The Torture Room

Chapter 5

He viewed his subordinates as nothing more than the machinery of his estate—gears to be oiled, replaced, or discarded. He was not one to pause to inquire about the inner lives of those gears, he couldn’t care less about a pleasant conversation with such.

So what, exactly, did he want to know?

Surely not something as trivial as Rosie Alton or her mother. If he sought biographical details, the Reformist’s intelligence dossiers had already supplied them in meticulous detail. Yet judging by his earlier behavior, this inquiry felt different—coarser, dangerously intimate.

A scathing retort nearly escaped her, but she bit it back, sealing it behind gritted teeth.

“Perhaps…” he began softly, his eyes locked onto hers with unnerving intent.

It wasn’t a lewd question. Nor was it uncomfortably personal. But Rosie almost wished it had been.

“Did you ever visit Darlinghurst Beach as a child?”

The moment he uttered the name, her heart stuttered.

Darlinghurst Beach…

Memories—blurred, sun-soaked, and long buried—rose unbidden. Her childhood mistake flickered across her mind like a damaged reel of film. One careless summer, more than a decade past, now threatening to unravel everything.

No. Don’t spiral. He’s fishing, not confirming. There’s no proof.

There was only one option: play dumb, play poor. It was the safest card she had.

Rosie tilted her head slightly, blinking with an air of confusion. “No…” she said, dragging out the word, voice small. “My parents couldn’t afford such luxuries. We were too poor to dream of resort vacations.” Her tone brimmed with subdued sorrow, the posture of a downtrodden girl whose only family—her tubercular mother—was the anchor of her grim reality.

Westin didn’t speak. He simply watched her.

His stare was unflinching, scrutinizing. Was he searching for deceit—or a flicker of memory reflected in her eyes?

She wanted to look away. But she couldn’t. Not until the silence grew oppressive, her blouse damp with sweat, clinging to her spine.

Finally, he chuckled.

“Well, then,” he murmured, the smile tinged with mockery. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”

With that, he turned and returned to the car. A moment later, the iron gates groaned open, and his vehicle rolled past her. Rosie watched until it vanished into the distance.

She exhaled sharply, muttering beneath her breath:

“Damn these eyes of mine.”

º º º

The wheels of the black automobile slowed as it approached the brick-paved drive. At the end, the wrought-iron gates remained stubbornly closed.

Although the butler had been informed of the captain’s arrival, the driver glanced uneasily at Westin in the rearview mirror and laid on the horn—twice.

Eventually, a middle-aged man emerged and fumbled with the gate’s mechanism. The car crept forward as the gatekeeper gave a hurried salute. Westin offered only a faint smile and turned his gaze ahead.

No surprise there, he thought. Subtle discourtesy had become the signature of Grand Duchy Langridge’s household. And truthfully, why not? The Westins had everything to gain from this engagement. For Langridge, it was a long-term investment. The imbalance was not lost on either side.

Mother will be furious, he mused, the corners of his mouth lowering slightly.

The endless stretch of road finally yielded to the Grand Duchy’s summer villa—a towering structure meant to intimidate. For debtors or social climbers, it would have worked. For Asher Westin, it inspired only irritation.

As the car stopped before the entrance, the butler emerged with theatrical slowness. Pierce, Asher’s attendant, sprang from the passenger seat to open the rear door.

“Captain Westin,” the butler drawled, “His Grace awaits you in the parlour.”

Asher shut the folder on his lap, opened the briefcase beside him, and retrieved his cap. Pierce moved to assist, but Westin waved him off. He slipped the pen and file back into place, adjusted his cap, smoothed the curl in his hair, and stepped out with soldierly grace.

“Captain,” Pierce whispered, “if you’d like to hurry…”

Westin dismissed him with a glance and followed the butler inside.

“The Grand Duke is waiting.”

That caught him off guard. He hadn’t expected Langridge to be here in person.

Inside, the Grand Duke lounged on a velvet settee, newspaper in hand, his attire more casual than the grandeur of the setting suggested.

“Ah, Captain Westin,” he said, standing.

“Your Grace,” Asher replied with a courteous bow.

“Come to collect Vera, have you?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The Grand Duke twirled one end of his mustache. His gaze dropped pointedly to the officer’s uniform. “I admire your discipline—treating courtship like a military operation.”

The words were wrapped in politeness, but Westin could hear the disapproval underneath. A formal date deserves a formal suit—not combat attire.

“I was delayed by duty,” Asher explained with a tight smile.

The Grand Duke’s expression revealed little, but his tone turned wry. “Indeed. Even the ever-punctual Captain Westin is late today.”

Asher blinked. Did he know the exact time of the meeting?

Is he truly waiting…? Or is there another motive?

“I trust you’ll stay for a drink?” the Duke asked, but it wasn’t a question. He strode to the corner of the room, pouring amber liquid into a crystal glass.

Before Asher could respond, a knock interrupted them.

“Your Grace, Lady Vera has arrived.”

“Send her in.”

The door opened, and Vera Langridge entered, dressed immaculately. Her gown, unlike the rising trends of the city, was long and conservative, barely skimming her ankles. Opulence without elegance. She was draped in wealth, but her demeanor was bland.

“Captain Westin.”

“Lady Langridge.”

Their voices were formal—far too formal for an engaged couple.

Asher offered his arm. She placed her hand on it so delicately he could scarcely feel it. She hated physical contact. She also, evidently, hated dates.

“Your Grace,” Asher said, “I’ll take that drink another time. The cruise departs soon.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” the Grand Duke replied with a measured smile. “Make it a meaningful evening.”

Meaningful for whom? Asher thought bitterly.

The car rolled along the riverside, the city gliding past the window. Silence reigned inside. Pierce, struggling with the heavy air, leaned forward to make conversation. He cheerfully listed the specialties of the cruise’s bar and restaurant, hoping to spark some connection between the two passengers.

“I don’t drink,” Vera said coolly.

Asher suppressed a sigh.

It was a pointed statement—likely a reaction to her father offering wine back at the villa, or perhaps Pierce’s eager suggestions. The Grand Duke was a well-known drinker. Often, daughters of such men had no taste for liquor.

“Alcohol distorts judgment. They say it numbs pain, but in truth, it creates deeper wounds. It weakens self-control, especially in social engagements.”

Is that a veiled warning? Asher narrowed his eyes. Is she implying I’d take advantage while drunk?

Her sudden philosophical disapproval grated on him. A woman who typically barely spoke now lectured him like a schoolmistress. He didn’t want to waste this evening playing at romance. And yet—he was the lesser party in this transaction. This woman seemed to know it.

Maybe she assumed that to secure the alliance, he’d seduce her, impregnate her—ensure the deal by force of lineage.

Ludicrous.

If he'd intended to consummate this arrangement, he would’ve done so already. There were cleaner methods than entrapment. Besides, he had no taste for intimacy. Naked women didn’t allure him. The perfume-drenched courtesans who haunted military parties left him cold. None had ever stirred even a flicker of want.

So why now—why did he burn at the memory of a maid who reeked of sweat and blood?

As the woman beside him sat in powdery silence, Asher stared straight ahead.

And in the silence of his mind, a name repeated like a drumbeat:

Rosalie Alton…



What in God’s name are you?