Married To Darkness - Chapter 498
Chapter 498: The Play house
“I would not ask what is wrong,” Alaric tried again, voice low and careful, “but… come with me to the theatre?”
The reaction was instant.
A tiny flinch.
A blink.
Her head turned—slow, disbelieving—until her eyes met his. Wide. Startled. Almost offended that he knew the one thing capable of cracking her silence.
Alaric froze.
He… hadn’t actually expected that to work.
He didn’t even have a pass to the playhouse—he’d just say anything now, do anything now, to make her look at him.
Salviana’s voice came brittle, scraped raw from disuse.
“I’ve never been to a theatre because of you.”
He blinked. “Because of me?”
“That was part of your restriction.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her fingers trembled just slightly in her skirt. “Royal wives cannot attend without a husband present. And you always had… excuses.”
Alaric inhaled sharply. That rule—he knew of it. He followed it carelessly, assuming she never cared for such things. He’d never thought she would want to go.
He had been wrong.
Very wrong.
“How about,” he said gently, heart tightening, “you tell me all about that as we ride to the playhouse?”
He smiled—hopeful, almost boyish—and extended his hand.
Salviana stood. She didn’t take his hand.
Her voice was a blade dipped in exhaustion.
“I don’t wish to hear your voice.”
He nodded once, not offended.
Not startled.
Just determined.
“You wouldn’t hear mine,” he said quietly, “if only you talk.”
She said nothing. But she walked—stiffly, regally—to the waiting carriage. And that was enough.
Manni, the coachman, straightened immediately when he saw the couple approaching.
“Your Highness,” he greeted with a small bow. “Your Grace.”
Salviana entered first, seating herself by the window, her posture perfect and distant. Alaric followed, sitting across from her like a man preparing for war.
A war he didn’t want to lose.
As the carriage started moving, he tried again.
“You know… theatres in the capital always have a new play on the first week of the month.”
She didn’t look at him.
He tried again.
“The last time I passed by, people were lined up around the street. Apparently there’s a romance comedy about—”
“I do not wish to hear about romance,” she said flatly.
That one stung more than the others.
Alaric let out a slow breath, nodding.
“Alright.”
Silence.
Manni drove, wisely not glancing back.
The rhythmic clip-clop of the horses filled the space between them—heavy, thick, suffocating.
Alaric leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes searching her face.
“You’re angry with me.”
She did not correct him.
“You’re hurt.”
No answer.
“You think,” he continued softly, “that what she said is true.”
Her breath caught.
Barely.
But he saw it.
That tiny tremor that told him everything.
She gripped her skirt tighter, knuckles pale.
Alaric exhaled, leaning back, guilt crawling under his skin like a sickness.
He let the silence stretch a little longer, choosing his next words with unusual care.
Finally, he said:
“Whatever she told you, Salviana…”
His voice lowered.
“…you should have asked me first.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I could not,” she whispered to the window. “I did not want to hear a lie.”
He blinked—honestly wounded.
“A lie?”
She did not look at him.
“I did not want to hear you defend the lips that pleased you.”
He froze.
And for the first time since this carriage ride began, Alaric looked shaken—truly shaken.
“Salviana,” he said quietly, “I have never—”
But she cut him off sharply.
“I said I do not wish to hear your voice.”
He closed his mouth instantly.
And the carriage continued on, carrying two people who loved each other without knowing how to stop hurting.
The theatre doors opened with a soft sweep of velvet and candlelight.
Salviana stepped out first, chin raised, expression carved from marble. Alaric followed closely behind, quietly paying off the manager at the entrance—silently ensuring they got seats immediately, without waiting in line.
Inside, the playhouse was dim, lit by warm golden lamps and a hundred flickering candles. The murmurs of nobles, the soft rustle of gowns, the sweet scent of balsam and hot sugar pastries…
Everything felt too gentle for the storm inside her chest.
Alaric guided her to their seats. The only time she looked at him was to make sure she was sitting far enough away.
The musicians began.
A soft violin.
A mournful flute.
A single drum that pulsed like a heartbeat.
The curtains rose.
The play was short—barely an hour—but heavy, woven with heartbreak. It told the story of a girl who waited every day for a lover who left to “live a better life,” promising her he would return. She kept a red ribbon he tied on her wrist. She kept her hope.
But he never came.
Years passed.
She grew tired.
She grew lonely.
And when he finally returned—older, regretful, broken—he found she had died of a sickness long before.
The final scene was simple: the man kneeling on the ground, clutching the faded red ribbon, sobbing because he came too late.
Salviana didn’t blink once through the play.
She sat still, hands in her lap, staring at the stage as if something inside her was cracking wider with each line.
Then—
A single tear slipped.
She wiped it quickly, thinking no one noticed.
Another fell. Then another. Her breathing shifted.
Her shoulders trembled.
Alaric noticed everything.
He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even breathe too loudly.
He just watched her silently break.
Halfway through the final scene, her breath hitched—barely audible but enough that Alaric’s chest tightened painfully.
Then she covered her mouth with her hand.
Trying not to sob. Trying not to be noticed. Trying not to fall apart next to the man she thought betrayed her.
Alaric’s fingers twitched.
He wanted to pull her close. To wipe her tears.
To whisper that she wasn’t alone. To tell her that nothing Eva said was true.
But she had asked for silence. So he gave it.
The curtain fell. Applause erupted.
Salviana didn’t clap.
She stood up immediately—not looking at him, not speaking, eyes glassy and red as she rushed toward the exit. A few nobles stared, recognizing her distress. She ignored them all.
Outside, the night air hit her like a wave.
Cool. Sharp. Too honest.
She inhaled shakily and wiped her cheeks, frustrated that tears kept falling even now.
Alaric caught up with her a few moments later.
“Salviana—”
“Don’t,” she whispered, but her voice broke around the edges, betraying her pain. “Please. Not right now.”