The Torture Room

Chapter 6

Despite the Grand Lady’s ceaseless monologue—an elegant stream of syllables polished by decades of genteel education—Asher found his thoughts drifting back to the maid. The memory of her lingered stubbornly, like a scent that clings even after the source has gone.

“You needn’t worry, Grand Lady,” he said smoothly, interrupting her as she paused to breathe. “There’ll be no scent of alcohol on my breath tonight.”

She turned to look at him—measured, unreadable. For a moment, it seemed she might continue her litany of polite conversation. Her gloved hand fidgeted with the delicate crystal tassels of her evening bag. The gesture caught Asher’s eye.

He tilted his head slightly, signaling she should speak.

“… Please,” she said at last, her voice tentative, “call me Vera.”

The request gave him pause. Of all the things she might have said—questions about the estate, the menu, the engagement—this was least expected. Just moments before, she had resembled a skittish lapdog, yapping not out of confidence but out of apprehension. And now, she reached across the social chasm with a simple plea for familiarity.

A reasonable gesture, perhaps. They were, after all, to be husband and wife. Sooner or later, the distance between them would have to close. To reject that olive branch, extended timidly though it was, would border on discourtesy.

And yet—when Asher opened his mouth to speak her name, it refused to emerge.

Vera Langridge.

Vera. He repeated the name silently, trying it out on his tongue. But it stuck there, heavy and archaic, like a relic from another age. She was every inch her name: modest, unyielding, elegant in the way a cathedral might be—impressive, yes, but too cold to touch.

Her reserved demeanor, her schoolmarm tone, even her luxurious evening gown, which somehow evoked the austerity of a nun’s habit—all of it formed an aesthetic that would’ve delighted his mother. And that, perhaps, was the problem.

He thought briefly of his younger brother, Jude—a man with a similarly restrained air and the same curious ability to turn a bespoke suit into a uniform. Would she not have matched him better than me? But Jude, as the second son, had been excluded from the negotiations entirely.

Asher smiled, slow and faintly sardonic.

“If you could call me Asher instead of ‘Captain Westin,’ I’d be grateful.”

He said it with the mild mischief of someone offering a dare he knew would be refused. Vera was too proper to use a man’s name so casually, especially in public. And he knew she would feel the trap in the offer. She hesitated, smiled faintly, and looked out the window. The moment passed.

Once more, silence gathered like fog inside the carriage.

It was a subtle victory—he had caused her to retreat from the familiar footing she had so carefully established. And he had done so without the slightest discourtesy.

The car pulled to a halt at the marina, bathed in the molten gold of the sunset. The river shimmered in the last light of day, and the docked cruise ships gleamed with gilded opulence.

Asher stepped out and circled around to open the door for her. He handed the boarding ticket to the steward as they approached.

The departure wasn’t scheduled for another four hours—a fact his mother had emphasized with her usual insistence on punctuality. In truth, it was less an itinerary and more a message: You will be early. You will be seen.

He sighed inwardly. It’s going to be a long night.

They followed a liveried steward toward an elevator. Inside, the mechanism shuddered to life and began its ascent. When it stopped abruptly, lurching at the top, a gloved hand clutched Asher’s arm with sudden, startled force.

Vera quickly withdrew her hand; her cheeks pink with embarrassment.

The elevator operator, grinning as if they were on a holiday tryst, winked at Asher. The gesture—presumably intended as a charming surprise—struck him as idiotic.

How crass. Does he think I’ll tip him for that?

Asher looked away without acknowledgment.

The ornate lattice door creaked open. They stepped into a long corridor lined with plush carpet and velvet-paneled walls. At the end, a pair of grand doors opened to reveal a stately dining hall.

Music drifted toward them. A tuxedoed pianist, seated at a grand piano, played a soft nocturne. Not jazz—his mother would’ve had a fit—but classical, the kind that sounded as if it had been lingering in the rafters for centuries.

The interior was suffused with heavy elegance: dark mahogany chairs with floral upholstery, soaring columns crowned with gold leaf, frescoes trimmed in lace and dust.

It was, unmistakably, his mother’s taste. She had never yielded to the new fashion. While others wore silk shifts and exposed ankles, she clung to her corsets and combed her hair into a style that had gone out with the empire. And Vera, of course, had followed suit.

They took their seats by the window. The wine menu was waved off without ceremony. Vera allowed him to order for them both.

“What would you like?”

“I’ll defer to your judgment.”

A non-answer. Carefully neutral. She could express a distaste for alcohol but wouldn’t commit to a preference in entrées. Perhaps she had been trained to suppress desire—a proper lady’s appetite was always discreet, always folded away.

He chose the most extravagant item on the menu and began to fill the silence with polite banalities: the weather, the view, the health of her father. Their words collided in the air and fell flat.

He was already tired.

Then came her question:

“What have you been working on lately?”

A surprise. She should already know—he was no stranger to rumor. She must have heard the stories.

Does she really want to know?

Did she want to hear about how a rebel infiltrator lived for three years among the Western Command before they finally rooted him out? About how many sleepless nights he spent tracing leaks and burning coded letters?

About how the man wept when they pulled his fingernails?

She’d turn pale if I told her. A poet with a lace handkerchief didn’t need to know what soldiers did in cellars.

“It would bore you,” he said instead.

She misread his evasion as gallantry and blushed.

“Oh—I didn’t mean to pry. It must be classified.”

“Only that the Western Commander resembles a frog,” he replied dryly.

She laughed. Lightly, politely. As if she believed it was meant to amuse.

He smiled, but his mind had already drifted.

This whole affair—adding another ‘Mrs. Westin’ to the ledger—felt transactional. Like purchasing a horse. Or a new gun dog. Once married, his obligations as heir would be fulfilled. No more theater. No more evenings like this.

Judging by the pace, the negotiations must be intense.

He had no idea how far the families had progressed. He hadn’t asked. His mother insisted on handling it herself, treating the marriage like a personal conquest.

“This is my job,” she would say, like a soldier preparing for battle.

And perhaps it was. Before she was Mrs. Westin, she had been the Count’s daughter—a woman who married a man she assumed would become an Earl.

She was still waiting.

The title had evaporated with the monarchy, replaced by promises and ashes. Now she wore her disappointment like mourning silk.

All Westin matriarchs had died as Countesses. But the Count’s crown had not rested on a Westin head in decades. The Reformists had broken the line.

His grandfather had cast off the royalists, joining the first government of the new republic. He became rich, but not noble. His father, outraged, fled to the exiled monarchy and helped lead the royalist resistance.

The monarchy returned, crowned once more in gold and blood. The rebels fled, their slogans discarded like old newspapers.

The Westins had been spared execution—but not humiliation. They lost the title and kept the estate. A consolation prize.

Asher’s mother, who had married for elevation, was left trapped in a name that no longer meant anything. And still, she fought. Negotiated. Bartered.

If this marriage worked—if Vera Langridge, daughter of a Grand Duke, bore a son—then perhaps one day that child would wear the crown his grandfather had been promised.

But Asher? He wasn’t interested in playing prince.

They’re all so foolish, he thought, his eyes wandering back to the window, to the river lit by dying light.

And the face of the maid, as always, drifted up unbidden from the depths of his mind.

Rosalie Alton… Who are you really?