The Reborn Duchess's Ruthless Revenge

The champagne in Isolde's glass had gone warm, but she didn't put it down. She needed the prop. It gave her hands something to do other than strangle the man standing ten feet away. Senator Jerald Levine. He was laughing at something the Minister of Defense said, his head thrown back, exposing a thick, fleshy neck. To anyone else in the Royal Hall, he was a pillar of the community. A father. A patriot. A man who had just brought his family back to the capital to serve the crown. To Isolde, he was a parasite. A carrion crow who had picked her family's bones clean once before. The memory hit her, sharp and unwelcome as a shard of glass under the skin. It wasn't the warm glow of the gala, but the cold, sterile light of a hospital room. It wasn't the murmur of polite society, but the incessant, cruel beeping of a heart monitor. In her previous life, Levine had succeeded. The grainy, humiliating photos he took tonight had been plastered across every news feed, every tabloid cover. The Queen Mother, her beloved grandmother, a paragon of dignity, reduced to a caricature of shame in her most private moments. The blackmail that followed had brought the Crown to its knees, but it was the public humiliation that had truly broken the old woman's spirit, sending her to an early grave. The ensuing chaos had destabilized the throne, and in the political turmoil that followed, their enemies had closed in. The memory shifted to the scent of rain and twisted metal, to the sight of Elliot's body, broken and lifeless in the wreckage of their car—an "accident" arranged by those who profited from the chaos Levine had unleashed. Isolde blinked, the magnificent ballroom coming back into focus. The memory receded, but the cold fury it left behind was a fire in her veins. No. Not this time. This time, the parasite would be the one crushed. She watched him over the rim of her glass. She knew what he was looking at. He wasn't looking at the Minister. His eyes kept darting to the velvet rope at the far end of the ballroom. The rope that guarded the staircase to the private royal quarters. Specifically, the Queen Mother's quarters. "He's checking the guard rotation," a low voice murmured in her ear. Isolde didn't flinch. She leaned back slightly, feeling the solid warmth of her husband, Duke Elliot Powers. He smelled of sandalwood and the faint, metallic scent of rain. It grounded her. "He's impatient," Isolde whispered, her eyes never leaving Levine. "He's been waiting for this gala for months. He thinks the noise will cover him." "He thinks wrong." Elliot's hand rested on the small of her back. His thumb traced the line of her spine, a possessive, reassuring weight. "Are you sure about this, Isol? Once we do this, there is no going back. The Levine family has influence." Isolde turned her head, looking up at Elliot. His jaw was set, his dark eyes scanning the room with the predatory focus of a wolf guarding its territory. His face, so alive. A face she had once seen only in fading photographs after it was all over. He didn't know. He couldn't know that her certainty was forged in the fires of a future that had already burned them to ashes, that her knowledge came from a life of unimaginable grief. He only knew that his wife had asked him to trust her, and for him, that was enough. "I'm sure," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her soul. "He likes antique restoration. Tell him the Queen Mother recently acquired a Ming Dynasty vase that needs a connoisseur's eye. He won't be able to resist." Elliot nodded once. He didn't ask for sources. He never did. He just squeezed her waist and walked away, disappearing into the crowd like smoke. Isolde watched the play unfold. She saw Elliot whisper something to a waiter. She saw the waiter approach Levine. She saw the greed flare in Levine's eyes, bright and ugly. Five minutes later, Levine's daughter, a girl no older than eighteen, spilled red wine all over her white dress near the garden entrance. It was a clumsy, staged accident. The crowd turned. The guards at the staircase looked away for exactly ten seconds. That was all Levine needed. He moved fast for a heavy man. He slipped under the velvet rope and vanished up the stairs. Isolde took a sip of her warm champagne. It tasted like victory. The corridor leading to the Queen Mother's suite was silent. The thick carpets swallowed the sound of footsteps. Levine was sweating. He could feel the perspiration trickling down his back, soaking his dress shirt. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, erratic rhythm. It wasn't fear. It was excitement. He reached the heavy oak doors of the private suite. He pulled a small device from his pocket-a digital decoder. He had paid a fortune for it on the black market. He held it against the electronic lock. Click. The light turned green. Levine pushed the door open and slipped inside. The room smelled of lavender and old paper. The Queen Mother's scent. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring. It was intoxicating. He didn't waste time. He moved straight to the dressing area. The large, ornate mirror was framed with intricate wood carvings. Perfect for hiding a lens. His hands were shaking as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a button. It looked like a standard tuxedo button, but the weight was wrong. It was a camera. High definition. Wireless. He reached up, his fingers fumbling with the carved roses on the mirror frame. He needed to wedge it right in the center, where it would catch everything. Every private moment. Every vulnerability. "A little to the left," a voice said from the shadows. Levine jumped. The button slipped from his sweaty fingers and bounced silently on the plush rug. He spun around. Duke Elliot Powers was sitting in a wingback chair in the corner of the room. He wasn't looking at Levine. He was looking at an unlit cigar in his hand, rolling it back and forth between his long fingers. "Duke Powers," Levine stammered. His voice was high, breathless. "I... I was just conducting a security audit. Unauthorized entry is a serious concern, I wanted to prove-" "Pick it up," Elliot said. His voice was soft. calm. Terrifying. "Excuse me?" "The camera," Elliot said. He finally looked up. His eyes were dead. There was no anger in them, just a cold, absolute void. "Pick it up." Levine swallowed hard. "It's not a camera. It's a button. My jacket-" Elliot stood up. He didn't rush. He unfolded his tall frame with a lethal grace. He walked over to where the button lay and crushed it under the heel of his polished oxford shoe. The crunch of plastic was loud in the silent room. "You have a notebook in your left breast pocket," Elliot said. "Give it to me." "That is my personal property!" Levine backed away, hitting the dresser. "I have diplomatic immunity! You cannot touch me! I am a Senator!" "Immunity applies to foreign dignitaries and political misunderstandings," Elliot said, closing the distance. "It does not apply to treason." "Treason?" Levine laughed, a nervous, bubbling sound. "Don't be absurd. I haven't sold state secrets." "You broke into the private residence of the Royal Family with intent to gather compromising material for leverage," Elliot said. He reached out, his hand moving faster than Levine could react. He grabbed Levine's lapel and yanked him forward. "That is an act of war against the Crown." Elliot reached into Levine's pocket and pulled out the small, leather-bound notebook. He flipped it open. Photos. Grainy, zoomed-in photos taken from long distances. The Queen Mother in the garden. In her study. Elliot's expression didn't change, but the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He ripped a page out of the notebook. He crumpled it into a ball. "Eat it," Elliot said. Levine stared at him. "What?" Elliot shoved the paper into Levine's mouth. His hand clamped over Levine's jaw, forcing it shut. Levine gagged, his eyes bulging. "Swallow it," Elliot whispered. "Or I will make sure you never leave this room." Two men in black tactical gear stepped out from the hidden servant's entrance. They didn't look like palace guards. They looked like executioners. "Get him out of here," Elliot said, releasing Levine. The Senator slumped to the floor, coughing, spitting out wet paper. "The Royal Military Police are waiting in the service tunnels. They'll handle the processing. Quietly." "My wife..." Levine wheezed. "My career..." "Your career is over," Elliot said. He turned his back on him. "Your family's name will be stripped from every record in this city. Burn the notebook. Keep the digital files for the trial." Elliot checked his cuffs. He smoothed a microscopic wrinkle on his sleeve. He waited until the door clicked shut and the sounds of Levine's muffled protests faded away. Then, he lit his cigar. Downstairs, Isolde was waiting. She saw Elliot appear at the top of the staircase. He caught her eye and gave a barely perceptible nod. Isolde let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She watched as a group of federal marshals entered the ballroom, heading straight for Mrs. Levine, who was currently bragging about her husband's upcoming cabinet appointment. The music didn't stop. The laughter didn't cease. But the Levine family was being erased in real-time. Isolde took another sip of champagne. One down.