This story has taken almost two years to complete and has gone through several revisions and edits; I can only hope that this final product makes sense, isn’t too boring or wordy, and that folks enjoy it.
The premise is simple: What if Maxwell is MC’s husband when Barthelemy invokes the Coventus Noblis? It’s a slap in the face regardless of who your chosen LI is, but it’s got to hit differently when it’s your father declaring you incompetent and kidnapping your child.
Also, I head canon Maxwell differently than most, and especially PB; I don’t see him as the Court Jester, but rather the guy who uses humor and feigns ignorance to deflect attention away from himself, particularly when he was younger and chubbier. He’d rather make you laugh than be laughed at.
THANK YOU to all who read over pieces and parts of this fic.
THANK YOU to all who will read it; your comments, likes, and reblogs are appreciated far more than you know.
Please forgive any and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical mistakes. Word Editor only gave me 92% this time around.
All characters belong to Pixelberry. (Rebecca McKenzie is from PB’s Most Wanted)
The prisoner sits on the side of the unmade cot, his hair wet; a damp towel is slung loosely about his waist. His feet are pushed into worn bedroom slippers. With a sigh, he rises stiffly from sheets and mattress, slowly making his way to the mirror; he frowns at his reflection. The hot water and steam have done little to mask the fact he slept poorly the night before.
And the nights before that.
He picks up a comb and begins to pull from front to back, the teeth leaving behind lines throughout his thick brown locks. The silence is a tad too tense to be soothing as he awaits his visitor. His head lifts almost eagerly at the soft shuffling of her house slippers against the stone floor.
There is a clanking of keys before she rolls the breakfast trolley into the cell; she nods gratefully to the guard. Her smell seeps into the dank prison, filling his nostrils with aromas of sleep, neroli, and rosewater. He inhales greedily as their eyes meet in the mirror, but it’s her mouth that he focuses on; the plump pink of her lips currently curved upward in a soft smile. He flashes her his signature grin in return before asking, “Annabelle?” in a hopeful voice.
His wife begins lifting silver cloches before preparing mugs of coffee. “Brought to me last night, just as we were promised. She has a bad case of croup, and a slight fever. I gave her some of the elixir the doctor prescribed, and she’s been asleep since.”
Worry fills his sapphire-blue eyes. “How bad? How long has she been sick?” His body turns so he is facing the Duchess of Valtoria; his lower back presses against the metal basin, a narrow hip jutted to the left. He outstretches his arms, fingers beckoning his wife to him.
Riley leaves the cart to step into Maxwell’s waiting embrace. “Shush,” she soothes. “She’ll be fine. I promise.”
Maxwell shifts uncomfortably at the thought of his baby daughter being ill, at being powerless in the situation … but he recovers quickly. “Well, you haven’t broken a promise yet,” he quips.
Riley kisses him deeply yet briefly, her tongue rolling against his before pulling away to pour them both cups of coffee. “And I never will,” she vows.
Barthelemy Beaumont sat behind his mahogany desk, the lamplight dispelling only a few of the study’s shadows brought on by dusk; his steely gray eyes glared at his visitor in disdain. Unperturbed, the visitor returned the gaze with unwavering eyes. With a sinister smirk, the elder Beaumont pushed his chair closer to the bureau and placed the heels of his hands on polished wood before steepling his fingers.
“You didn’t disappoint,” he observed. “I knew someonewould show up, pleading that jackass’ case.”
“You took away his child. You broke up his family. You went too far, too quickly.”
“Iam King Regent, in addition to being his parent. He put hands on me in violence; that is treason, and punishable by death.”
The visitor raised an eyebrow as a sardonic giggle escaped their throat. “He kicked.your.ass. and the entire country knows it.” A pause. “How’s your nose?” Sarcasm infused their tone.
Barthelemy’s face hardened; when he spoke, his tone was cold. “He BROKE IT! It’s still healing. And you’d best remember that youneedme and show both restraint and respect when addressing me.”
The visitor’s hand slipped inside their pocket. “I’m here to neither grovel nor apologize. I amhere for the child and to demand the release of Duke Beaumont.” The hand came back into view; it held a pistol. “Or you die tonight. Your choice.”
The meal between the couple is quiet; Maxwell isn’t hungry, but Riley convinces him to drink some coffee, and nibble on toast and fruit. His blue eyes, filled with questions and uncertainty, search her brown ones. She frowns slightly.
“What?” she asks as she pulls her fingers through her chestnut-colored mane.
She knows the question he’s going to ask, and she doesn’t have a definitive answer.
“What’s going to happen today?” His voice is soft, yet firm. He has neither fear nor remorse for his actions.
Riley lowers her gaze, blinking rapidly to stop the fall of tears. “I don’t know,” she replies quietly.
He reaches for her hand and their fingers intertwine. “I wish Belle could’ve come to breakfast.” His voice breaks slightly.
Riley nods. “Me too, but she would only be fussy and cranky.” She pauses to lift his hand to her lips, kissing the Duke’s knuckles. “Belle knows we love her more than everything.”
Maxwell nods in agreement.
Riley looks around, almost furtively. “I’m not even supposed to be down here.” Her eyes dart about the cell before squeezing her husband’s hand a little harder. “You’ll see her later this morning.”
With his free hand, Maxwell lifts his coffee mug, or so he thinks. He grimaces at the sweetness and creaminess of the beverage: He’s gotten his wife’s mug. “How do you drink this stuff?” he complains.
Riley laughs softly as she reaches for her cup, but Maxwell lifts it into the air and out of her reach. “I like it,” he says softly before leaning in for a kiss. Clumsily, he sets the coffee cup back onto the breakfast cart, where it sits precariously on the edge of the metal tray.
Their lips meet, tongues greeting each other as if they had been separated for a lifetime. Noses bump, teeth scrape against the other’s; hands and fingers fall in hair, roam across backs, ghost planes and curves.
Breath, hot and harsh, whispers against skin.
He sighs when her nails rake across his back; she whimpers when the pads of his fingers splay across a silk-covered breast and begin to knead the pliant flesh. Maxwell slowly, gently leans Riley back against the cot’s mattress, angling his body above hers as his knee pushes her thighs apart.
The clinking of keys stops them. The only guard they can trust has returned. Reluctantly they pull apart, the Duchess not bothering to straighten her hair. She sits upright, placing her palms against her husband’s cheeks; the kiss she presses against his lips is hard, swift.
Fierce.
She stands, gathering mugs and saucers to stack onto the trolley. When the guard arrives at the cell doors, Riley gives them a quick nod and walks out, pushing the cart before her.
Barthelemy sneered at his visitor, “Put that away before you get hurt.”
“Methinks you’ll be the injured party here, Your Lordship.” The visitor’s voice is calm, collected; their gloved hand keeps the pistol trained on Barthelemy’s chest.
“You do realize there are cameras? That you have been filmed entering the property?”
A shrug. “I’ll take my chances.” No need in alerting the noble that his surveillance system had been disabled the night before because his Chief of Security had been bought off.
The visitor’s eyes took in every nuance of the King Regent’s movements; they narrowed when one of Barthelemy’s hands began to slide down the table, towards a desk drawer. With a lightning quick move, the visitor’s free hand shot up, holding a jeweled dagger.
By the time the elder Beaumont registered what was happening, the dagger was embedded in the back of his hand, pinning him to the desk’s top. Blood, thick and hot, spurted from the puncture. Barthelemy’s eyes widened with pain and surprise as a primal scream ripped from his throat.
His guest sat back in the leather armchair. “I wouldn’t make any sudden moves if I were you,” they warned.
Riley sits in the rear of the black, bulletproof limousine carrying her, her child, and the country’s King; they’re headed to Duchy Valtoria, her newfound Cordonian home, generously bestowed upon her by the man whose marriage proposal she rejected.
The man seated next to her.
They were following an armored truck with no back windows; inside the truck was Maxwell, handcuffed and shackled.
Her choice of outfit looks deliberate but has been haphazardly thrown together: ankle-length black skirt, sheer black blouse, and a pearl-studded black cardigan. Ivory-colored heels shod her feet. She feels as if she’s dressed for a funeral.
Or a death sentence.
Her head is bent as she smiles down at her 18-month-old daughter. Annabelle’s cheeks aren’t as flushed as they were when she was returned to her mother last night; the cold syrup must be working. Riley’s daughter is still sleepy, the lids over her blue eyes … her father’s eyes … drooping. Her chubby hands are fisting her mother’s clothing. Her chestnut curls, which had been neatly brushed back when the trio entered the car, were now springing riotously from her tiny scalp.
“He’ll be unshackled once we reach Valtoria?” Riley asked Liam in a hushed tone.
The monarch nods. It is a question she has asked daily since the new Duke had been carried away in shackles that fateful evening. “You will walk into the Council Chamber as a family,” he reassures her.
Riley stares at the man who had offered her both his heart and his country. She wonders what would have happened if she had said yes to him instead of the 6’2” man-child who had captured her heart.
Nothing.
Maxwell had won her over long before Liam had even thought to propose. It was Maxwell who invited her along on an adventure, it was Maxwell who woke her in the mornings and guided her through her days. It was Maxwell she had fallen in love with, and the young Duchess often wondered how she ended up with a monarch of a different sort: The King of the Breakdance.
And then she wondered why she hadn’t fallen sooner.
Cordonia had expected the suitor from America to marry Liam; hell, Liam expected Riley to marry him. But stolen moments weren’t enough to hold her attention or fill her heart. Whatever she and Liam had and could build upon would have to be done in secrecy, as evidenced by their first dance.
If not Liam, Drake Walker was the obvious choice: They spent time together, he was there for her whenever she needed him, and the Commoner had taken a bullet for her. Yes, Drake Walker would have been the perfect choice.
But what people failed to realize was that Maxwell had been there for Riley as well, and from the very beginning: If it weren’t for Maxwell, Riley would still be in Brooklyn. Maxwell’s was the first face she saw every morning. Maxwell was the one who worked with Bastien to track down Tariq. Maxwell was the one who told her to follow her heart, not knowing he already held it in the palm of his hand.
Liam’s voice, soft and sympathetic, speaks into her ear. “Your Grace, we’ve almost arrived.”
Roused from her thoughts, Riley turns her face towards his and nods stiffly as she pulls her daughter closer to her bosom.
“YouIMBECILE!” Barthelemy howled in rage and agony, his eyes slitted as he locked gazes with the person on the other side of the desk. “My guards shall execute you upon sight!”
A knowing smirk curved the visitor’s lips. “Where are your guards? I’ve been here over 20 minutes, stabbed you, and pulled a gun. Yet, we’re still all alone …”
Though fogged with pain, the elder man’s eyes gleamed dully with realization. “What … what … where are they?” he sputtered.
His guest settled back in their chair, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. “You really should pay your people more money, Bart,” they advised in a jovial tone.
“YOU.WILL.PAY.FOR.THIS!” Barthelemy hissed through gritted teeth.
“Where’s the child?” The guest leaned forward in their seat ever-so-slightly.
“I’ll never tell you!” The Beaumont’s face was twisted in pain.
“It’s in your best interest,” the visitor replied, their eyes steely with resolve.
“You’ll kill me either way. I have no incentive,” Barthelemy countered.
The caller nodded slowly as they lowered their weapon. Their eyes contemplated the firearm, waiting to feel remorse, guilt, a sudden benevolence that would make them abandon their mission.
There was nothing but a burning need to end the circle of betrayal caused by the man seated across from them.
“You’re right. You don’t.” The gun raised again, quickly, and two shots rang out in rapid succession.
Barthelemy’s upper body jerked erratically before he slumped over the desk, dead. His pale gray eyes stared unseeingly at the blood-stained desk.
The visitor rose, eyes quickly traveling over the room, searching for signs that they had been there. There were none. Their eyes fell upon the corpse. “Fortunately, I know my way around,” they said before leaving the room, shutting the door quietly behind them.
In the armored van, Maxwell Beaumont sits in the back seat, staring out the windshield through the caged gate separating him from the driver. His ankles are shackled, and handcuffs encircle his wrists. He is incongruously dressed in his electric blue squid suit, the last outfit he was wearing before being hauled off to the cells at the Palace.
Sparkling chandelier lights shone down brightly on the guests gathered in the Valtorian Great House’s formal dining room. Murmured chatter and soft chuckles filled the air; expensive liquor filled crystal glasses. The hosts, the Duke and Duchess of Valtoria, circulated amongst the throng, greeting familiar faces with smiles, anecdotes, and promises of a dance-off after dessert.
The nobles were gathered to celebrate their monarch’s second year of rule; three months earlier, they had come to celebrate Annabelle Louise Beaumont’s first birthday. Valtoria was quickly gaining a reputation for being the party house, but the Valtorian Duke constantly vowed the infamous Beaumont Bashes would still be held in Ramsford.
Maxwell Beaumont was making his way through the crowd, headed for one of the many bars erected throughout the dining hall; he paused frequently to exchange hugs, handshakes, and high-fives with his comrades, the sequined squids on his suit sparkling and glittering beneath the overhead lights. Upon reaching his destination, he saw the man of the hour, King Liam, standing alone as he sipped scotch while people watching.
“Li!” the young Duke greeted before requesting a glass of wine from the bartender.
The King turned, smiling in acknowledgement. “Duke Maxwell, it’s extremely kind of you to throw me such an extravagant party. Unsure what I’ve done to warrant such an occasion, but it is deeply appreciated.”
“You deserve this and so much more,” Maxwell replied as he joined his monarch and friend in crowd gazing. He nodded towards the center of the room. “Olivia looks amazing tonight,” he not-so-subtly hinted.
The Duchess of Lythikos was indeed a vision: her dress was a column of white silk that skimmed her swells and angles; rubies glittered at her ears and wrists. Her signature red hair lay low at the nape of her neck in an elaborate Grecian braid. She was conversing with Queen Amalas, the fingertips of one hand resting lightly on the royal’s upper arm. In her other hand was a glass of gin.
Liam chuckled softly. “I’m seeing someone, Max. And it appears the Duchess is as well.”
Maxwell’s head turned quickly at the announcement. “WHO?” he demanded excitedly.
Liam shook his head slightly. “We’re keeping it between us for now.”
“Is she a member of Court?” Maxwell persisted.
“Not yet,” Liam smirked.
Maxwell rolled his eyes. “I cannot believe you’re dating someone and haven’t introduced her to your friends!”
Liam tilted the tumbler to his lips while looking pointedly at the new Duke. “Have you forgotten what happened with the last woman I introduced to my friends?”
Maxwell’s face colored deep pink at Liam’s words. He had never expected Riley to return his feelings, much less choose him over the freaking King of Cordonia. But she had. There had been feelings of guilt and fear when he spoke with Liam regarding his plans to wed the American suitor, but never regret.
Before the Duke could reply, he observed his father, Barthelemy, stride up to the podium at the far end of the room, his fingertip tapping the microphone to garner the guests’ attention. Liam noticed as well; both men’s brows furrowed in puzzlement as they stared at each other before returning their attention to the elder Beaumont, who was now addressing the crowd.
“My son certainly knows how to throw a party, huh?” he asked, a jovial smile on his face.
The gathering whooped and cheered in agreement.
“Unfortunately, that is ALL he knows to do.” A scowl replaced the smile. “He is an irresponsible scamp who lucked up on a suitor and took advantage of his King’s stupidity!”
Awkward silence from the crowd, bewildered expressions mirrored on their faces.
“A woman in the lowest level of service work possible charmed and seduced both the King and my son, and now she sits as Duchess with a child of reputable DNA on a throne of lies. And the King allows it! Hell, he OFFERED it to her! There is much, much more to both uncover and discover, which is why I am invoking the Conventus Nobilis to take over Cordonia as King Regent.”
Gasps of shock and alarm filled the room, broken by the Valtorian Duchess’ shrill scream. “The HELL YOU ARE!”
She strode through the crowd, flanked on either side by her husband and King Liam, both men grim-faced and with clenched fists. Riley’s face was distorted with rage, her body trembling with emotion. “It is because of ME your House has had its reputation restored, and because of MAX your coffers are full! LEAVE MY HOMEAND MY DUCHY! IMMEDIATELY!”
Barthelemy’s expression was one of amusement as he watched the trio make their way onto the dais. “When a clown moves into the Palace, he does not become King; rather, the Palace becomes a circus, which is what you and my son have done. You have rendered the King a useless puppet, and the same shall not happen to the heiress you presume to call a Beaumont. I will leave once the child is safely in my possession.”
The implication of the older man’s words was a slap in the face to the young parents; however, before either of them could make a move towards Barthelemy, Liam strode forward until he and the Lord were nose to nose.
“Your Lordship, I make no claims to presume to know what you are attempting here, but I suggest you leave. NOW. We can have a discussion about your … claims in the morning,” the King hissed.
“I’ll leave once I have what I came for,” Barthelemy countered.
“GUARDS!” Liam yelled
But only Mara and a handful of sentries arrived at his summons. An incredulous look around the room showed Bastien and the majority of King’s Guardsmen coming down the spiral staircase, one carrying a wailing Annabelle. They all kept their heads down and eyes averted.
The King’s jaw dropped as his body stiffened with angered realization.
Riley’s eyes were both wide and wild with fear and panic as she raced through the dining hall to rescue her daughter.
Maxwell stepped up to his father and without a word, hit the elder with a fierce uppercut. Barthelemy Beaumont crumpled to the ground like a felled tree.
Maxwell had no idea how long he beat his father, how much of his father’s blood, hot and gushing, splattered his face, his hands, his suit. He saw nothing but a haze of red as every insult, every slight, every punishment the man beneath him had inflicted powered his punches. He remembered being grabbed and pulled off the older man all too soon, and handcuffed. He looked around, his stomach dropping.
The Great House was in pandemonium: Screams, screeches, and yells filled its halls as guests tripped over each other in an attempt to leave. Riley was manhandling the guard holding their daughter; his eyes narrowed and filled with murderous rage when he saw her pushed roughly to the floor.
His last look at what was once a party was his wife on the floor, the skirt of her gown spread out about her as she sobbed unconsolably; the blood on his father’s face as guards helped him to his feet; and his daughter looking around frantically, fat tears falling from her blue eyes as she searched for a familiar face before being carried through a doorway and out of his sight.
The armored vehicle rolls to a gentle stop in front of the Great House. His home. It isn’t lost on Maxwell Percival Beaumont that he is entering his residence as a prisoner of the Crown, and that this may the last time he sees it. Or anyone he loves. He wants to take it in: stone, flora, grass, water but his limited view is obstructed by the throng of curious citizens and paparazzi, all eager for a glimpse of the rogue noble.
At least his suit had been cleaned during his 90 days of imprisonment.
He sits still as a guard begins the process of removing the chains and shackles that traverse the length of his body from wrists to ankles. He murmurs, “Thank you,” when the metal clanks against the floor of the vehicle. The guard nods in acknowledgement before instructing the Duke to exit out the driver’s side. Maxwell does as he is told, squinting against unfiltered sunlight as he patiently waits for the detail to assemble a formation around him so they can escort him to his fate.
Inside the Council Chambers, it is almost like old times: Maxwell is holding his daughter, her head laid against his chest; Riley is by his side as they chat quietly with Bertrand and Savannah. The couple are aware of eyes surreptitiously watching them before their daughter comes under scrutiny. But no one approaches them.
Bartie toddles around the room, making his way to his Uncle Drake.
Liam is in a far corner, deep in discussion with Olivia and Madeleine; Drake, Rashad, and Hana mill about the buffet table which holds an array of light snacks and refreshments.
Almostlike normal, but not quite.
The conversations aren’t light and breezy. Friends and allies of the Valtorian noble couple are wondering about the wild cards on the Council: Godfrey, Neville, Kiara, Landon. The entire room knows Barthelemy wants the harshest punishment possible inflicted; being that he is King Regent, it could mean death.
The cell guards keep their eyes trained on Maxwell but make no moves. They expect nothing less; the Duke has been a model prisoner.
Riley looks up at the clock, and a frown creases her brow. “Where’s Barthelemy?” she asks. The tardiness, while giving her and Annabelle more time with Maxwell, worries her.
Before anyone can answer the question, the doors to the Chamber open; the doorway fills with Bastien Lykel, who has sided with the King Regent and Officer Rebecca McKenzie, the chief constable of Duchy Ramsford. Maxwell’s eyebrows rise slightly, and he pulls Annabelle just that much closer to him. He feels an icy fear in his chest, not knowing what fresh bullshit law his father has unearthed.
The officer and the guard part ways once they enter the room: Rebecca practically stalks her way to the King, her steps quick and determined; Bastien heads forlornly in Godfrey’s direction. Maxwell’s eyes follow the constable; she’s speaking with Liam in low, urgent tones. Maxwell sees Liam’s expression as he stares at the woman before him: a hybrid of surprise, consternation and tenderness; his eyes are soft with emotion, yet hard with anger.
Maxwell sees how Liam’s fingers touch loose tendrils of the reddish-brown cascade that is her hair as if it were the finest silk before tucking them beneath her uniform hat. He notices how her hands and fingers frequently touch Liam’s arm.
A quick glance around the room shows Maxwell he isn’t the only one noticing these things.
Mindful of the eyes upon them, Liam moves swiftly, deftly; with merely a hand cupping the officer’s elbow, he has reversed their positions: It is now the King with his back to the crowd, and he has walked his companion backwards, so her back is pressed against the wall and there is slight distance between their bodies.
Propriety.
The King leans in, his lips brushing her earlobe as he whispers to her. Her gray eyes widen briefly before skepticism floods her expression, yet her narrowed gaze as she stares at Liam is filled with trust and adoration.
The Duke of Valtoria knew then that he was looking upon Cordonia’s next Queen.
His eyes travel the room, landing on a sheepish-looking Bastien being berated by a nearly apoplectic Godfrey. Bastien’s hands gesticulate, and his cheeks redden; he and Maxwell lock gazes briefly before Bastien once again gives the Duke of Karlington his full attention.
What the hellis going on? And where is his father?
Max looks down when he feels Riley wrap her hand around his arm; her face is tilted upwards at his.
“What’s happened?” she asks, not expecting an answer.
Maxwell shrugs and pulls his wife into his side, his palm rubbing soothing circles across her back as they watch Liam stride quickly to the dais, tightly holding the hand of the chief constable; she struggles miserably to keep up with his steps.
“Will the Council please join me up here?” his smooth baritone asks once he is behind a podium emblazoned with the Cordonian coat of arms. “Guards, please escort the accused to his seat.”
Maxwell’s eyes lock with Riley’s; alarm and unshed tears threaten to fill both pairs. Maxwell places a gentle kiss in his daughter’s hair before transferring the sleeping toddler to her mother. He pulls his small family into an embrace, a false smile of bravado crossing his lips when he notices the tears tangled in his wife’s eyelashes.
“Hey,no tears. Whatever happens … we have each other,” he whispers.
His lips snatch hers in a kiss that is passionate, searing, and all-too-quick before his arms drop to his sides, and he takes his seat at a table placed in the center of the room and exactly six feet away from the rostrum. The Duchess looks longingly at her husband before taking her seat on the platform. She nods and smiles listlessly in greeting towards her fellow Councilmembers, her stomach knotted so tightly she fears she’ll be ill.
Their eyes and expressions are filled with unease and awkwardness as they return her salutation.
Riley’s eyes briefly close while she murmurs a prayer. When she arrived in Cordonia almost three years earlier, she had no idea what she wanted nor hoped to find … but ithad found her. It hadn’t been easy, but oh, so worth it. And now it lay in tatters and shambles, all because of one man. Her father-in-law.
Family.
She finishes her prayer just as the King clears his throat before announcing Chief Constable McKenzie has an announcement of great interest to everyone. Liam nods tersely at the officer, then adjusts the height of the microphone for her before stepping aside.
Chief Constable McKenzie walks forward slowly, deliberately; for the briefest of moments, Rebecca feels the weight of every eye in the room on her. She takes in facial expressions and body postures and poses. The constable is a former LAPD detective and can read body language just as well as the King.
Her facial expression is impassive and her tone neutral as she addresses Cordonian leadership.
“Good morning Lords, Ladies, and Your Majesty. I’m afraid I have rather unpleasant news to share with you: His Lordship, Barthelemy Beaumont, was found deceased in his residence, House Beaumont, at 6am this morning. Cause of death was gunshot wounds. The Ramsford Constabulary will be working closely with the Cordonian Ministry of Criminal Investigation to bring about both resolution and closure to the case.”
There is no need for her, or anyone for that matter, to state that charges against Duke Maxwell Percival Beaumont of Valtoria would be dismissed given the turn of events. With no plaintiff to pursue charges, the Council would have no choice but to acquit the Duke of Valtoria.
Chief Constable McKenzie steps back slightly from the podium, hand hovering above her holster, gauging people’s reactions. Many are shocked, and murmurs of “murder” pass between the nobles. Except for a few; those were the ones Rebecca watched.
Godfrey and Bastien look at Riley.
How did she get possession of the heiress?
Maxwell’s eyes fly swiftly to his brother Bertrand, as his fists clench.
He had promised Annabelle would be returned to them before the hearing.
Riley’s eyes go directly to King Liam.
He was the one who had delivered her daughter to her.
Bertrand’s eyes are on the Duchess of Portavira, who is texting on her phone.
She had told him she would talk to Barthelemy to ensure Bertrand kept his promise to Maxwell and Riley.
The Duchess raises her blue eyes to meet the gaze of the constable before a slow smirk curves her pink-painted lips; an eyebrow arches as her gaze swiftly moves to the man standing beside Rebecca.
Slightly unnerved, the officer turns her head slightly to look at the King.
The King stares straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back. His posture is rigid, and expression stoic.
![[ID: A digital sketch of Fabian and Riz from Fantasy High. Both are wearing letterman jackets, and standing facing the viewer. Fabian seems unimpressed while Riz looks excited. End ID]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/dc6091a9dc9d41addd4b7467a7903447/d2584a6a65d609d2-a0/s640x960/b214f5fb00d6a139cccaacd8ac11b8965d911562.png)
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