Page 40 of His Contract Queen

Whatever righteous indignation he thought he could muster, whatever polished authority he intended to wield, it withers on his tongue. He lowers himself back into his chair stiffly, waiting mutely for me to proceed with whatever it is I came here for.

I simply reach into my pocket and withdraw the burner phone and place it on the polished surface between us. Then, I slide it toward him using two fingers, the device gliding across the glossy wood until it stops directly in front of his hands. Close enough that he can’t pretend to misunderstand what’s happening.

Ramil’s eyes drop down to the phone.

Behind him, his medals and awards catch the afternoon sunlight, glinting with a quiet, accusing brightness that is almost hard to look at. Rows of polished brass, framed badges, decades of service, discipline, and supposed honor all sit uniformly surrounding him. Physical proof of a man who once pretended he stood for something now gleam behind him like a cruel joke.

I lean forward and tap the screen twice.

It wakes with a flare of light, revealing message after message from the unanswered thread already pulled up. The chair underme creaks again once I settle back into it, folding my hands into my lap.

For a long, suspended second, he doesn’t move.

Not even to breathe.

Something inside him fractures visibly, given the way the muscle in his jaw jumps. His composure, that careful mask he’s worn for decades in uniform and in public, cracks right down the middle.

Then he lifts his eyes to mine. They dart between mine frantically, searching for mercy he already knows will not be granted to him. Dozens of questions flash behind them, silent and useless.

Where did you get this?

How did you get this?

How could my daughter be careless enough to allow you to find it?

Did she sell me out? Is that why you’re sitting here with proof in your hand instead of back at the estate punishing her?

None of them matter anymore.

They all lead to the same dead end—me, here, inside his private residence holding the evidence of his betrayal like a loaded gun pointed straight at his chest

He rubs a hand over his face, fingers dragging down slowly, pulling at the skin around his eyes until it looks painful. When he exhales, it’s shaky, his hand wavering as he lowers them back to his desk.

“This…” His voice cracks on the first syllable. He clears his throat and tries again. “This was never meant to get back to you. But not in the way you’re thinking.”

I say nothing.

His throat bobs when he swallows again. “I never expected her to actually bring you down. I’m not a fool. Men like you… men tied to the Iron Pact don’t fall that easily. If ever. I never intended to use any of this against you.”

I don’t dignify that with a response.

That much is obvious. Painfully so.

“It was only supposed to distract her,” he adds. “Enough that she wouldn’t fight you while she was there.”

There it is, the truth finally stripped of its ceremony.

He keeps going, faster now as though momentum of the confession might carry him past the edge of the cliff he’s already standing on. “That story was for her, to make her cooperate. To make her believe she was serving a greater purpose while she acclimated to your estate. That’s all. If I’d told her about the debts, she would have refused. So I… simply reframed it.”

For a long moment, I let the silence fall over us again.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, eyes darting to the door, to the window, to anywhere but my face. He’s used to my being amused, detached in a macabre way. He waits for the version of me that always arrives with a smirk and leaves with whatever he came for, no matter the initial protesting.

Rarely does he ever see this side of me. And never has it been directed at him until now.

“You played her,” I say evenly.

He answers too quickly. “No. I just didn’t want to complicate things.”