Wicked Husband-Chapter 169 - 168

Count Bonaparte had willingly supported the plan. If everything had gone as intended, Eileen Elrod would have been tried for drug-related offenses, and with enough pressure from the nobility, she would have swiftly met her end at the guillotine.

But why had they chosen Eileen Elrod in the first place?

Bonaparte strained to recall, but he had simply followed orders. He had never questioned why she had been selected. At the time, he had thought it would be amusing to see her on the scaffold.

His mind went blank, cold sweat dripping down his back. The Grand Duke was waiting. If he failed to provide a meaningful answer, he would be in grave danger. Desperately scrambling through his memories, he unearthed a faint fragment of an old conversation.

"I-I heard someone... someone who knew Your Grace well, brought up Lady Elrod’s name. I don’t know who they were—only that they were a highly ranked individual..."

"Count, you too occupy a high rank."

The Grand Duke’s pointed remark made Bonaparte flinch. It was true; few outranked him, and narrowing the suspects wasn’t difficult. But instead of acknowledging it, the Count forced a nervous laugh.

The Grand Duke frowned slightly, murmuring something cryptic.

"Even at this height, there’s further to go."

Bonaparte anxiously studied the Grand Duke’s face. He had been prepared to plead his innocence regarding the recent assassination attempt, hoping to explain himself and beg for mercy. But the Grand Duke seemed wholly uninterested in the shooting. His only concern was Kalpen, as if that had been his goal all along.

Why was the Grand Duke fixated on a kingdom long erased from history? Bonaparte shivered as a strange unease crept over him.

He gathered his courage and tried to speak.

"Your Grace..."

As he opened his mouth to bring up the assassination attempt, his gaze shifted to the Grand Duke’s shoulder. Instead of his usual military uniform, the Grand Duke wore a perfectly tailored suit, as though to conceal any bandages or injuries. The fabric lay smooth and unwrinkled, as if he hadn’t been wounded at all.

Bonaparte suddenly recalled how naturally the Grand Duke had moved. There had been no stiffness, no sign of a man who had recently survived a gunshot wound to the shoulder.

It was impossible.

Even if time had passed, no one could recover so completely as to move this freely. Bonaparte’s lips trembled as the pieces began to fall into place.

"Your shoulder..."

The Grand Duke’s eyes, previously cast downward in thought, lifted to meet Bonaparte’s. The reflection of his own terrified face in the crimson irises sent chills down his spine.

Instinctively, the words escaped his lips.

"Your shoulder... is it... healed?"

The realization hit him as soon as he spoke. The Grand Duke, who was supposed to be recovering in the palace, had no reason to be here unless he had intended for this all along.

"Thanks to your concern."

The Grand Duke extended his hand. From behind, one of his knights approached and respectfully placed a pistol in it. The sharp click of the chamber being loaded echoed ominously.

"I’ve made a full recovery, Count," the Grand Duke remarked casually, gripping the weapon with long, steady fingers.

Staring at the black barrel now aimed at him, Bonaparte lost control, soiling himself as he trembled. Before the stench could spread, a single gunshot reverberated through the dungeon.

***

Eileen had spent hours monitoring Countess Domenico’s condition. Fortunately, the Morpheus dose had worked; the Countess had finally fallen into a peaceful sleep, free from the groans of pain that had plagued her for so long.

The Count, watching his wife sleep without discomfort for the first time in years, broke into sobs. He tried to suppress the noise, afraid to disturb her.

"I’ve started preparing for the funeral," the Count said later, escorting Eileen out, his eyes red and swollen. It was painfully obvious to all, even to a child, that the Countess was nearing the end. Both she and her husband had long accepted this truth.

"At least she can be comfortable until her final moments... That’s a great solace. Thank you, truly."

The Count repeated his gratitude, promising to formally thank Eileen later. Struggling to find the right words, Eileen offered a few clumsy attempts at comfort before returning to the Grand Duke’s residence.

The Count’s mention of funeral preparations weighed heavily on her. It reminded her of her mother’s death—a funeral filled with her mother’s favorite lilies, an extravagant display made possible only through Cesare’s assistance.

What was supposed to have been a modest ceremony, attended only by Eileen and her father, had turned into a grand affair, thanks to Cesare and his soldiers.

She had always wanted to repay his kindness, but when his parents passed, she had been unable to do anything.

When Cesare’s mother died, Eileen had been too young, and he hadn’t even told her until much later. And when the late Emperor, Cesare’s father, passed, the state funeral was far beyond Eileen’s involvement.

She hadn’t seen him during the national mourning period, as Cesare had been consumed by the political chaos of the imperial succession. Then came the civil war between the princes, which only widened the gap between them.

Memories of Cesare were mostly from her childhood, a time when their connection had been strongest.

Thinking of those times, Eileen also recalled her father, Baron Elrod. Since Cesare had confined him to a distant estate, she hadn’t seen him. Though she had written a few letters, they had gone unanswered.

Even so, her father was still her father. She felt she should check on him, at the very least.

"I should visit him... to see how he’s doing."

As the thought crossed her mind, her hand instinctively brushed against her face. She no longer hid behind glasses or bangs, and the openness felt natural now.

The world had changed so much, and though she sometimes felt afraid, she knew she could never go back to the past. Living by Cesare’s side had become her reality.

It was as she entered her bedroom that a low voice greeted her.

"You’re late, Eileen."

Cesare was waiting for her, reeking of smoke and blood.

***