The Prince's Arranged Marriage-Chapter 102: The Regent’s Smile

The next time the door opened, it wasn’t Seraphine.

It was the polite man again calm face, clean clothes, patient eyes. Like yesterday hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t slid a cage across a table and called it "help."

He stepped in with the same servant and the same tray, but this time there was something new beneath the bread and fruit.

A second parchment.

Thicker. Heavier. Sealed with wax.

Lucien didn’t move from the chair.

He watched the parchment the way you watched a blade placed on a table still, silent, waiting.

The servant set the tray down and left quickly, eyes glued to the floor.

The polite man sat across from Lucien and placed the sealed parchment in the center between them.

"We’ve refined the language," he said.

Lucien’s smile was soft and cold. "How thoughtful."

The man didn’t react. "Open it."

Lucien didn’t reach for it. "I already said no."

"Yes," the man agreed. "And yet, here we are."

Lucien leaned back, letting his posture stay relaxed even while his stomach tightened. "If you keep bringing me papers, you’ll run out of wax."

The man’s mouth curved faintly, humorless. "You’re stalling."

Lucien blinked slowly. "No. I’m declining."

The man held his gaze for a long moment, then slid the parchment slightly closer, as if proximity alone could turn refusal into surrender.

Lucien still didn’t touch it.

The polite man sighed just a small exhale. Then he nodded toward the door.

Two guards entered.

Not the same as before.

These men had heavier boots. Broader shoulders. Harder eyes.

Lucien’s pulse kicked, but his face stayed calm.

The polite man spoke mildly, as if he was asking for a coat. "Move him."

Lucien’s fingers tightened around the chair arm. "Where?"

The polite man looked at him. "Somewhere less comfortable."

Lucien gave a quiet laugh. "So the kindness ends."

"It ends when you waste it," the man replied.

The guards stepped forward.

Lucien stood on his own before they could grab him. Not because it would change anything but because he refused to be handled like luggage.

"I’ll walk," Lucien said calmly.

One guard’s mouth twitched, almost disappointed.

The polite man nodded once. "Good."

They put a hood over Lucien’s head again.

The cloth was clean, which made Lucien want to bite someone.

He let them guide him, light grips on his arms, firm enough to control but careful enough not to bruise.

Still no marks, Lucien thought.

They want the story, not the scars.

He counted turns again.

A corridor. Two turns. Down steps. Damp air. The sound of dripping water somewhere nearby.

Then a door.

A different kind of door he could hear the weight of it, the thicker wood, the heavier hinges.

The hood came off.

Lucien blinked.

This room wasn’t clean-sparse like the first one.

It was rougher. Smaller. Colder.

The stone walls were bare. The bed was a thin cot. The wash basin looked like it had been used by men who didn’t care if water spilled.

No tray of food waiting. No neat cloths. No pretend hospitality.

Just a room that said: We can do worse.

Lucien’s throat tightened, but he kept his face smooth.

The polite man stepped in behind him. "We can return you to the other room," he said quietly, "when you cooperate."

Lucien stared at him. "So this is meant to scare me."

"It’s meant to teach you," the man corrected.

Lucien’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Teach me what? That you’re smaller men than you pretend to be?"

The polite man’s eyes cooled. "You’ve been offered every chance to make this easy."

Lucien tilted his head. "And you’ve been offered every chance to stop."

The man didn’t answer that.

Instead, he pulled out the sealed parchment again.

He broke the seal, unfolded it, and held it out.

Lucien didn’t take it.

The polite man’s voice stayed calm. "This one is not a statement to the public."

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. "Oh?"

"It’s a private agreement," the man said, like he was discussing a treaty. "A pledge."

Lucien’s stomach tightened. "A pledge to what." 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

The polite man’s gaze stayed steady. "To accept temporary stewardship."

Lucien went very still.

Stewardship. Regency. They could keep swapping the word; the poison stayed the same.

Lucien let out a slow breath. "So that’s the plan. Put me in a room like this, wait until I’m tired, then ask me to sign my own disappearance."

The man held the paper out again. "Read it."

Lucien finally took it not to obey, but to know exactly what they were trying to do.

His eyes skimmed the lines fast.

It was written beautifully, that was the worst part. Soft phrases. Noble reasons. Concern for Avaloria. "Temporary" repeated over and over like it was meant to soothe.

And then the key line:

I voluntarily step back from direct governance until my health and clarity are restored, and I entrust the council to provide measured guidance in the interim.

Voluntarily.

Lucien’s jaw tightened so hard it hurt.

He looked up slowly. "You’re trying to make it look like I asked for this."

The man’s expression didn’t shift. "It will calm the people."

Lucien’s laugh was sharp, brief. "No. It will calm the council."

A beat.

Then, quietly: "Sign."

Lucien held his gaze. "No."

The polite man’s tone didn’t change. "Sign."

Lucien folded the parchment neatly, as if he was being handed a dinner menu, and placed it on the cot.

"No," he repeated, even softer.

The guards behind him shifted.

Lucien felt it, their impatience, their readiness.

The polite man watched him for a long moment.

Then he nodded, once.

One guard stepped forward and grabbed Lucien’s wrist, twisting his arm just enough to hurt.

Not enough to bruise.

Just enough to send a message through nerve and bone.

Lucien sucked in a breath through his teeth, but he didn’t cry out.

He refused to give them that sound.

The guard leaned close. "Your Highness," he murmured, voice rough, "you’re making this difficult."

Lucien looked at him, eyes bright with anger. "That’s the point."

The guard tightened.

Pain flared hot.

Lucien’s vision sharpened at the edges, but he held it.

The polite man spoke, calm as ever. "Let him go."

The grip eased.

Lucien’s wrist throbbed, but when he flexed it, he knew what mattered most:

No mark.

No visible proof.

Just invisible pain.

Lucien lifted his chin. "If you want me to sign, you’ll have to do more than that."

The polite man’s gaze cooled. "We can."

Lucien’s voice stayed steady. "Then do it."

Silence.

For a moment, the room felt like a held breath.

Then the polite man leaned in slightly. "You’re not brave," he murmured. "You’re reckless."

Lucien smiled soft, sharp. "And you’re not strong. You’re organized."

The polite man’s expression flickered annoyance, maybe.

Then he straightened. "We will speak again."

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. "With Seraphine?"

The man didn’t answer. He moved to the door and knocked once. It opened immediately.

Before leaving, he glanced back at Lucien. "You’ll eat when we bring food. You’ll sleep when your body gives up. And you will sign when you realize you’re not saving anyone by refusing."

Lucien swallowed hard.

The door shut.

Lucien stood in the cold room and stared at the cot where the paper lay.

Then he laughed once under his breath quiet, bitter.

"Watch me," he whispered.

He sat down slowly, rubbing his wrist, and forced himself to breathe.

Because fear was loud.

And Lucien needed his mind quieter than the room.

He closed his eyes and let one memory rise warm, sharp, grounding.

Alexander’s mouth on his, earlier that morning in their bed, the way Alexander’s hands had held him like a promise.

Lucien pressed his fingertips to his lips again, just once, like a private vow.

Find me.

And then, because he needed it even more now:

Don’t believe their story.