Why…?”
Her question hung in the air, unanswered.
Vaye’s violet eyes, gleaming with a feral intensity, bore into hers, unrelenting. He appeared less like a man and more like a beast driven by something dark and incomprehensible. His lips twisted into a smirk that seemed to mock her every word, every breath.
“You don’t get to ask that,” he hissed, his voice low and venomous.
Lorena’s chest heaved as she struggled for air, panic clawing at her insides. Every fiber of her being screamed to fight back, to resist, but the disparity in strength was insurmountable.
“Let go of me!”
She cried, thrashing as violently as she could muster, her nails scraping against his arms in a desperate bid to free herself.
But Vaye didn’t budge. His large, calloused hands roamed with brutal purpose, their touch devoid of gentleness or remorse. The fabric of her chemise stretched to its limit, a metaphor for her fraying sense of reality.
“Stop it! Please!”
She screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of despair.
But her cries seemed to fall on deaf ears, swallowed by the storm raging outside the mansion and the storm of cruelty consuming the man before her.
This wasn’t the man she had once called her husband.
This was a monster.
Her vision blurred as tears spilled uncontrollably down her cheeks, mixing with the blood and ink staining her skin. Every ounce of her strength poured into her resistance, but it was futile.
Vaye leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, his words a chilling whisper that sent shivers down her spine.
“You belong to me, Lorena. No matter how far you run, no matter what schemes you plan—remember this.”
His words were laced with a twisted sense of ownership, each syllable cutting into her like a blade.
Lorena’s lips trembled, her voice barely above a whisper as she choked out.
“I hate you…”
Vaye froze for the briefest of moments, his eyes narrowing, the smirk on his face fading into something darker, more menacing.
“Good,” he finally said, his voice as cold as ice.
“Hate me all you want. It won’t change anything.”
The storm outside mirrored the chaos within the room, the howling wind and relentless rain a backdrop to the nightmare unfolding within.
Lorena collapsed onto the bed, her body trembling uncontrollably. The overwhelming silence that followed Vaye’s storm-like departure weighed heavily in the room, pressing down on her chest like a lead blanket. Her breaths came in shallow, jagged gasps as she struggled to gather her scattered thoughts.
Her tears fell freely, soaking the tangle of sheets beneath her. The icy chill of the night seeped into her skin, making her shiver. She pulled the crumpled sheets around herself, but they did little to shield her from the bitter cold—or the remnants of his touch.
<Why… why does he hate me so much?>
Her voice cracked as she whispered the question into the oppressive darkness.
She had spent seven long years walking on eggshells, trying to be the perfect wife, the perfect duchess. She had obeyed his unspoken commands, endured his indifference, and swallowed the humiliation of his affairs. And yet, she had never once done anything to warrant this level of contempt.
<What have I done to deserve this?>
The echo of her question was met with silence, the kind that stung more than any spoken word.
Her memories of Vaye from the early days of their marriage felt like fragments of a distant dream, hazy and unreal. The cold, unyielding man who had stormed out of the room moments ago bore no resemblance to the composed, regal figure she had once believed she had married.
‘He called me a parasite… blamed me for corrupting his mind…’
Her hands trembled as she clutched at the sheets, her nails digging into the fabric.
No. She couldn’t let herself spiral into despair. Not again. This wasn’t the time for weakness. Vaye’s madness, his unwarranted fury—it wasn’t hers to carry.
‘If he wants to destroy me, then he should be prepared to fall with me.’
Her green eyes, still brimming with unshed tears, hardened with resolve. She would not cower in the shadows of his wrath any longer. If he wanted a fight, she would give him one.
Lorena’s breath hitched, rising to her throat. She struggled to recall the rhythm of the tapping on her hand.
<Breathe with the count. Slowly, calmly.>
Her brain, starved of oxygen, spun with dizziness, and her limbs tingled with numbness. It was suffocating, like being trapped in a vacuum.
“Haa, haa, haa…”
She clasped her hands over her mouth and nose, forcing herself to count the rhythm she had memorized. Only after several painstaking moments did her breathing begin to stabilize. The tears followed, streaming uncontrollably as relief washed over her.
Lorena buried her face into the crumpled sheets of the bed, her shoulders heaving with every sob. Pale light from the early morning crept into the room. Somewhere in the background, the relentless hammering of rain on the world outside had finally eased.
The world had returned to a tranquil stillness, but only Lorena remained in turmoil. There was no space in her chaotic mind to calmly plan her next move. To pursue a proper process for divorce?
No, she couldn’t stay in this house with that man any longer.
* * *
At the break of dawn, Lorena, still in her crumpled nightgown, rushed straight to the Motrel Police Department.
A policeman who recognized her greeted her politely.
“Good morning, Señora. What brings you here at such an early hour?”
“To file… a report,” she replied, her voice unsteady.
“Pardon me?”
“I want to press charges. For assault.”
The officer’s friendly expression instantly disappeared.
“Who has harmed you, Señora?”
“No. It’s the Duke of Levantes.”
“What?!”
Gasps erupted from the other officers nearby, who had been discreetly listening. The idea of the Duke harming his own wife was unthinkable.
“Señora, surely there must be some kind of misunderstanding—”
But what happened next caught everyone entirely off guard.
Lorena yanked off her shawl with both hands, casting it aside. The pale fabric of her nightwear, stained with streaks of dried blood, lay bare before their eyes.
Without pausing for breath, she confessed in a voice steady with resolve.
“I stabbed my husband. I request immediate protective custody.”
* * *
Duchess of Levantes, Surrenders After Stabbing the Duke!
A single headline was all it took to throw the entirety of Motrel into chaos.
Before the police could even reach the Levantes estate, the Duke’s sleek black sedan had already come to a screeching halt in front of the police headquarters. Yet, even faster than the authorities were the gossip-hungry newspapers of Bessen, ready to pounce.
The moment the Duke stepped out of his car, a swarm of reporters descended upon him like vultures.
“Is it true, Your Grace?”
“Are you injured? The Duchess claims to have stabbed you—what happened between the two of you last night?”
Under normal circumstances, the Duke would have ensured no journalist got within three steps of him, his presence shielded by strict prior arrangements. The lack of such precautions today signaled one thing: this incident had blindsided him completely, erupting so swiftly that he couldn’t even control the narrative or contain the public spectacle.
Without uttering a single word, the Duke strode into the police station, his face a mask of icy composure. Behind him, his aides and bodyguards formed a human barricade, desperately trying to fend off the relentless reporters.
“There is no scandal within the Levantes family!” one of the aides barked. “A formal statement addressing the Duchess’s position will be released soon. For now, we ask that you all step back!”
* * *
“Thank you for your concern. This is entirely my oversight,” Vaye said as he stepped into the Chief’s office and extended a hand for a firm handshake. Like most relationships between Bessen’s high nobles and public officials, theirs went back quite a ways.
“There was a small misunderstanding with my wife. I apologize for the trouble it caused.”
“Well, I must say, Your Grace, that was quite a noisy quarrel for a simple misunderstanding. I was utterly taken aback so early in the morning,” the Chief replied, shaking his head with a hearty laugh.
“My apologies again,” Vaye said, bowing his head slightly.
The Chief waved it off with a smile.
“It’s not every day I get an apology from someone like you, Your Grace. No need to take it so seriously. These things happen, even in the best of households. I’m only concerned about the Duchess. She seemed rather… unsteady.”
“Was she crying?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that.”
The Chief shook his head again.
“But her eyes—they seemed unusually sharp, if that makes sense.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, when you’ve been in this line of work as long as I have, you get a knack for reading people’s eyes. You can tell who’s already done something, who’s about to, and who might still have a chance for remorse. Of course, I don’t mean to suggest anything about the Duchess specifically.”
“….”
“If you ever need assistance, please don’t hesitate to reach out. We’ll remain at your service.”
A perfectly calculated smile spread across Vaye’s face. In just a few hours, he had regained the impenetrable composure he was known for.
“Of course. I’ll be sure to call on you.”