Chapter 72
Henri darted out of the room as if it were on fire. Damien stood still, his fists clenched so hard that his knuckles turned white.
“He’s gone, Damien,” Adele sighed, watching her son still glare toward the empty doorway where Henri had vanished. The air in the salon felt heavier now, thick with lingering distrust.
“I’m still telling you, Mother—they cannot be trusted,” Damien muttered bitterly. His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath his skin as old resentment simmered just beneath the surface.
Adele lifted a weary hand, steering the conversation back. “Alright. Let us return to what matters most.” Her eyes brightened with fragile hope. “I cannot bear the waiting. When will the results arrive p>
“In two days,” Damien replied. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and a rare, genuine smile curved his lips at the thought of finally bringing his sister home.
“That is wonderful, Damien.” Adele’s smile mirrored his for a moment, but hesitation shadowed her gaze. She folded her hands in her lap, choosing her next words carefully. “Though… I did call you here for another reason as well p>
Damien’s brow furrowed. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers, bracing himself. “What is it, Mother p>
Adele drew in a steadying breath. “Have you given any thought to marriage p>
The question landed like a spark on dry tinder.
“Mother!” Damien turned sharply, presenting his back to her. He had told her—countless times—that he had no desire to speak of this. The very word felt like chains tightening around his throat.
“You know I will not marry until Eugénie is found,” he said, voice flat and distant. “Only then will I restore what is rightfully hers and consider settling down p>
Adele’s heart twisted. She rose slowly, her voice trembling with the quiet urgency only a mother could summon.
“We do not know how long that may take, my son. I will not be young forever. I want to see you happy, with a wife and children of your own. For my sake… at least consider the proposals from the noble families p>
Damien’s silence stretched taut. The real problem was not duty—it was the ironclad expectation that his bride must come from impeccable lineage. The Monroe legacy demanded nothing less.
He finally turned, eyes blazing with fierce conviction. “I will marry no one but Isabella Niard. She is the love of my life. She is everything to me p>
Adele’s expression crumpled. “Damien… she is a cabaret dancer. Not of noble blood. The people of Monaco will never accept her as Duchess. The royal council—and the king himself—will oppose it. You could lose your title p>
“I don’t care about titles,” he growled, defiance radiating from every line of his powerful frame. “I want her p>
The words hung between them, heavy and unyielding. Adele’s heart ached with the familiar weight of watching the men she loved make reckless choices in the name of passion. She had seen the calculating gleam in Isabella’s eyes, the hunger for status and wealth that Damien, blinded by love, refused to see.
“Then prepare yourself to relinquish your title as Duke of Monaco,” she said gently, though pain flickered in her eyes, “and watch your cousin Henri claim everything p>
Damien’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, fury and frustration swirling like a storm inside him. The thought of that opportunistic fool tarnishing the Monroe name ignited something primal and protective within his chest.
“I will not let that snake destroy our legacy,” he snarled through gritted teeth.
Adele stepped closer, her voice softening into a careful compromise. “Then marry a noblewoman. You may keep Isabella by your side as your mistress. Many men of our station have done the same—their wives secure the bloodline and the title, while their hearts belong elsewhere p>
Damien stared at his mother, a storm of frustration and weary resignation warring across his face. The conflict tore at him—his love for Isabella burning bright against the cold weight of centuries-old duty.
“Fine,” he huffed, the word bitter on his tongue. “Choose a bride for me p>
Adele gestured toward a side table where neatly organized files lay waiting like instruments of fate. Damien cast them a bored, disdainful glance, his heart heavy with reluctance.
“I will marry whoever you select. I care nothing for her appearance or her name. She needs only be noble-born, ready to perform the duties of Duchess of Monaco, and content to remain my trophy wife in name alone p>
He turned toward the door, already withdrawing.
“Wait—one girl stood out to me,” Adele said quickly, unable to hide the note of genuine optimism in her voice. “She is perfect in every way. Her name is Anais, though her father p>
Damien halted mid-stride, cutting her off with cold indifference. “I don’t care about her father or her family history. If you believe she is suitable, set the date and inform me. I will check my schedule p>
Adele’s eyes widened in quiet shock. “You do not wish to meet her first? To at least know the woman you will bind yourself to p>
“Does it matter?” Damien shrugged, the movement laced with weary detachment.
In his heart, there was only one woman who truly mattered—Isabella. The future bride would be little more than a beautiful shadow, a necessary alliance to protect the dukedom.
Isabella had already moved into his private residence, shielded from prying eyes by his security. After the wedding, he had no intention of hiding her. This was how noble families had always operated: marriages for power, love kept in the shadows.
With one last emotionless glance at his mother, Damien strode from the room, his footsteps echoing with authoritative finality through the grand halls of the palace.
Adele remained behind, watching his retreating figure with a heart heavy as stone. She understood the depth of his feelings for Isabella, yet she also knew the truth: marrying the dancer would be a far greater mistake than marrying the suitable Anais.
Sacrifices had sustained their family through generations. She would make this one too—for her son, for the future, and for the legacy that must endure.