Outside the room, Lorenzo leaned against the wall, her chest heaving.
Her lips were still stained red from Marie's blood, glistening in the dim torchlight of the corridor. She was panting, her whole body trembling with the aftershocks of what she'd just experienced.
The blood, Marie's blood, was coursing through her, setting every nerve ending alight. It was intoxicating, overwhelming. Like having sex with Marie over and over again, each wave of pleasure crashing through her in relentless succession.
Her fingers still tingled with the memory of Marie's body, her mouth still tasted of her skin and blood. Lorenzo closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing, trying to regain control. Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Lorenzo's eyes snapped open as Marcello approached, his expression carefully neutral.
"The plan is going well,"Marcello said, his voice low. Then his gaze flickered to the bloodied dress clutched in Lorenzo's hands, then up to the crimson staining her lips. His jaw tightened, and he quickly looked away, clearing his throat.
"I guess... what is done is done now." He paused, then added quietly, "She is your woman now."
Lorenzo wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing the blood across her skin. She straightened, forcing herself back into composure, back into the role she needed to play.
"Prepare the horses," she commanded, her voice still rough but gaining strength. "And have a messenger summon the Boleyn family to open ground. The negotiations can start." Marcello nodded, but hesitated before turning away.
"Should I... should I have someone attend to her?" He glanced back at the closed door, a flicker of concern crossing his features. Lorenzo's expression shifted, a shadow of sadness passing over her face.
"No," she said quietly, her voice heavy with regret. "Unfortunately, nobody can attend to her before her family sends someone to check and verify that she has indeed been deflowered."
She looked down at the bloodied dress in her hands. "It's part of the tradition. She must remain... as she is... until they come."
Marcello's jaw tightened, but he nodded in understanding. "As you say."
He turned to carry out her orders, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Lorenzo stood alone once more, staring at the bloodied dress in her hands. Marie's scent still clung to the fabric. She closed her fist around it, her resolve hardening. This was done. There was no going back now.
Back at the Boleyn estate, Philip bounded back toward the balcony, a small bouquet of wildflowers in his hand.
"Marie! Sorry about that, but I thought you might want to—Marie?" The balcony was empty.
He frowned and looked around. "Marie? Come now, we don't have time for games! We're already late!" Silence. His frown deepened. "Marie, this isn't funny! The carriages are waiting!"
He descended to the gardens, calling her name. The path was empty. The oak tree stood alone. Then he saw it.
On the ground near the garden path, half-hidden in the grass, Marie's veil. But not just discarded. It had been placed there deliberately, folded carefully. And on top of it, weighted down by a stone, was a square of red cloth.
Philip's blood ran cold. Red cloth.
The first blood tradition. "No,"he breathed. "No, no, no—"
He snatched up the veil and the cloth and ran, shouting as he went. "Mother! Father! Someone, Marie's been taken! Marie's been taken!"
Within minutes, the Boleyn household erupted into chaos. Lord Boleyn's face went white, then red with rage.
"What do you mean, taken? Who would dare..."
"The red cloth, Father!"Philip thrust it into his hands. "The first blood tradition!Someone's claimed her!"
Lady Boleyn swayed on her feet, and two servants rushed to support her. "No," she whispered. "Not this. Anything but this."
Ann stood frozen in the doorway, her face a mask of horror. Messengers were dispatched immediately. Within the hour, the news reached the palace.
King Henry VIII flew into a towering rage, his roar echoing through the halls. "FIND HER! I want every road searched, every house turned inside out! Whoever did this will hang—they will hang!"
William stood pale and silent, his hands trembling. He looked more afraid of the king's wrath than concerned for his missing bride. Troops poured out of the palace and into the countryside.
The Boleyn estate swarmed with guards, questioning servants, searching every corner. Gossip spread like wildfire through the court and beyond.
Whispers in corridors, speculation in taverns. Some said it was political enemies of the Boleyns. Some said it was a rival suitor. Some said the girl had arranged her own kidnapping to escape a marriage she didn't want.
The panic reached its crescendo as the sun began to set and still, there was no sign of Marie Boleyn. And in that locked room in Lorenzo's stronghold, Marie lay curled beneath a bloodstained sheet, her body aching, her heart shattered, her future irrevocably changed. She had been claimed. There was no going back.
The messenger arrived at dawn, when the Boleyn estate was still in chaos. Servants were being questioned, grounds searched, and Lady Boleyn had to be given laudanum to calm her hysteria.
A rider in dark clothing dismounted at the gates, carrying a wooden box sealed with a familiar crest, an eagle holding a blue rose. Lorenzo's personal seal. He handed it to the guards with a single instruction: "For Lord Thomas Boleyn. From His Imperial Highness."
The box was brought to the great hall where Thomas Boleyn stood with his brother Gilbert, Gilbert's son Matthew, and Thomas's son Philip. King Henry VIII himself had remained at the estate, his fury still simmering just beneath the surface.
Thomas stared at the seal for a long moment. They all recognized it. Lorenzo wasn't hiding, he was claiming this act openly, brazenly. Thomas opened the box with trembling hands. Inside, carefully folded, lay Marie's wedding dress or what remained of it.
The ivory silk was stained dark red in unmistakable places. The bodice. The skirts. The undergarments. The evidence was clear, damning, and deliberate.
Lady Boleyn, who had insisted on being present despite her distress, let out a strangled sob and had to be helped from the room. Beneath the clothes lay a letter, written in elegant script on fine parchment. Thomas unfolded it with shaking hands and read aloud:
*"To the Most Honorable Lord Thomas Boleyn,* *I write to you not as a thief in the night, but as a man of honor who has exercised his rightful claim under the ancient laws of my people. Your daughter, Lady Marie Boleyn, was promised to me long before any English arrangement was made. I have claimed what was mine by right.* *I invite you and your family to meet with me on neutral ground to discuss this matter as civilized men. I have no wish for bloodshed or dishonor to fall upon your house. Let us speak and clear the air. The messenger who delivered this will guide you to the appointed place when you are ready.
With respect,
Lorenzo Di Sforza"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Then Henry exploded. "LORENZO!" The king's roar shook the rafters. "That Italian cur! That snake I welcomed into my court!"
He slammed his fist on the table, making the box jump. "I thought Marie's coldness toward him yesterday meant she'd finally rejected him, that he'd given up and would crawl back to whatever hole he came from! But no...he was plotting! Planning this... this abomination!"
Thomas stood frozen, his face ashen. Gilbert and Matthew exchanged dark looks. Philip's hand had gone to his sword hilt.
"We need to move now," Gilbert growled. "Before he can flee the country with her."
"The stables," Matthew said sharply, his voice tight with fury. "Check the stables. If his men are still here—" But when they rushed to the stables, they found them nearly empty. Lorenzo's entire retinue, his guards, his servants, his horses, had vanished. They'd used the chaos of Marie's disappearance to slip away unnoticed, like ghosts in the night. Philip kicked a stable post in frustration.
"Cowards! They've run!" When they returned to the great hall, Henry was pacing like a caged lion, his face purple with rage. "I brought him here," the king snarled. "I welcomed that foreign prince into my court, into my kingdom! This insult falls on me as much as on your house, Thomas."He turned to face the Boleyn men, his eyes blazing. "I will make him pay for this crime in your name. I will see him hanged for what he's done to your daughter...to England!"
Thomas Boleyn stood very still, his mind racing. He looked at the letter again, then at the box with its damning contents. He looked at his brother Gilbert, who was ready to ride out for blood. He looked at the king, whose pride had been wounded as deeply as the Boleyn honor.
And he thought of his daughters. Of Ann, whose position at court was precarious at best. Of Marie, already compromised. Of the delicate web of alliances that held their family together. If the king got too involved in this, if it turned bloody, the aftermath would be catastrophic. Henry would inevitably turn this into a matter of his own wounded pride. And when the dust settled, Ann and Marie would find themselves pitted against each other for the king's favor.
Henry had a way of doing that with women, of making them compete, of playing them off one another. It would destroy both his daughters. Destroy the entire family. But if this could be handled quietly, carefully, between Thomas and Lorenzo...
"Your Majesty," Thomas said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "I appreciate your loyalty to my family. But I... I must ask you not to be dragged into this." Henry's eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that Lorenzo has invited us to talk. To negotiate."Thomas held up the letter. "He claims he has a right to her. Whether that's true or not, we should hear him out before we start a war." "
A war?" Henry scoffed. "I could crush him like an insect!"
"And lose dozens, perhaps hundreds of English lives in the process,"Thomas replied carefully. "And for what? My daughter's honor is already compromised. Nothing will change that now. But perhaps... perhaps we can salvage something from this disaster."
Matthew looked at his uncle as though he'd gone mad. "Uncle Thomas, he stole your daughter!" "He *claimed* her," Thomas corrected, his voice tight. "According to him. And if there's any truth to that claim, any at all, then we need to know before we act."
Henry studied Thomas for a long moment. The king was many things, impulsive, proud, dangerous but he wasn't stupid. He could see the political calculation happening behind Thomas's eyes.
Finally, Henry nodded slowly. "Very well. We'll hear what this Italian dog has to say. But Thomas—" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "If I don't like what I hear, I'll have his head regardless of his title."
"Understood, Your Majesty."