The Villains Must Win

The priest's words fell on her like rain: "Fredrich and Lina, do you take each other . . ."

The promise to be together, through sickness, health, life, death. The landscapes of vows are always dramatic—emotional resonances softened by tradition.

Lina met Fredrich's gaze and found him quiet, almost fragile in the shifting lamplight. This man . . . he'd orchestrated a million scenes—romantic dinners, calculated gestures, territory-marking rules.

But here, fragile with tubes and heart monitors, he seemed real for the first time. However, she knew better.

The priest asked, "Do you, Lina, take Fredrich to be your wedded husband . . . ?"

She paused a heartbeat longer than necessary, wondering what she'd say next would define their future.

"I do," she replied, steady.

Fredrich's lips twitched upward in something softer than his usual controlled smile—something that looked almost like gratitude. He squeezed her hand.

The priest closed the small bedside Bible.

"Then by the authority vested in me," he said, "I pronounce you husband and wife."

Lina released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Outside, a nurse stepped in silently, adjusting an IV line. The new wife.

After the priest left, Lina leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to Fredrich's forehead. He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze.

"Thank you," he said, voice weak.

She smiled. "Take all the time you need to heal. I will be here right beside you. Always."

Fredrich smiled, something glint in his eyes. "Thank you."

====

In the deep hours of the third night, Lina slept in Fredrich's bed.

He requested to be transferred back to his estate—and so it was done without question.

Now, finally, Lina found herself beside Fredrich every night. As his wife.

There were no more excuses, no more separate rooms or guarded distance. The illusion of intimacy was complete, sealed with vows spoken under the shadow of near-death.

She was officially his. And he made sure she never forgot it.

Fredrich, eyes closed, breathed softly. The moonlight traced his profile—strong jawline, high cheekbones softened in repose.

The night was still, cloaked in shadows thick enough to muffle a scream. The walls of Fredrich's estate stood like solemn sentinels, cold and grand, hiding every secret they'd absorbed.

Lina moved quietly in the bed, barefoot, the marble under her toes cool like grave dust.

She had waited for this moment.

For months, she had played the part: the soft-spoken, compliant girl. The porcelain doll he always wanted. She smiled when he asked her to, wore the dresses he picked, let him whisper promises she didn't believe.

All the while, she was waiting—for the guards to lower their guard, for Fredrich's strength to wane.

And now, here it was.

Fredrich lay on the bed, his breathing shallow but steady. He wasn't as weak as he let on—Lina knew this.

He was always calculating, always in control. The wound Christian had given him was real, but he'd recovered far more than he pretended.

This charade of helplessness was another leash, another silent command: stay close, take care of me, bind yourself to me completely.

But tonight, Lina wasn't playing anymore.

She move over, clutching a pillow with trembling hands. Her fingers were cold. Her heart beat like war drums. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting silver streaks across the white linen and his resting form.

One breath. Two. Three.

She moved to the edge of the bed. Her face was unreadable—no tears, no rage, just the silent resolve of someone who had tried every other way and found none left.

====

The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting silver streaks across the linen sheets, pillows, and the still figure lying beside her.

Fredrich's breathing was no more, his chest no longer rising and falling. He looked almost peaceful, if not for the faint paleness to his skin and the slight furrow still etched between his brows—even in death, the storm within him never truly settled.

The sleeping drug wore off, leaving without a trace. Lina made sure that Fredrich wouldn't woke up when she suffocate him with a pillow. He was strong, so she had to be smart about this.

Lina sat at the edge of the bed, her expression unreadable. Her hands were folded in her lap, steady. She had waited for this moment longer than anyone would ever know.

One breath. Two. Three.

She exhaled slowly, like someone standing at the edge of a cliff preparing to jump.

"You're always guarded, Fredrich," she whispered, barely audible above the hum of the night. "Always three steps ahead. Always have bodyguards around."

Her gaze flicked to the nightstand, to the half-empty glass of wine she had poured for him hours ago were the sleeping pill was. "I had to wait. Pretend. Smile. Be your perfect doll."

Her fingers traced the embroidery on the blanket, but her eyes never left him.

"All those months . . . I had to play the weak one. The helpless one. The kind you wanted to protect—keep close, keep locked. But I'm not like that woman. I was never yours to keep."

She stood, adjusting the robe around her shoulders. Her voice hardened.

"You were never going to let me go," Lina whispered. "So I found my own way out. I had let you deal with Christian . . . and now it's my turn to deal with you. Perfect, really—wounded, vulnerable, and foolish enough to marry me. Your only mistake was thinking I was weak—and letting me into your room to take care of you."

Lina turned and walked to the window. Outside, the estate was quiet. Guards patrolled like shadows. The empire he built stood tall—but the man who ruled it would not rise again.

By morning, Fredrich's death would be declared a tragic heart attack. Peaceful. Unexpected. The doctors would say it was stress, perhaps nightmares—no one would question the timing too deeply.

After all, he had survived a brutal encounter just weeks ago.

Lina would play her part.

The grieving widow. The broken-hearted bride.

And no one would suspect.

Those who asked too many questions? Well . . . those questions would disappear, just like the camera footage. Just like the traces of what really happened.