The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 424: Dangerous Prey

Around midnight, she stood, leaving Caelen in their shared bed.

Her heart was hammering, but it wasn’t fear... it was the thrill of the hunt.

The Emperor’s study was a tomb of flickering candlelight and the scratch of a quill. Soren sat at his desk, his eyes burning with fatigue. He was staring at a report on the Virelya silver mines, but he hadn’t actually read a word in twenty minutes.

His mind was a repetitive loop of Eris. The way she had looked in the chair earlier that afternoon. The way she had said she wanted him to be at the festival.

Tomorrow, he thought, rubbing his face with his hands. I have to stand beside her for hours. I have to be the Emperor while my chest feels like it’s been caved in.

He thought of how he was hard to defeat by anything except his own thoughts... The dark persistent corner of his own mind.

He thought of Bianca, still out there somewhere in the dark. He thought of the trial. Everything felt like a weight he was no longer strong enough to carry. The candles were burning low, the wicks drowning in pools of melted wax, mirroring his own exhaustion.

A soft, hesitant knock sounded at the door.

Soren frowned. It was nearly midnight; no one should be wandering the administrative wing. "Come in," he called, his voice rough and wary.

He expected Jorel with news of an arrest. He expected a guard with a frantic message about the border.

The door creaked open, and Ophelia stepped into the room. 𝗳𝚛𝚎𝚎𝘄𝕖𝕓𝕟𝕠𝚟𝚎𝕝.𝗰𝕠𝐦

Soren stood immediately, the instinctual politeness of his breeding overriding his sheer exhaustion. He didn’t just stand; he surged upward, his hand moving away from the reports as he stared at the woman in the doorway.

"Ophelia?"

His confusion was genuine, sharp and cold. She looked like a specter born of the Northern mist. Her hair, usually pinned in elaborate, virginal braids, was down... a pale, shimmering curtain that fell over her shoulders in intentional disarray.

She wore a simple cream nightgown of fine silk, partially obscured by a heavy velvet robe she clutched tightly at her chest. She was barefoot, her toes peeking out from the hem of her gown, looking small and defenseless against the cold marble floor.

One hand rested habitually, almost performatively, on the few months swell of her belly. Her eyes were rimmed with red, glistening with the sheen of unshed tears that caught the candlelight.

"Is everything alright?" Soren asked, his voice low and urgent. "The baby... is there a medical emergency? Should I summon the healers?"

"Oh, no," Ophelia said quickly, her voice a soft, breathy whisper that seemed to vibrate with a fragile tremor. "No, the baby is fine, Your Majesty. I just... I couldn’t sleep." She offered a small, apologetic smile that trembled at the corners. "I saw the light beneath your door. I hope I’m not disturbing your work."

Soren remained standing, his posture rigid. "Not at all," he replied, though his tone was layered with a professional distance. He didn’t move toward her. "But it is very late, Ophelia. What brings you here? At this hour, surely you should be resting?"

Ophelia took several tentative steps into the room, her bare feet silent on the thick rugs. "I wanted to thank you," she said, her voice dripping with a gentle, honeyed sincerity. "For everything you’ve done for Caelen. For the healers, for his safety... for being the friend he doesn’t deserve right now."

It was a textbook move... the vulnerable presentation, the damsel in distress seeking shelter in the shadow of a powerful man. She stood there, a picture of soft, wounded grace, projecting a "prey energy" designed to trigger the protective instincts of any Northern gentleman.

Soren kept the desk between them, a solid mahogany barrier. "Of course," he said, his voice clipped. "Caelen is my friend. I would do no less for him. It is a matter of loyalty, not a debt that requires thanks."

"You look so tired," Ophelia murmured, moving a few inches closer, her eyes fixed on the dark circles beneath his. "You work too hard, Soren. You carry the weight of the entire world on your shoulders while the rest of the palace sleeps." She let out a gentle, self-deprecating laugh. "Perhaps you should rest? Even emperors need sleep. I fear you’ll work yourself into a fever."

She paused, her eyes searching his. "May I sit? My legs... they tire so easily these days."

Soren couldn’t refuse a pregnant woman a chair without being a monster. "Of course," he said, gesturing to the chair Eris had occupied hours before.

He sat back down only after she was settled, but he did not lean forward. He sat across from her, the vast expanse of the desk and the guttering candles acting as a moat between them.

Ophelia leaned back, her hand never leaving her stomach. She looked down at her lap, her expression falling into a mask of quiet, dignified suffering. "I’ve been feeling... so lost lately," she whispered. "Caelen has been so distant. Even when I’m in the room, it feels like he’s looking through me, searching for something... or someone... else."

Soren listened, his expression schooled into a polite, neutral mask. "I am sorry to hear that, Ophelia. Recovery is a long road. His mind may simply be clouded by the whole event."

"It’s because of Eris," she said, the name falling like a drop of ink into clear water. She said it softly, without a hint of accusation, as if it were merely a sad truth they both shared. "He’s still... so affected by her. I suppose a woman like me can’t compete with a presence like that."

She looked up then, her blue eyes wide and searching, pinning Soren to his seat. "She has that effect on people, doesn’t she?"

Soren felt a cold prickle of alarm at the back of his neck. The conversation had shifted from a neighborly check-in to a calculated interrogation.