And so she was back in the Marquis’s bedroom. The door slammed shut, the key turned in the lock with a clang. She stood in the middle of the huge, oppressive room, which now felt less like a crypt and more like a trap.

  And at that moment, she was pierced not merely by fear, but by chilling, primal horror.

  No... just not today, the thought flashed through her mind, turning her cold.

  She mentally flipped through the pages of her diary. Today. Today was the most dangerous day of the cycle. Peak fertility. The day when one night spent together had a ninety percent chance of chaining her to this house forever, turning her into an incubator for his progeny. This could not be allowed to happen. Not for anything.

  The time until his arrival spurred her on. Panic whipped her into action. She looked around feverishly. The window? Third floor, night, unfamiliar territory. No way to climb down safely. She needed to come up with something. Fast!

  And then her gaze fell on a small hidden door in the corner of the room. With trembling hands, she fumbled for a hairpin in her hair and picked the lock with ease.

  The door led into the Marquis's small, cramped study. Here books, documents, and the smell of old paper reigned. She tried to exit through the other door, but guards were stationed in the corridor, perfectly covering all exits. Nowhere to run.

  Suddenly her gaze snagged on the study wall. Another portrait hung there. The frame was just as massive and gilded as the one in the bedroom. Same size—one to one.

  Perfect, a practical thought flashed. This will do. I'll just swap them. Let this grim old man stare at him instead of his adored mommy. That will knock the arrogance out of him and spoil his mood.

  She didn't know who it was. She didn't care. The main thing was—he was old, dusty, and looked unpleasant enough to annoy the Marquis.

  A desperate, insane plan ripened in her head. This wasn't strategy; this was a pure, unadulterated act of sabotage. To spite him. To ruin the vibe. In any way possible.

  He said his mother 'sustains' him... I wonder how he'll manage today without her 'support'?

  With this thought, she rushed back into the bedroom, grabbed the huge, heavy portrait of the mother, and with all her might shoved it under the bed. Then she ran into the study, struggled to pull the old man's portrait off the wall, and, panting, dragged it into the bedroom. The painting was incredibly heavy. Clinging to the frame with difficulty, she managed to carefully hang it in the place of the mother's portrait. It took every last ounce of her strength.

  The Marquis still hadn't come. Amelia, feeling her knees begin to tremble, ordered the servants waiting outside the door to bring wine. She sat at a small table, poured herself a glass, but tears continued to roll down her cheeks, mixing with the bitter taste of the wine. She wasn't sure her crazy and ill-conceived idea with the portrait would work. What else could she do to spite this monster?

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The door flew open. The Marquis entered. Without even looking at his wife, he threw out:

  "Undress. Into bed. Quickly."

  This was the last straw. Amelia jumped up.

  "No!" she shouted, feeling rage lend her strength. "You dare not treat me like this! I am a Princess of this kingdom!"

  The Marquis sneered, his gaze cold and haughty.

  "You were a Princess. Now you are a Marchioness. My wife. And your whims no longer interest me."

  Amelia gestured carelessly toward the portrait above the fireplace.

  "I think your mother would not approve of such behavior, Milord!"

  The Marquis's face softened for a moment.

  "My mother was a saintly woman!" he began, notes of strange tenderness flitting through his voice. "She raised me..."

  He turned to the portrait to find support there, and his words cut off. His gaze fixed on the painting, and pure, absolute horror bloomed in his eyes. He went pale. A tremor ran through his body.

  "What... what is this?!" he rasped, stuttering, pointing a shaking hand. "What did you do?! Where is my mother's portrait?! Why is 'IT' here?!"

  Instead of being frightened by his anger, Amelia felt a surge of power. She decided he was afraid for the safety of the valuable painting. She took a step toward him.

  "I will not tolerate such treatment, Milord," her voice became cold and firm. "If you do not want anything to happen to this... masterpiece... you will have to be a more... affectionate husband."

  The Marquis tried to collect himself.

  "It was the only original painted during her lifetime! You... you can do nothing! From this room..."

  But then his gaze snagged on the portrait again. The angry old man in the painting seemed to be looking straight at him. At that same moment, Amelia ostensibly accidentally knocked over the goblet on the table. It fell, and wine spilled across the surface, staining the handkerchief she used to wipe her tears scarlet.

  "Oh, how clumsy of me... Perhaps something similar might happen to the portrait... Completely by accident," Amelia commented, looking at the stain.

  "Ab-so-lute-ly acc-i-dent-al-ly," she pronounced syllable by syllable.

  Garrick Hawke turned sharply pale. His eyes, filled with primal terror, darted from the painting to the bloody stain, from the stain to Amelia. He clutched at his heart.

  Amelia didn't notice this. She continued pacing the room with a satisfied smile, listing all the possible "accidents" that could befall the portrait.

  "It could 'accidentally' tear... or 'accidentally' burn... or ink could 'accidentally' spill on it..."

  Only when complete silence reigned in the room and no one objected to her fantasies did she turn around. The Marquis's face was twisted in a grimace of pain. He began to gasp, clutching at the air with his mouth. In the same second, he collapsed to the floor, curled up and clutching his chest. He was motionless.

  Amelia stood looking at her husband's body and couldn't believe her eyes.

  "Hey..." she called softly. "Did you... die?"

  No answer followed.

  Amelia rushed to the door, screaming for the guards. The arrived doctor merely shook his head. Heart attack. Death.

  In the bustle of funeral preparations, Amelia, still in a state of shock, overheard a conversation between maids.

  "...and why on earth did they move the old Marquis's portrait into the bedroom?" one whispered. "He didn't dare breathe in his father's presence!"

  "Oh yes!" the other chimed in. "The old Marquis was a despot; they say he beat all his children, but took his anger out on his son more often than the others, demanding the impossible. They say the Marquis hung his father's portrait in the study on purpose, so he would constantly 'motivate' him to work and not let him relax. He was scared to death of him!"

  Amelia froze. She slowly digested what she had heard. Turns out, she wasn't as cunning and smart as she thought. It wasn't senile dementia. It was a deeply rooted terror that she, without knowing it, had utilized. She had accidentally stumbled upon her husband's sorest spot, his deepest fear. And she had simply been incredibly lucky.

  Well then, that happens too, she thought with relief, raising her eyes to the sky. What do they say in such cases? Thank you, Universe.