Acidity of Regret Ch 30
- Dec 26, 2025
- 8 min read
[Garten] “A pleasure to finally meet you, Your Grace. Indeed, the rumors did not do you justice—you are breathtaking.”
One of the envoys finally snapped out of his trance, stammering through a belated greeting.
Vanessa offered a thin, polite smile in return, which only served to make several men at the table flush a deep, visible crimson.
Declan watched the display, a dark, mocking laugh curling in the back of his throat.
He was reaching his limit with the way men reacted to his wife. It was always the same half-witted gawking, as if they were all reading from the same pathetic script.
Vanessa, however, remained impassive. Even though the envoy’s opening remark was borderline boorish—commenting on a woman's appearance before anything else—she didn't flinch. It was a clear sign that she had spent her life navigating this brand of blunt, masculine hunger.
Before the urge to personally gouge out their eyes became overwhelming, Declan signaled the servants to begin the service.
Seated at Declan’s side, Vanessa finally risked a glance toward the Crown Prince. She had felt a weight on her all evening; it turned out Hayden had been staring at her since the moment she entered the room.
She kept her expression carefully neutral. This was an important night for Declan’s interests, and she refused to let her personal history with the Prince ignite a scandal.
Fortunately, the meal proceeded without a disaster.
The men maintained a steady flow of conversation, allowing Vanessa to retreat into a comfortable silence. She focused on the mechanical task of eating, forcing small bites of food down a throat that felt tight with anxiety.
Between her lingering uneasiness and the suffocating presence of the Crown Prince, her appetite had vanished entirely.
Declan seemed to sense her struggle, occasionally sliding softer, lighter dishes toward her that were easier to swallow.
Even amidst the high-stakes political posturing, he remained attentive to her. It was a small mercy.
As always, but especially tonight, he was the only anchor she had in a sea of uncertainty.
[Declan] “Vanessa. We’ll be moving to the drawing room as soon as the meal concludes. If it’s too much for you, you can retire now.”
As the main course was cleared and the dessert service prepared, Declan leaned in, his voice a ghost of a whisper intended for her ears alone.
[Garten] “My, what an enviable picture of marital bliss.”
One of the envoys caught the intimate exchange and couldn't resist commenting. The others quickly joined in, sensing an opening for flattery.
[Garten] “Indeed. The Grand Duke hasn't been able to take his eyes off the Duchess all evening.”
[Garten] “I understand the Crown Prince is of a similar age to His Grace. Seeing such devotion up close must surely make you eager to find a bride of your own, Your Highness.”
Vanessa froze, her heart skipping a beat as the conversation veered sharply toward Hayden.
The history of her failed engagement to the Prince was a secret guarded by those involved; the world at large knew nothing of the pact that never was.
Yet, the Garten envoys spoke with a casualness that made her skin crawl, as if they were poking at a fresh wound they couldn't see.
They were likely just trying to lighten the mood, to grease the wheels of diplomacy with a bit of humor.
Regardless, the reminder of her fractured past made the air in the room feel thin. She knew she should remain poised, but her composure was fraying at the edges.
Suddenly, a warm hand covered her own atop the table.
[Declan] “Actually, my wife has been feeling under the weather since this morning. I’ve been quite concerned.”
Declan’s heavy, authoritative tone instantly dampened the jovial atmosphere. An envoy leaned forward, his expression shifting to one of polite concern.
[Garten] “Oh dear. Did you force yourself to attend for our sake?”
[Vanessa] “Not at all. I was looking forward to this evening after hearing so much from my husband. However, it seems my appetite has failed me, and I find myself feeling a bit faint. I fear I must excuse myself.”
No one dared protest a sick woman’s departure.
Declan gave her hand a firm, supportive squeeze before letting go.
Vanessa offered him a weary, grateful smile and beat a hasty retreat from the dining hall.
[Maid] “Your Grace, shall I summon the physician?”
A maid followed close behind as Vanessa hurried down the corridor.
The servant’s solicitous tone felt strange to her.
Since Declan had begun spending his days at the castle, lavishing her with attention, the staff’s demeanor had undergone a radical shift. It was a cold reality of the household: a wife’s power was directly proportional to her husband’s affection.
Vanessa had seen people flip their loyalties like coins too many times to find any comfort in it now. She knew their respect was a fair-weather friend, liable to vanish the moment Declan’s gaze turned elsewhere.
[Vanessa] “No, the physician won't be necessary.”
She rubbed at the persistent ache in her chest, pausing to look out a window. The sight of the sprawling, open gardens called to her. She needed air.
[Vanessa] “I think a walk in the garden might settle my nerves.”
[Maid] “The wind is quite biting tonight, Your Grace. Shall I fetch a blanket?”
[Vanessa] “I would appreciate that.”
A plush wool blanket was produced in moments. Vanessa draped it over her shoulders and stepped out into the night.
The maid had been right; the sunless wind was sharp. The chill seeped through the blanket, but the cold was preferable to the suffocating tension of the dining room.
Vanessa ventured deeper into the garden, the soft thud of footsteps following her. She was never truly alone; if she was outside the castle walls, she had a tail.
Declan had insisted it was for her protection—a safeguard against the unknown threats facing a Grand Duchess—and she had eventually relented. Their compromise was a ten-pace gap between her and her shadows.
Crunch. Crunch.
The low heels of her shoes pressed into the frost-tipped grass.
Vanessa looked up at the sky. It was a hazy, starless void that threatened to spill over into rain at any moment.
She rounded a corner near a towering topiary when the wind suddenly roared, a violent whoosh that whipped her hair across her face.
As she reached up to brush the strands away, a figure exploded from the tree line.
Her eyes went wide, her scream dying in her throat as a man shrouded in a charcoal-black robe lunged.
Before she could react, he hoisted her over his shoulder and sprinted back toward the dense thicket of the woods.
[Vanessa] “Wh—What are you…!”
The world blurred. In a panic, she began to hammer her fists against the man's back. It was like striking a stone wall; her knuckles throbbed, but the man didn't flinch.
His shoulders were broad, his frame corded with the kind of hard muscle that left no doubt: this was a soldier.
This was a kidnapping. The realization turned her blood to ice.
[Vanessa] “Let me go! Put me down!”
She thrashed with everything she had, but he handled her as if she weighed nothing at all. He moved like a shadow, weaving through the darkness with predatory speed.
Within minutes, she realized they had reached a secluded, stone-arched gallery on the far edge of the estate.
He finally set her down in a deep, shadowed alcove. The moment her feet hit the gravel, Vanessa turned to run, but his hand clamped firmly around her waist, pinning her in place. Terror clawed at her lungs.
[Vanessa] “No! Help! Someone! Declan! Decl—!”
She screamed for her husband, her face ghostly pale. But the cry vanished into the night the moment the man threw back his hood.
Her emerald eyes shook with a violent, disbelieving tremor.
[Vanessa] “…Elliot?”
She whispered the name as if it were a prayer she was afraid to utter, her hands flying to cover her mouth.
[Elliot] “My Lady.”
The familiar voice—and that archaic, beloved title—shattered her defenses. The wall of terror she had built up dissolved into a puddle of shock.
In her mind, Elliot had been a ghost, a casualty of the night her world ended.
Elliot dropped to one knee, a silent apology for his rough handling, and pressed his lips to the back of her hand. It was a gesture from their time at the Rohawk estate; whenever his stoic nature had accidentally offended her, he would soothe her with this exact, rigid brand of chivalry.
Seeing him do it now, unchanged by time, cracked open the dam of her grief.
[Vanessa] “How… how are you here?”
[Elliot] “To see you safe… it is the only thing that matters.”
She realized then that Elliot’s hands were shaking just as violently as her own.
Her legs gave out, and she sank to the ground, forcing her to lock eyes with him.
She searched his face. Aside from a jagged scar near his mouth, he was exactly as she remembered.
A reunion with a dead man. The only person left on earth who shared the memories of the life she was trying so hard to forget.
Her eyes filled with hot, stinging tears.
[Vanessa] “Elliot. You’re alive. How did you find me? Where have you been all this time?”
[Elliot] “My Lady, please. You must remain calm.”
[Vanessa] “Calm? How can I be calm? You appeared out of thin air! When you vanished that night, I thought… I thought everyone was gone. My father… that morning, he…”
The questions poured out of her in a frantic, disjointed stream.
Elliot wasn't just a knight to her. They weren't bound by blood, but he was the closest thing she had ever had to a brother. He was family.
[Elliot] “I heard the news about the Count.”
His expression darkened with a profound, heavy grief. Unlike her frantic energy, his stillness was chilling, and it only made Vanessa more desperate for answers.
[Vanessa] “Elliot, tell me. What is the truth? Do you know? Did my father really commit treason? The Imperial Guard… they told me that morning that the Rohawks were conspirators. And then the Captain of the Guard, he… he killed him…”
The image of her gentle, doting father being cut down before her eyes flickered in her mind—a recurring nightmare that made her head throb and her stomach churn.
She wanted it to be a dream. She wanted to wake up and find that none of this—the blood, the auction, the marriage—was real.
[Elliot] “My Lady.”
Vanessa looked up, her vision blurred by tears.
[Elliot] “The rumors of the Count’s treason are a lie.”
He spoke the words with a sharp, piercing clarity, staring directly into her trembling eyes.
[Elliot] “You know the truth better than anyone. Count Rohawk was not a man who would ever let petty greed lead him to such a path.”
Finally, someone had said it. Someone had looked at the darkness and called it a lie. Her father was innocent.
[Vanessa] “Ah… oh god.”
A long, ragged breath escaped her—a sound of pure, agonizing relief.
She had tried to resolve herself to being Declan’s wife, to leaving the past in the dirt, but the doubt had been a cancer in her mind. She had felt a crushing guilt for even wondering if her father had been a traitor.
But as she began to find her footing, it was Elliot’s turn to fracture.
[Elliot] “But… what is this I hear?”
[Vanessa] “...”
[Elliot] “The Grand Duchess? You… you are the wife of the Vinkart beast?”
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