My Bratty Wife
Chapter 212 - Two Hundred And Twelve

Chapter 212: Chapter Two Hundred And Twelve

Knock...

Knock..

Knock.

The heavy oak door of the study muffled the insistent knocking at first. Ryan sat hunched over his desk, the remnants of his recent recovery showing in the slight paleness beneath the weary lines around his eyes. Papers were spread haphazardly across the polished wood – maps of the city marked with the locations of the recent, horrific murders, lists of victims, fragmented notes from his time leading the investigation before... before everything changed. He rubbed his temples, a dull ache pulsing there. A long sigh escaped him.

Why? The question echoed relentlessly in his mind. Why did they stop? Count Edmund found murdered like the others – and then, silence. Time had passed with no new victims, no more clues left at the scenes. Had the killer, or killers, achieved their twisted objective? Had they simply grown bored, or perhaps, scared? Or was it something else? Did removing him, Duke Ryan, from the investigation somehow satisfy them, or inadvertently cut off their access? He felt useless, sidelined, gnawing on fragmented information while the real currents moved beneath the surface. He ran a hand through his dark hair, disheveling it further in frustration. What was he supposed to do now? He had no authority, no resources, only nagging suspicions and the chilling memory of the attack that had nearly cost him his life.

"Enter," he called out, his voice rough, barely looking up from the tangle of papers and thoughts. He assumed it was Davis with another unyielding report or one of the maids with unwanted tea.

He heard the door open and close softly, but remained lost in his frustrating circle of questions. A faint sound gradually penetrated his thoughts – a soft, repeated word.

"...Your Grace... Your Grace..."

The repetition grew clearer, pulling him reluctantly back to the present. He looked up, blinking. Mrs. Madelyn stood a few feet away, her hands clasped patiently, a concerned look on her face.

"Oh," Ryan stammered, feeling slightly disoriented. "Mrs. Madelyn. Forgive me, I... I didn’t realize you were here." He straightened up in his chair, trying to gather himself.

Mrs. Madelyn offered a gentle smile, though her eyes held worry. "I knocked several times, Your Grace. Lost in thought, were you?" She didn’t wait for an answer. "I came to inform you that dinner has been prepared. It is ready and can be brought up to you in just a moment, whenever you wish."

She made a move to turn and leave, but Ryan stopped her. "Mrs. Madelyn," he said, a touch of weariness in his voice, "you could have sent one of the maids. There was no need for you to come yourself."

The elderly woman turned back, her smile returning, warmer this time. "I know that, Your Grace," she admitted softly. "But sometimes, a tray delivered by a maid doesn’t tell me if the Duke is truly eating, or just pushing food around the plate while his mind is miles away." Her gaze was direct but full of care. "I just wanted an excuse to come in and see for myself how you are truly doing."

Ryan felt a pang of guilt for causing her worry, mixed with gratitude for her quiet concern. He sighed again, pushing away from the desk cluttered with grim reminders of his failure. "You’re right," he conceded. "Staring at these walls won’t solve anything." He made a decision. "Don’t bother bringing a tray up. I’m coming downstairs. I’ll eat at the dining table tonight."

A look of relief washed over Mrs. Madelyn’s face. "Very good, Your Grace," she said, clearly pleased. "I will take care of it. Everything will be ready when you come down." She gave a slight nod and walked out, leaving Ryan alone once more, but with a new resolve to at least go through the motions of normalcy.

He took a few moments to splash cold water on his face from the basin in the corner, straightened his clothes, and headed downstairs. The grand dining room felt vast and empty with only one place setting laid at the head of the long, polished table. He sat down, the silence amplifying the turmoil in his mind. Mrs. Madelyn oversaw the serving of the meal – a simple roast chicken, vegetables, and bread – then discreetly withdrew, leaving him to eat in solitude.

He picked up his fork and knife, the silver cool against his skin. He ate mechanically, the food tasting bland in his mouth. His thoughts kept drifting back to the murders, to Commander Thorne’s inexplicable disappearance just when Ryan needed his steadfast support most, and now, increasingly, to Lord Evan, who had so smoothly taken over the investigation and It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.

He was halfway through his meal when the heavy dining room doors burst open. Davis stumbled into the room, his face pale and beaded with sweat, his eyes wide with panic. He clutched something in his hand, holding it out towards Ryan as if it were venomous.

It was an envelope. A large, thick envelope made of heavy parchment. And it was scarlet red.

Ryan froze, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. The color struck him first – a deep, alarming crimson, reserved for the most serious of royal communications. Then he saw the seal – the King’s royal crest pressed deeply into dark red wax. His blood ran cold. He had seen an envelope exactly like this once before, years ago. It had been delivered to Lord Evan’s father, just before the man was arrested, tried, and stripped off his title and lands for treason.

Treason. The word screamed in his mind. But why was an envelope like that here? Addressed to him?

Before Ryan could even form the question, Davis gasped out the message, his voice trembling uncontrollably. "Your Grace... a King’s messenger... he just arrived... he wouldn’t come inside... he relayed a message..." Davis swallowed hard, struggling for breath. "His Majesty King Albert summons you to the Royal Palace... for questioning... regarding matters of state security. He... he said... His Majesty grants you twenty-four hours to present yourself. If you fail to arrive within that time... the Royal Guard... they will provide escort."

The threat was unmistakable. Come willingly and keep your dignity and respect, or be dragged there like a common criminal.

The room seemed to tilt slightly. Ryan slowly, deliberately, placed his fork and knife down on the table, the clink of silver against porcelain echoing unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. His hand was surprisingly steady as he reached out and took the scarlet envelope from Davis’s shaking grasp. The parchment felt heavy.

With clear precision, he broke the royal seal. He unfolded the single sheet of parchment inside. The script was formal, elegant, penned by a royal scribe. He read the words silently, his eyes scanning the lines, his expression becoming increasingly grim. The language was official, couched in terms of duty and inquiry, but the underlying accusation, though perhaps not explicitly stated as treason yet, was terrifyingly clear. It spoke of irregularities, of compromised investigations, of aiding a criminal and of potential threats to the country linked to recent events. Linked, undoubtedly, to him.

He read it through twice, ensuring he missed nothing. Then, he carefully folded the letter and placed it on the table beside his plate. The silence stretched, thick with fear and uncertainty. Davis watched him, barely breathing, waiting for a reaction, an explosion, anything.

Instead, Ryan stood up abruptly, his chair scraping back harshly against the floor. He turned to face Davis, whose eyes were still wide with fear. Ryan’s own face was pale, set, but his voice, when he spoke, was low, perfectly controlled, and charged with an icy urgency that cut through the panic in the room.

"Davis," he commanded, his gaze sharp and direct. "Forget about everything. Go now. Get the carriage ready. Have the fastest horses harnessed."

Davis stared, confused for a split second by the calm command after such a devastating message. "The carriage, Your Grace? Now? But... the King gave you twenty-four hours... we can leave tomorrow morn..."

"We are not waiting twenty-four hours," Ryan cut him off, his voice dangerously quiet. "We leave for the palace tonight."

He strode towards the dining room doors, his long legs eating up the distance, leaving Davis scrambling to comprehend and obey the sudden, decisive order.