Chapter 826 - 825- Mother-in-Law’s Suffering

Chapter 826: Chapter 825- Mother-in-Law’s Suffering

She nodded. The motion was small. Tight. The nod of a woman who had spent years collecting pieces and had already assembled the puzzle.

"Of course I have," she said. "I have spent fifteen years gathering intelligence. I know about the conspiracy. I know about the noble houses involved. I know about the betrayal. I know about the poison. I know..."

"You have the information regarding the events," Viktor interrupted. "But do you have the information regarding the reality behind those men? Their actual identities? The men who molested your mother?"

Johana lifted her head. Her eyes, pink and gray, met his. The tears, still wet on her cheeks, glistened.

"It does not matter," she said. The words were firm. The wall, built over years, was there. "They are dead. Or scattered. Or irrelevant. The information I have is sufficient."

Viktor chuckled. The sound was low. Warm. The chuckle of a man who had just been told the sky was green and found the assertion charming.

"It matters," he said. "Because the man who led them. The one who complimented your mother’s body. The one who said she was pretty. The one who chose her for the mission."

He paused. The silence was deliberate. Calculated.

"His name is Rolando."

The name landed. Heavy. Final.

"He is the uncle of the Crown Prince Leo. Duke Rolando. The one with a bit more vulgar tone, as you might recall."

Johana’s body went rigid. The coffee cup, already trembling, shook violently. The liquid, cold and black, sloshed over the rim. The drops, landing on her pants, spread in dark circles.

’The voice. That voice. The one that said she was pretty. The one that said she was a fine piece. The one that laughed when she screamed.’

She remembered. The voice, deep and rough. The laugh, hollow and ugly. The words, crude and specific, about her mother’s body. The elasticity. The muscles. The way she moved.

’That voice. I have heard it since. At noble gatherings. At royal functions. Behind the masks at masquerade balls. That voice belongs to...’

"Duke Rolando," she whispered. The name, spoken aloud, tasted like ash. "He is the one who..."

"He had a crush on her, after all," Viktor said. His tone was casual. Discussing a crush as if discussing a favorite color. "He must have complimented your mother’s body too much. He was obsessed. When she rejected his advances, when she refused to share the intelligence she had gathered on the royal family, he arranged the entire operation. The betrayal. The poison. The men."

Johana trembled. Her whole body shook. The coffee cup, held between white-knuckled fingers, rattled against the saucer.

"Why?" she said. The word was barely a sound. "Why would royalty, Dukes, go after destroying my mother like that? She was an information collector. A tool. Why would they..."

"Due to your father."

The words hit like a physical blow. Johana’s mouth closed. Her eyes, wide and wet, fixed on Viktor.

"Your father," Viktor continued. "Was a man of his own league. Achieving an Archmage rank. In a kingdom where power reigned supreme, that kind of achievement was... unprecedented. It made him valuable. It made him dangerous."

Johana’s jaw tightened. "Is that it? They wanted to recruit him?"

"Not exactly. Your mother suggested that your father join the neighboring kingdom. To not lose him. To protect him from the factions that were trying to control him."

"They orchestrated a strategy," Johana said. Her voice was hollow. The words, familiar from years of investigation, came automatically. "They needed to blame someone else for what they had done. To throw everything on the family of Latvia. To frame the neighboring kingdom. To force my father to choose a side."

"They needed a weapon," Viktor said. "A weapon of destruction. Something that would tip the balance. Your father, the Archmage, was the only one capable of creating it."

"The world-ending sapphire," Johana whispered.

"He did create it," Viktor said. "Before getting killed himself."

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. The weight of information, of history, of a tragedy that had been decades in the making and decades in the hiding, pressed down on the room.

Johana’s hands, around the coffee cup, were still. The trembling had stopped. Her face, wet with tears, was expressionless. The mask, the one she wore daily, had settled back into place.

"She knew all of this?" Johana said. The question, quiet and pointed, was about her mother. "My mother. She knew the strategy. The framing. The weapon. She knew?"

"Of course she did," Viktor said. "She was the intelligence collector. She knew everything. Which is why they did not kill her."

Johana’s head snapped up. Her eyes, wide and burning, locked on his.

"It is impossible," she said. Her voice was hard. Certain. "I saw her body. I saw the poison. I saw the blue. She was dead."

"Was she?" Viktor’s voice was gentle. The gentleness of a man delivering a truth he knew would hurt. "You saw a body. Cyanotic. Unresponsive. You were eight. You ran. You did not check the pulse. You did not verify the death. You assumed."

Johana opened her mouth. Closed it. The objection, the denial, died on her tongue.

"Your mother," Viktor continued, "had the most capable intelligence network in the kingdom. Do you think they would simply kill her? Discard her? No. She was too valuable. The information in her head, the contacts, the network. They would keep her. Somewhere. Alive."

"Where?" Johana’s voice cracked. The single word, loaded with fifteen years of grief and searching, broke in the middle.

"The palace," Viktor said. "Somewhere in the palace. She is alive. She is, most likely, a prisoner. But alive."

Johana stared. The coffee cup, forgotten, sat between her hands. The liquid, cold and black, was still. The tears, still falling, dripped from her chin. Onto the table. Onto the floor.

Her eyes, moving from Viktor, found the mother-in-law.

The woman. The thick, collared, half-naked woman sitting beside Viktor. The woman whose pussy was still leaking his cum. The woman whose breasts were hanging out of her bodice. The woman whose thighs were marked with teeth and handprints.

"Don’t," Johana said. Her voice was tight. "Don’t compare. Don’t think of my mother like this woman."

She looked at the mother-in-law. At the collar. At the rope. At the short skirt. At the milk-stained cleavage. At the cum on her thighs.

"My mother would never fall this low," Johana said. The words were harsh. The judgment, deliberate. "She would never let a man do this to her. She would never wear a collar. She would never..."

Viktor reached over. His hand found the mother-in-law’s wrist. Grabbed. Pulled.

The mother-in-law moaned. The sound, soft and involuntary, escaped her lips before she could stop it. Her body, already primed by hours of conditioning, responded to his touch. Her thighs, pressed together, loosened. Her nipples, beneath the bodice, stiffened. Her breathing, already rapid, quickened.

She trembled. Her eyes, on the floor, didn’t lift. She couldn’t look at Johana. Couldn’t face the judgment. Couldn’t acknowledge what she had become.

’Why did I wear this dress? Why did I let him bring me here? Why did I let him fuck me in an alley? In front of those men? Why am I sitting here, leaking his cum, while this woman looks at me like I am dirt?’