"Crap," Mae muttered, and the word was laced with venom. It wasn't just a curse—it was her shield. The only way to mask the storm swelling inside her chest. The man sitting before her, regal and composed, had the same eyes, the same jawline, the same calm silence as her father. The resemblance hit her like a punch to the gut, and the only thing she could do was spit out something hateful to keep herself from falling apart.
Her teeth clenched tightly as she hissed toward Lora, "You brought me here to see this man?"
Her voice cracked, and she looked away quickly, blinking fast, trying to stop the sting rising behind her eyes. Her throat tightened like a rope was coiling around it, and her hands trembled at her sides. She couldn't fall apart now.
"Miss, you don't speak about the Grand Duke like that," Lora said in a low, warning voice.
"Grand Duke or not, I want to leave. You don't just kidnap people from their homes—especially not with that much arrogance and expect it to be fine." Mae's voice rose, shaky but fierce, as her eyes flicked to Lawrence. He hadn't moved from his throne-like seat, one leg crossed over the other, calmly watching her meltdown like it was all a mild amusement.
It made her blood boil. Why does he have to look so much like him? Why does it feel more horrifying than the blade to my throat that night? she thought. The urge to cry surged in her chest, but she bit down on it hard
Only minutes ago, her jaw had nearly dropped in awe at the sheer grandeur of the palace they'd entered. The endless green lawns, the marble fountains, the vast gardens curling around ponds, and the interior that felt like it belonged in a fantasy drama—gold-gilded walls, plush furniture, and pillows that actually had stuffing in them, not straw.
But now? Mae would have traded all of that luxury to be back on her crinkly, uncomfortable straw bed in the corner of a roadside tent—just to be far away from that face.
"You know what? I'm leaving. I will not stay here a second longer," she said, spinning around on her heel.
Two guards stood at the doorway, towering and armed, their spears gleaming in the light. One tilt of those blades and she could be done for. Still, she moved toward them.
"No one leaves this palace until I allow it," Lawrence said.
His voice wasn't loud, but it boomed across the marble floor like a command etched in iron.
Mae froze mid-step, her breathing ragged. She turned slowly, her chest rising and falling too fast now. "Well, you don't bring people in here without their consent either," she snapped. "And two—I feel like I'm suffocating!" Her voice cracked again, and this time she didn't try to hide it. "I might actually die if I keep seeing your face. Pardon me if that offends you—but I mean it."
She clutched her chest, gasping slightly as the pressure tightened around her ribs, her vision swimming for a moment. It wasn't just the rage. It wasn't just the fear.
It was heartbreak—old, buried deep. The face of a father long gone, now staring back at her from a throne in a place she didn't understand.
"Crap," Mae muttered, and the word was laced with venom. It wasn't just a curse—it was her shield. The only way to mask the storm swelling inside her chest. The man sitting before her, regal and composed, had the same eyes, the same jawline, the same calm silence as her father. The resemblance hit her like a punch to the gut, and the only thing she could do was spit out something hateful to keep herself from falling apart.
Her teeth clenched tightly as she hissed toward Lora, "You brought me here to see this man?"
Her voice cracked, and she looked away quickly, blinking fast, trying to stop the sting rising behind her eyes. Her throat tightened like a rope was coiling around it, and her hands trembled at her sides. She couldn't fall apart now.
"Miss, you don't speak about the Grand Duke like that," Lora said in a low, warning voice.
"Grand Duke or not, I want to leave. You don't just kidnap people from their homes—especially not with that much arrogance and expect it to be fine." Mae's voice rose, shaky but fierce, as her eyes flicked to Lawrence. He hadn't moved from his throne-like seat, one leg crossed over the other, calmly watching her meltdown like it was all a mild amusement.
It made her blood boil. Why does he have to look so much like him? Why does it feel more horrifying than the blade to my throat that night? she thought. The urge to cry surged in her chest, but she bit down on it hard.
Only minutes ago, her jaw had nearly dropped in awe at the sheer grandeur of the palace they'd entered. The endless green lawns, the marble fountains, the vast gardens curling around ponds, and the interior that felt like it belonged in a fantasy drama—gold-gilded walls, plush furniture, and pillows that actually had stuffing in them, not straw.
But now? Mae would have traded all of that luxury to be back on her crinkly, uncomfortable straw bed in the corner of a roadside tent—just to be far away from that face.
"You know what? I'm leaving. I will not stay here a second longer," she said, spinning around on her heel.
Two guards stood at the doorway, towering and armed, their spears gleaming in the light. One tilt of those blades and she could be done for. Still, she moved toward them.
"No one leaves this palace until I allow it," Lawrence said.
His voice wasn't loud, but it boomed across the marble floor like a command etched in iron.
Mae froze mid-step, her breathing ragged. She turned slowly, her chest rising and falling too fast now. "Well, you don't bring people in here without their consent either," she snapped. "And two—I feel like I'm suffocating!" Her voice cracked again, and this time she didn't try to hide it. "I might actually die if I keep seeing your face. Pardon me if that offends you—but I mean it."
She clutched her chest, gasping slightly as the pressure tightened around her ribs, her vision swimming for a moment. It wasn't just the rage. It wasn't just the fear.
It was heartbreak—old, buried deep. The face of a father long gone, now staring back at her from a throne in a place she didn't understand.
"Call the physician!" Lawrence ordered, his voice firm but not panicked.
Lora didn't wait—she rushed out of the room in an instant after catching the way Mae's face had drained of color. She had seen enough. Mae looked like she was going to collapse any second.
Lawrence stepped down from his elevated seat, his boots tapping softly against the marble floor. He moved toward her slowly, deliberately, like approaching a frightened creature ready to bolt.
Mae instinctively pulled back, her hand rising between them like a weak shield. "Please," she said, breath trembling. "Don't."
He didn't stop, but his steps slowed even more. "You called me 'father' that day," he said, his voice calm, low. "Now you can't stand to look at me?"
"That… was a mistake." Her voice cracked, but she didn't break.
She swallowed hard and wiped the back of her sleeve across her face, even though no tears had fallen yet. "But right now, all I see is a person who looks like him. Exactly like him. And I can't take it. I see my father for the first time in five damn years—and then I find out he's not real. Just a copy. Just a face. You're not him. You're some… tyrant, who kidnaps people and drags them from one world to another like it means nothing. And you—" she paused to steady herself. "You talk to me like I'm some… insect under your boot."
Her hands were clenched into fists now. The trembling had worsened.
"I can't take it," she said again, voice rising in pitch. "Not when I've already been hanging on by a thread these last few days. I'm trying, alright? Trying not to fall apart. I've been distracting myself with anything—because if I let my mind settle for even a second, I'll remember everything I've lost. Everything that's happened. And I don't know if I'll come back from that."
She took a shaky breath, looking directly at him now. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she didn't let a single one fall.
"So please," she whispered. "Don't add to it. Don't stand there with that face and act like you don't see what it's doing to me. I am begging you. Please let me go."
Her voice broke on that last word. Not from weakness—but from sheer exhaustion.
At that, Lawrence finally stopped. He looked at her a moment longer—his eyes unreadable, flickering with something Mae couldn't quite name—then stepped back.
"I can't take away your discomfort," he said quietly, "but what I can do is arrange for you to stay in the west wing. You'll have privacy. Peace."
Mae blinked, frowning in confusion. "Why would I need to stay here at all? I don't see a reason. I just want to go back."
Lawrence didn't respond right away. Then, carefully, as if choosing each word, he said, "Miss Mae- You havenowhere to return to as we know that I am your best option right now." he said slowly as if putting a bait.
"I need you to do something for me. In return, ask for anything—land, gold, protection—it will be yours."
Mae crossed her arms, uneasy. She didn't like the tone of that bargain, especially not with the look in his eyes. There was weight behind it. And pressure.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice flat.
"I need you to act as Marianne. Until she wakes up."
Those words struck her like a slap.
Mae's eyes widened. "Until she wakes up?" she echoed. "What happened to her?"
"She was attacked," Lawrence said, his voice low. "She's alive, but unconscious. We don't know when—if—she'll wake. So I understand your emotions. Not completely, but… to some extent. Because you remind me of her. My daughter."
He paused, rubbing his jaw, before adding, "And I am managing my emotions because I have to. Because I must run a dukedom. And for that—I need your help."
Mae stared at him, heart thudding.
"In return, I promise you won't have to see me again. I'll pay you well enough that when this is over, you can live like royalty. Like a queen, if that's what you want."
Mae drew in a shaky breath, then let it out slowly. Her thoughts raced—this wasn't something she could agree to lightly.
"I can't give you an answer now," she finally said. "This… isn't just a job. It's my life we're talking about."
Lawrence gave a single nod. "I understand. But I need your answer to be yes, Mae. I don't have time. The Crown Prince is headed to Characot soon, and when he arrives, he'll expect to see his fiancée. That fiancée can't be the one lying in a coma."
His eyes narrowed slightly—not w
ith malice, but pressure. Duty.
"If you choose to accept," he added, "you don't have to tell me in person. Write to me if you prefer. I'll have the maids take you to your room now. Rest."
Then, without waiting for another word, he turned his back to her—deliberately. As if he couldn't afford to let her see his face again.