Freya studied him carefully, eyeing every feature with meticulous concern. Why did he come unannounced? His hair was neither raven black anymore, nor perfectly neat. It was actually dishevelled, a rather peculiar appearance for a former Duke. He was also dressed casually, as if purposely trying to defy the conduct of the Duchy. Freya was unable to grasp anything concludent.

"How may I be of assistance, Sire?" The Duchess inquired while behaving accordingly. It still felt distressing to display such falsity at all times.

"I came to discuss your relationship with my son." The former Duke pronounced the last word as if it belonged to a neglected slave.

Freya gulped down nervously, testing her temper as much as her state of mind permitted. She rested in silence, more or less eager to hear his remarks.

"Do you love him?"

"No."

"Do you think you can love him eventually?"

"Yes."

Whoever proclaimed that monosyllabic words were suitable for situations of tension was clearly knackered. She felt like a wreck. Her pulse was quickening by the second, her knees were trembling and she could almost sense her heart leaping out of the pericardium. She was about to be subdued to a trap, some mercantile scheme to destroy her husband's credibility. If his father intended to throw mud at him, there was absolutely no way she would ever let him accomplish his insidious plan.

"Well, you must have heard about the scandal involving one of his mistresses. Don't you think he deserves some punishment?" The retired man continued his inquiry, scratching his beard teasingly.

Freya snickered, a defying one-corner smile plastered on her face. As if she would ever fall for his question.

"If your informers failed to announce you, allow me to freshen up your intel. Julian entrusts me with important aspects of his life, therefore I found out that you were the pupeteer." She witnessed his sudden change of demeanour, the tea cup he was holding quivering under the pressure of his fingers.

"Need not be so surprised, Sire. I believe you even forged a few documents. For an inexperienced eye, the paper your pretty puppet, also known as Angela, presented was as fake as your paternal feelings for Julian. Close relatives share sequences of DNA, and moreover, a father and his son have almost identical DNA patterns. Can you catch my drift? That was your child, not his. You wanted to dig his grave so much that you fell in the hole yourself."

Freya felt proud of her speech, but was still very much interested in unearthing the reason behind such perennial bad blood. Although subtlety was not among her most appreciated qualities, she needed to make good use of it.

"What can you say in your defence?" She asked, throwing her hands in the air and then pointing towards him accusingly.

Indeed, very subtle. Nice work, idiot.

"He is a monster. He may seem changed, but sooner or later, he will relapse. I relapsed, and so will he. It's in our genes, you see. The cruelty."

The Duchess rose resentfully, brushing off some lint off her skirt. She needed to move around before killing that dreadful man with the tea cup.

"He is nothing like you, thank God. Yes, he may not have the most angel-like temper, but he is a good man. For his people and for me. His words can trigger miracles, you see. Yours can only create wrath and disdain. Consequently, how are the two of you alike?"

Her rhetorical question left the former Duke with a taste more bitter than the sugarless tea. She did care for him, after all. But he will leave his mark in the archives of the Duchy – as the man who turned the Duke into a pauper.

"We shall see how things will unfold in the future. I would advise you to watch both your back and his. You never know the direction of a storm."

The former Duke escorted himself out, brushing John off as if he were nothing but a servant. He was a human being above all, but seemingly everyone else but her forgot.

Freya did not realise two things: the first one being that she held her breath until that cheap man's departure, and the other one... well, there was only one clicking of male shoes whom she could recognize. Julian's.

"Such a stimulating conversation you had with my father!" The Duke exclaimed, rolling a cubanese cigar between two fingers. While cautiously litting it, he expected Freya to respond according to his subliminal message.

"I know I shouldn't have talked to him without you, but I could handle him. I did, can't you see?" She started to understand his father's statement.

The single aspect his wife could not fully comprehend was how different he could be at various times. He was physically the same man, yet his mien was hardly the same in one day. She actually took into consideration the possibility of counting his mood changes. Most likely, half of them was positive, and the other half negative.

"Oh, darling, what happened to the pretty talking? No more uncontracted forms?" She tasted the bitterness of his sarcasm, so gruesome a taste that she could hardly contain herself.

"Drop the mockery! You heard the conversation, you are more than capable of analysing it on your own. Don't show up here thinking you can accuse and outsmart me! We are equals, Julian. Husband and wife. Neither of us is above the other. Pun non-intended."

Julian closed the gap between them and cupped her cheek , stroking it with much ardour. "You seriously have no idea how satisfying it is to watch an Amazon in action." He smirked, stealing an agile kiss from her lips.

"Don't ever test me again. You know I am going to pass every challenge." She returned the kiss playfully, slapping his buttock in the same frisky manner.

"Naughty girl!" He winked flirtatiously, biting his lower lush lip.

After their little back-and-forth jolly retorts, Freya received a call from Maeve – a call that was no more, no less than a bullet piercing right through her heart.

"Darling, there is a man at the Center who claims to be the former Duke. I don't... I don't really know what he means by <<Bellum internecinum>>. I suppose it is a Latin quote... I'm scared, Freya." Maeve's voice cracked under the pressure of her sobs and the Duchess' serenity did just the same.

Since putting her phone on speaker, Julian was able to hear Maeve's announcement. The Latin quote – as the elder intuited – meant "War of extermination". A summary of his father's choice of words would be "My son, I will be coming after everyone you care about". Julian could feel his bile amassing in his mouth – an odious taste that left him with a sour heart and a much more enraged attitude.

His father's threat was crystal-clear. He turned mad after seeing his power granted to his son. It was not even a choice, it was simply an ereditary protocol, but he could not fathom such impertinence. Despite being financially sustained, he did lose authority, partly because Julian insisted on notifying every nobleman of the elder's vile character.

Speaking the truth was always the cause for most problems, but the current Duke felt no remorse or regret, even if his decision was initially made out of vengeance.

Julian used his own phone to make a call to the head of security. "Paul, send some men to the Angels Caring Center and escort my father out. He threatened one of my wife's closest friends. Bring him here and let the authorities know that I will be dealing with him alone."

Indeed, Julian was able to extend his power to such privileges. He may have followed Machiavelli's principle – the end justifies the means – but desperate situations required a lion heart. And Julian was truly savage at that moment.

"Maeve, my husband sent someone to get him out of there. Try to keep a low profile, alright? No confrontations, no irony, just a sewed mouth. Understood? Darling, you will be alright." Freya's voice sounded more harsh than she intended, but as much as she clung onto her self-control, she could sense its steady melt down.

Freya's phone was disconnected and so was Julian's. There were both facing each other with an equal dose of concern and fury. That bastard will be definitely receiving his payment for such a scheme.

While waiting for the culprit's arrival, Freya tried to find a distraction. John was, obviously, her best chance to preserve her sanity. He was arranging some documents into a neat pile, carefully numbering each of them. Was it appropriate for her to disturb him in his personal room? He seemed so focused, so drawn to his work. Fortunately, her doubt came to an end, for John was the one starting a conversation with his mistress.

"It is such a pleasant moment to see you, milady. How may I be of service?" The butler's controlled voice was dripping honey, but Freya could distinguish a needle-like undertone. His mask was tearing him apart.

"Well, you could drop the accent, for instance. And quit speaking so academically. There is no one here but you and I, and I most certainly do not request an etiquette."

John sighed relievedly, eluding from the burden of constant pretense. "Thank you, milady. I ain't lying to ya, it feels so much better." Yes, his true self was back and Freya was glad to witness real people from time to time.

John was hesitant for a few moments, but he eventually expressed his worry. "Is milord alright? He seems stressed all the time, something must be up."

"Some quarrels with his father, that would be all. How is Sophia? Is she still a book lover?" Freya deviated the conversation to safer grounds. John needed no more pressure to be added on his shoulders.

"Of course. She recently finished Les Miserables. In English version, of course. She loved it." Freya could see the caring grandfather beyond the butler uniform and grieving eyes. His niece was his light, his saviour, just like Julian was hers.

Oh, Julian. Freya remembered that her husband was in a more frail state of mind than she was. What was impetuous to be done was putting him above her need for mental safety. He was ruling the Duchy of Eastbroke, therefore balance was compulsory.

"Excuse me, John, I have to see Julian. Do tell Sophia that after the intrigues had finished, I will be taking her to the big library." She smiled bashfully, revealing her dimples.

She left in a hurry, reaching Julian's office in no time. Fortunately for her streched nerves, he was neither drinking, nor throwing fists. He was oddly calm, to be honest. Too calm for someone to whom a war was declared.

"Can I do something for you?"

Julian laughed bitterly. "If you can convince every nobleman that my relationship with my father is not a peril to the Duchy, be my guest. Apart from that, there is really not much you can do."

"I can try to ease your pain?" Freya's statement surfaced more like a question, for her husband's fatigued sight was adding to her uncertainty.

"Come here." He said, reaching for her with an elongated arm. She followed him warily, but relaxed the moment he put his head in her lap. He closed his eyes for a minute or two, evening his breath while massaging his wife's palm with his thumb.

They rested in silence, the same comfortable connection seeping in the air they breathed. It occurred to them that silence was the only state of tangible bond. When no words escaped flesh and bones, streams of empathy flooded every fiber of their bodies. Veins, arteries, skin, muscles – they were all linked to each other, unbreakable, unstainable, and unmovable. Just... serene.

"We will fight him together." She whispered, caressing a loose strand of Julian's eerie black hair.

"I know."

A few more minutes passed until John knocked and entered the office. He announced them of the former Duke's arrival and the officers that had accompanied him.

With a dismal growl, Julian sent John away, stood up and took his wife in the direction of the elder's unchivalrous protests.

The cat-and-mouse game was about to start. The most dominant question was... who played the mouse?