Chapter 5: Wives at War, Secrets Revealed

“Megan!” my son suddenly shouted, his voice sharp, veins bulging at his temple. “So that’s your angle—‘a wife should never remarry,’ right?”

His words were cruel, meant to wound. I saw Megan flinch, but she didn’t back down.

“Look at Ellie! She’s as innocent as they come. How could she possibly compete with you girls bred in gilded cages?”

The comparison was absurd, but he believed it. I felt a surge of anger on Megan’s behalf.

Megan kept her eyes lowered, showing no reaction.

Her silence was her shield. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a response.

“Guards.” My voice was so hoarse I barely recognized it. I felt like I’d aged ten years in an instant. “Drag this—” The word ‘idiot’ rolled around on my tongue, but I didn’t say it. “Drag this unruly fool out.”

The guards hesitated, unsure whether to obey. I fixed them with my sternest glare, and they finally moved forward.

I’m still the king. Even if I die, I’ll do it with dignity. No need to say anything unseemly.

I straightened my back, refusing to let my illness show. If this was my last stand, I’d make it count.

My son panicked as the guards approached. “How dare you! I’m the heir, the future king. You think you can touch me?”

He tried to stand his ground, but his voice wavered. The guards looked at each other, uncertain.

His words left the guards at a loss. On one side, a dying king; on the other, the soon-to-be king. They truly didn’t know what to do.

The tension in the room was palpable. I could feel everyone holding their breath, waiting to see who would blink first.

“Heir?” I sneered.

The word tasted bitter in my mouth. I couldn’t believe I’d ever thought him worthy.

Wanting everything, having it both ways—how did I never realize before how shameless he could be?

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. I’d been blind, and now everyone could see it.

“From this day forward, you are no longer the heir. The next head of the family will be someone else.”

The words were final, irreversible. The room erupted in whispers, shock and disbelief rippling through the crowd.

At these words, Megan and the relatives showed a mix of joy and worry, but together they pleaded, “Sir, please calm your anger. Think of the country above all.”

Their voices blended together, a chorus of concern and caution. But I could see the relief in some eyes, the fear in others.

The country? If I really handed it over to this idiot, I wouldn’t rest in peace even in death.

I’d spent my life serving something bigger than myself. I wouldn’t let it end in disaster.

Ellie, standing nearby, seemed to realize I was serious about disinheriting my son. She hurriedly spoke up.

Her voice was shrill, desperate. She clung to my son’s arm, her eyes wild.

“Sir, you can’t do this.”

She sounded like a child denied dessert, not a woman fighting for her future.

“The crown always passes to the eldest son. How can you disinherit him and name another?”

Her words rang with entitlement, as if tradition alone could save them. The relatives exchanged uneasy glances.

The hall fell silent. I watched with interest as the young woman suddenly stood up.

Her dress clung to her in the rain, and she looked more like a defiant teenager than a queen-in-waiting. Still, she held her head high, daring anyone to challenge her.

A mere dancer, daring to make such bold pronouncements about succession in the family mansion. Who gave her the nerve?

I almost admired her audacity. Almost.

Even my son seemed to realize Ellie had spoken out of turn. Embarrassed, he tugged at the scant sleeve of her dress.

He whispered something in her ear, but she shook him off, determined to have her say.

“Don’t try to talk me out of it. I love you so much—how could I bear to see you suffer such humiliation?”

He looked at her with puppy-dog eyes, as if that would fix everything. I rolled my eyes.

“How am I any less than Megan? Why would you rather disinherit your son than let him divorce his wife?”

She squared her shoulders, meeting my gaze without flinching. I saw something hard in her eyes—a determination I hadn’t expected.

“I truly love him. If he takes over, I’ll help him become a worthy leader.”

The promise sounded hollow, but she believed it. I almost pitied her.

“If you don’t believe me, put me head-to-head with Megan. Tell me how I’m not outstanding—why would I lose to some old-fashioned society woman?”

Her words dripped with scorn. I saw Megan stiffen, but she didn’t rise to the bait.

“I know how to make explosives. With them, the border wars will change, and you won’t have to worry about General Parker anymore.”

The claim was so outrageous, I almost laughed. The relatives looked at each other, unsure whether to call security or just let her talk herself out.

“Sir, please let me and your son be together.”

She knelt, her dress soaking up the rain, and looked up at me with pleading eyes. The drama was almost too much.

Ellie bowed her head and knelt, certain that once I knew she could make explosives, I wouldn’t dare disinherit my son. She shot Megan a smug look, then sagged against my son’s shoulder.

The gesture was calculated, a performance for the ages. My son wrapped his arm around her, oblivious to the absurdity of it all.

“Don’t do anything rash and ruin your relationship with your dad. It would break my heart.”

She clutched her chest, tears streaming down her face.

Theatrics worthy of a daytime Emmy. I almost applauded.

I looked at the two of them as if I’d swallowed a fly. Honestly, I was a little scared. Was she all right? This woman really might not be in her right mind.

The thought crossed my mind that maybe she needed help—real help. But my son was too far gone to see it.

Everyone around me was kneeling, not daring to look up. Only those two clung to each other, completely shameless.

The contrast was almost comical—dignity on one side, delusion on the other.

My son was so stupid, he’d forgotten all sense of propriety.

I wondered if he’d ever had any to begin with.

Seeing me stay silent, the two seemed to regain their confidence. They waved the maid with the umbrella back over, and my son declared, “Megan, since Dad won’t let me divorce you, then you should ask for a divorce yourself.”

The arrogance in his voice was staggering. The maid hesitated, unsure whether to obey.

Megan snapped her head up, her diamond hairpin not moving an inch. This was the daughter of a general who’d stared down firefights on the front line. Now, there was a fire in her eyes I couldn’t understand.

For the first time all night, I saw a spark of the old Megan—the warrior, the survivor. She met my gaze, and I knew she was ready to fight.