Chapter 75
Lurick exhaled slowly and turned away, slipping back through the terrace doors with careful, practiced quiet, his fingertips brushing the iron handle as he closed it behind him.
He didn’t want her to know he’d been watching.
Downstairs, in the morning room where the light fell in dull slants across the parquet floor, Seth had set up his temporary war camp.
The table he had claimed was half-buried under folders, each labeled in his sharp, economical handwriting. His laptop sat open, its screen cluttered with overlapping case files and scanned estate records. His phone lay face-down beside it, untouched but close. Three legal briefs had been splayed open like offerings—annotated copies of the original will, the trust agreement, and Henriette’s outdated powers of attorney.
Seth didn’t bother to look up when Lurick stepped inside.
“She’s been in the gardens for ninety minutes,” he said, fingers tapping out notes with mechanical precision. “Same route. Same loop.”
Lurick leaned into the doorway, arms folded across his chest, body relaxed but mind humming. “She’s orienting,” he said, voice low. “Dr. Perril says familiar patterns can be grounding. Especially in dissociative states. Routine stabilizes the narrative.”
Seth scoffed under his breath, a short sound that didn’t quite qualify as a laugh. “Or she’s rehearsing,” he said. “Testing her lines for court. Either way, I’ve booked a full cognitive workup for her. Tomorrow. Eleven sharp.”
“She agreed to that?”
“She thinks it’s part of her royal schedule.” Seth finally lifted his eyes from the screen, one brow arching in quiet amusement, as if the irony of the situation amused and frustrated him all at once. His lips twitched into a half-smile, more reflex than genuine humor. “Which makes her cooperative. For now.” The words hung in the air between them, fragile and tense, like the calm before a storm no one was willing to name.
Lurick said nothing at first. His gaze drifted slowly toward the window, where the afternoon sunlight spilled in long, lazy beams, casting a soft golden line across the grass outside. The light was warm, innocent even, and yet it felt like a stark contrast to the knot tightening in his chest. He watched that strip of sunlit earth, thinking about the woman in the gardens below, her measured steps, her quiet certainty.
His voice came low, almost hesitant, cutting through the silence like a knife. “What if she’s not faking?” There was no accusation in the question. No challenge. Just a fragile hope tangled with the weight of doubt.
Seth’s fingers froze above the keyboard, the sudden stillness thickening the room. Neither man moved or spoke for a long moment, the silence between them stretching taut, heavy with unspoken fears and possibilities.
Lurick’s voice softened, steady and calm but edged with something deeper, uncertainty, perhaps, or the first cracks of doubt settling into resolve. “I’m not asking if she’s right,” he said carefully, as if careful words might hold back the tide. “I’m asking what if she really believes it?” The question lingered, fragile and weighty all at once, demanding an answer neither was sure they wanted to give.
Seth leaned back slowly, arms folding across his chest as if bracing for the conversation to turn sharp. “Then we’re in deeper than I thought. Because the law doesn’t care if she means it. If her perception’s broken, her intent is irrelevant. Sincerity doesn’t hold up in court.”
He gestured to the folders. “If she signs anything while unstable, Lui has grounds to contest it. If she refuses to sign, he’ll file for forced liquidation. Either way, the estate goes into lockdown. No repairs, no permits, no sales. Just limbo.”
Lurick stared at the floor for a moment, jaw set. “So what do we do?”
“We stall,” Seth replied, already turning back to the screen. “We keep her lucid. Keep her engaged. Keep her from doing anything legally irreversible.”
Dr. Perril arrived shortly after ten the next morning.
She stepped through the great front doors with the kind of quiet assurance that came from years of walking into unstable rooms. She carried no clipboard, wore no badge or white coat—just a simple blouse, a pair of dark slacks, and a worn leather satchel hanging from her shoulder. Her shoes made no sound on the polished stone, and her expression betrayed nothing.
Henriette was already waiting for her at the base of the main staircase, posture perfectly straight, hands clasped loosely in front of her.
“I expected you a bit later,” Henriette said, her voice calm and even, carrying no warmth but no hostility either, just a straightforward statement of fact.
Dr. Perril met her gaze steadily. “I wanted time to walk the house,” she replied quietly. “Places like this… they carry weight. History, memory. It’s more than just walls and furniture.”
Henriette tilted her head, a faint flicker of amusement crossing her features, as if intrigued by the idea. “For you, or for me?” she asked softly, eyes narrowing just a touch.
Dr. Perril offered a small, knowing smile, one that suggested she understood far more than she let on. “Let’s find out,” she said, voice low and deliberate.
Together, they stepped into the blue sitting room, the heavy wooden doors swinging closed behind them with a muffled click, sealing the space off from the rest of the castle and leaving only the quiet between them.