Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 101: The Truth

When it was time to leave, Catherine instinctively packed Charlotte’s things: bottles, blanket, wipes, moving with quiet efficiency. She secured the baby into the carrier with practiced care.

Maximilian watched her and sighed softly.

"What?" she asked, glancing at him. "Amelia asked if you could keep the baby a little longer. I said yes." She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "I don’t think she’s ready to take care of her."

Maximilian gave a small shrug.

He agreed.

And, if he was honest, he liked that Catherine had answered on his behalf. It felt... domestic. Natural. As if they were already standing on the same side of something.

As if she were his wife.

The thought warmed him more than it should.

But beneath that warmth was something heavier.

Babies were dangerous territory for her.

He knew what she had endured in her past life. Knew what loss had carved into her soul. Also, she was still believing he killed her children.

She should be focusing on her research, on building her name, on becoming everything she once dreamed of becoming.

Instead, she was here... happily carrying someone else’s child into the cold night.

And he didn’t stop her. Because part of him liked seeing her like this.

Outside, sleet dusted the cobblestone streets, turning them slick. Maximilian walked on the roadside, positioning himself between her and passing cars. His hand hovered near her back; not touching, just close enough to steady her if she slipped.

Behind the curtains, Eileen watched.

Her chest tightened.

It felt, in some quiet way, as if she had already lost her son.

He wasn’t the boy who came home weary and silent anymore. He wasn’t the young man carrying the weight of a fractured legacy on his shoulders.

With Catherine, he looked lighter.

Almost like the version of him before the accident. Before grief hardened him.

He deserved that.

Eileen’s gaze softened.

And Catherine... it wasn’t about money. That much was obvious. Catherine came from far greater wealth. If she wanted influence, Eileen could offer it without hesitation—that was nothing compared to her son’s happiness.

But Catherine hadn’t asked for anything.

She hadn’t probed about Ragland, hadn’t steered the conversation toward connections or advantage. She treated the evening as what it was meant to be—a family dinner.

No strings. No hidden agenda. No clever misdirection.

Eileen exhaled slowly.

If she had to "lose" her son, she could accept losing him to someone like Catherine.

As for Amelia...

She shook her head faintly.

That child had grown up untouched by hardship. Shielded from loss. Spoiled by love and protection.

And perhaps that, too, had shaped her in ways Eileen was only now beginning to see.

-----

Meanwhile, in the grand dining hall of the Remington estate, Gwen clung to Sylvia Remington as if her life depended on it.

"I love him," she sobbed, pressing a trembling hand to her chest. "How can he do this to me? He won’t even give me a proper reason. I waited three years for him... my youth..."

Every word was soaked in sacrifice. Every tear carefully placed.

Sylvia’s arms tightened around her instinctively, maternal sympathy overriding logic. Gwen had always been the daughter she never had, the polished, obedient, and socially perfect daughter.

At the head of the table, Mathew Remington sat rigid, his expression carved from stone.

Negotiations had never failed him.

Until now.

And not in a boardroom, but with his own son.

Sebastian sat opposite him, jaw set. His gaze flicked briefly to his grandfather, Henry Remington, who merely turned his face away and took a slow sip of vodka.

In this family, Mathew’s word was law. And Henry, for once, had chosen not to interfere.

Mathew inhaled, preparing to speak, ready to deliver a verdict as if this were another business merger.

Before he could, Sebastian pushed back his chair and stood.

"Dad," he said, voice sharp but steady, "if you can’t see how manipulative this is... how fake those tears are... then I don’t know what to say."

The room went still.

The Harrington family tried to speak for their daughter who was getting slandered, but Sebastian shut them up with a glare.

"I can’t call myself your son or a Remington if this is what we stand for," he continued, looking at his father. "It’s shameful."

Sylvia gasped softly. Gwen’s sobbing faltered for half a second before resuming, softer, more wounded.

Sebastian had waited nearly an hour for the performance to end.

It hadn’t.

If anything, it had escalated.

He spent his days around sharp-minded college students, around people who weaponized vulnerability and called it sincerity. He knew emotional manipulation when he saw it.

His parents, polished by corporate diplomacy and curated social circles, were blind to it.

They were falling for the tears of the "perfect daughter." He wasn’t.

He turned and walked out.

"Sebastian! Stop!" Mathew’s voice cracked like a whip.

Sebastian didn’t.

He had said what he needed to say.

He wasn’t particularly close to his parents anyway. He had been raised more by his grandfather than by them. And if walking away meant losing the Remington name...

So be it.

He had a job. Bernice had a job. They could build something real.

Behind him, the Remington couple turned apologetically toward the Harringtons. "We’ll speak to him again," Mathew said stiffly. "Please don’t worry."

Naomi Harrington dabbed at her eyes. "We’re afraid for our daughter. She hasn’t been eating properly these days..."

Henry let out a quiet scoff.

It seemed everyone at the table had mastered the art of performance.

"You cannot force love," Henry said calmly, rising from his seat. "And divorce isn’t a sin anymore."

He set down his glass and walked out as well.

He had watched his grandson drift through life without passion for years. Now, for the first time, the boy had chosen someone.

Why should he marry without love to uphold whatever standard someone else set for him, when he could have happiness?

Mathew exhaled heavily once the doors closed behind them.

When would his son stop embarrassing him?

And when would his father stop indulging that reckless independence?

"We will find a middle ground," Mathew said to the Harringtons.

Gwen smiled as she dabbed her tears.

She always got what she wanted.

-----

After they returned home, Catherine gently laid Charlotte in the bassinet, adjusting the blanket with careful hands. The baby stirred once, then settled.

Maximilian stepped out of the bathroom, sleeves rolled, towel in hand. "Your bath is ready, Your Majesty," he said lightly.

She stretched her arms above her head. A bath did sound good. She felt drained.

But something else pressed heavier on her mind.

"Hey, Professor." She caught his sleeve before he could walk past. "When did you find me?"

He paused.

For a split second, she saw it... the calculation behind his eyes. The answer forming.

"The day I—"

"Don’t lie to me."

Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

She could see he was about to lie. At times, she noticed his first response was to lie.

But... If she was going to trust him, really trust him, she needed the truth. Not the curated version. Not the convenient one.

Maybe if he was honest... maybe she could finally start building something solid between them.

Maybe she could understand what the bracelet wanted from them, finish it, and finally be free.

Maximilian swallowed.

The truth would change things.

It might make her recoil. It might make her see him as obsessive. Manipulative. He had built so much around patience, around careful distance.

But she was asking now.

Should he lie?

Slowly, he stepped closer.