The morning light came weakly through the tall windows of the Hartwell estate. In Mrs Hartwell's bedroom, the heavy curtains were only partly open, letting in just enough sun to brighten the edges of the room. She sat propped up in bed, her greying hair still in its nighttime braid, one hand resting on the bell rope as if she might call a maid at any moment.
Her eyes were fixed on the open magazine in her lap.
The headline was large, the photographs clear. Noel... her youngest son...standing in a destroyed room, clothes half torn, surrounded by unconscious men.
Her mouth opened slightly, then closed. Her hand shook as she touched the page.
"Noel," she said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "Please... This can't be real!"
She pulled her robe tighter around her shoulders and stood up quickly. Her slippers made soft sounds on the carpet as she hurried out of the room, magazine held against her chest. Servants in the hallway bowed as she passed, but she didn't slow down or speak to anyone.
She reached her husband's bedroom door and pushed it open without knocking.
He was still in bed, half-covered by blankets, hair messy from sleep. He opened one eye, already annoyed.
"What is it?" he asked roughly. "It's too early for this."
She walked straight to the bed and held out the magazine.
"I'm sorry and didn't mean to ruin your wonderful morning but you need to see this now."
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face. "What could possibly..."
He took the magazine and looked at the cover, then opened it to the main story. His eyes narrowed as he read the headline and saw the pictures.
He let out a short, cold laugh.
"This garbage?" he said. "You woke me up for some newspaper story?"
She moved closer. "Look at the pictures. It's Noel. The article says he fought off kidnappers. He saved people. That's our son."
Mr Hartwell stared at the photos for a longer moment... Noel, sweaty and bruised, standing over fallen men.
"Saved people?" he repeated, voice full of doubt. "That boy? He can't even handle basic responsibilities. All he's ever done is cause problems for this family."
"But it's in Bennett Ashford's magazine," she said. "He owns the company. He doesn't print fake stories like this."
Mr Hartwell handed the magazine back.
"I don't care who owns it. People make up anything to sell copies. Go back to bed. Let me sleep."
She stood there for a few seconds, watching his face. He turned away, pulling the blanket higher.
"Fine," she said quietly. "I just thought you should know."
She left the room, closing the door softly. Mr Hartwell lay back down, staring at the ceiling.
The image of Noel from the magazine stayed in his mind.
Then he remembered yesterday when Noel was in his office with blood running down his face from the cut he had caused.
His hand tightened on the blanket.
"That damn boy," he muttered.
He couldn't go back to sleep.
.
.
Breakfast in the dining room was already underway when Mr Hartwell came down later.
His older children sat around the long table... Alaric and Lucien, the sons, and the two daughters. They had the magazine open in the centre, passing it between them, talking in low voices.
"Is that really him?" one daughter asked.
"It has to be fake," Lucien said. "Noel doesn't fight. He avoids everything physical."
"Look at the face," Alaric said. "It's definitely him."
The room went quiet when Mr Hartwell walked in.
He took his seat at the head of the table.
"Put that away," he said sharply. "Eat your food."
They closed the magazine quickly and set it aside.
Servants brought his plate... eggs, jam, toast, and coffee. He started eating, but his eyes moved to the empty chair at the other end of the table.
"Where is Noel? Has he had breakfast already?" he asked.
The butler stepped forward. "Young Master Noel hasn't come down yet, sir. The maids say he's unwell. He may have a fever."
Mr Hartwell's fork hit the plate hard.
"A fever?" he said loudly. "And no one told me? Get the doctor here immediately."
The butler bowed and left quickly.
Mr Hartwell wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood.
"I'll check on him myself."
The rest of the family exchanged glances.
"Since when did father care about Noel?"
"Uh... Five seconds ago?"
.
.
Noel's bedroom felt hot and stuffy. The air smelled of sweat and medicine. He lay in bed, eyes closed, breathing unevenly. His hair was damp against his forehead, his nightshirt sticking to his skin from fever sweat.
Two maids were in the room... one wiping his face with a cool cloth, the other changing the water in the basin.
The door opened. Mr Hartwell walked in and went straight to the bed. The maids stepped back as they watched him reach out and put his hand on Noel's forehead.
It was burning.
Noel opened his eyes slightly, but didn't speak.
"You'll be fine, son," Mr Hartwell said, voice firm. "The doctor is coming."
His eyes moved to the bandage on Noel's forehead... the cut from the glass yesterday.
He looked away quickly.
Then he saw something else... a faint red mark on Noel's neck, just above the collar. His face changed as he reached down and pulled the collar aside roughly. The mark was clear... fingerprints, red and obvious.
"What is this?" he asked, voice low and angry. "How did you get this?"
Noel's mind was slow from the fever. It was from the nightmare room. From the Ashford brothers. He tried to think of a way to answer his father.
Before he could say anything, Rowan stepped forward from the corner of the room and dropped to his knees.
"It's my fault, sir," Rowan said quickly. His voice was steady, but his face was pale. "Yesterday at the market. The kidnappers grabbed him. One of them did that before I could stop it."
Noel tried to shake his head.
"No... that's not—"
But he was too weak to say a word. His head barely moved.
Mr Hartwell looked down at him. "Is that what happened?"
Noel shook his head with his eyes on Rowan. Mr Hartwell stood up straight not believing Noel. Since Rowan has confessed, Noel's answer doesn't matter.
"Rowan," he said coldly. "Come to my office. Now."
Noel tried to speak. "No—"
His voice was too quiet.
Rowan looked at him for a second, then stood and followed Mr Hartwell out.
Noel closed his eyes, breathing faster. Panic rose in his chest.
'Not Rowan. Not because of me. I already promised him...' His mental thought screamed as he lost consciousness slowly.
.
When Noel woke again, the fever had gone down a little. The room was cooler. His mother sat in a chair beside the bed, holding his hand gently.
The doctor was there too, packing his bag.
"The cut got infected," the doctor said to her. "That's why the fever started. He needs complete rest. He shouldn't get up for a few days or he might get dizzy. The medicine that I prescribed..."
Noel looked around slowly. Rowan wasn't in the room.
"Mother?" he said, voice rough. It was his first time seeing Noel's mother.
She leaned closer. "I'm here. How do you feel?"
"Where's Rowan?"
She hesitated as she looked away from him.
"How long," Noel asked, trying to push himself up, "has he been gone?"
"About three hours," she said quietly.
Three hours.
Noel sat up fully, ignoring the pain in his head.
His mother reached for him. "Noel, lie down. The doctor said—"
He moved her hands away carefully but firmly.
"Rowan works for me," he said. "I'll handle this."
He stood up slowly, legs shaky. He grabbed a robe from the chair and put it on.
His mother tried to stop him again, but he walked to the door.
.
.
Outside his father's office, the butler stood in front. He was surprised when he saw Noel staggering towards the office.
"Young master," he said, holding up a hand. "You shouldn't be here."
"Where is Rowan?" Noel asked, ignoring the man.
"I apologise but he's not here at the moment." The butler said but Noel heard the sounds from inside. A whip cracking and pained grunt. Then another crack.
He pushed past the butler and opened the door hard.
Rowan was on his knees in the centre of the room, shirt gone, back covered in red welts. Some were bleeding. Two guards stood behind him, whips in their hands.
They raised them again.
"Stop!" Noel yelled.
The guards paused, but didn't lower their arms completely.
"Stop it right now!" Noel shouted, moving forward.
One guard turned toward him, whip still ready.
"Enough."
Mr Hartwell spoke from behind his desk, voice calm but hard. Everyone stopped.
The guards stepped back as Mr Hartwell looked at Noel.
"What do you think you're doing here?" he asked.
Noel stood there, breathing hard, his fever making his vision blur a little.
The room was completely silent.