The Hidden Empress Stripping Her Secrets After Divorce novel Chapter 373

The Vault was located in the absolute depths of the estate.

Leon walked down a seemingly endless stone corridor, passing through three heavy iron gates before finally stopping in front of a massive, reinforced steel door.

There were no windows on the door, only a small viewing slit that could only be opened from the outside.

Leon stood before it, taking a slow, shaky breath.

He remembered the first time he had been brought here.

It was five years ago.

He had just started seeing Lyra. When his father found out, the man had erupted into a terrifying rage.

"A showgirl?" His father's voice had been absolute zero. "The Astor family will not accept a cheap dancer."

Leon hadn't listened.

He had genuinely believed he loved her, foolishly hoping his father would eventually understand.

This door had been the result.

He had been locked inside for three days and three nights.

When he finally came out, he was bedridden for half a month before he could even stand.

Since then, he had never dared to defy his father again.

And Lyra's name was never spoken of.

Leon placed his hand against the heavy steel.

It was biting cold.

He pushed the heavy door open.

—

The space inside was small, barely two hundred square feet.

There were no windows.

The only source of light was a dim, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting a sickly pale glow over the room.

The walls were bare, jagged stone. The floor was stained with dark, rusty patches—blood that had accumulated over the years, soaking so deeply into the rock that it could never be scrubbed away.

In the corner sat an iron chair fitted with thick leather straps designed to secure a person's wrists and ankles.

Hanging on the walls were various leather whips, batons, and tools that Leon didn't even want to know the names of. They gleamed maliciously under the yellow light, a gallery of torment.

The air was thick with a nauseating scent—rust, old blood, and the stale stench of decay.

Leon stepped inside.

Every step felt like walking barefoot on shattered glass.

He stared at the dark stains on the floor, remembering how he had lain there five years ago, his own blood pooling beneath him and painting those very stones.

He remembered the sickening crack of the whip slicing into his skin, the blinding agony of his flesh tearing open.

He remembered biting down so hard his jaw nearly broke, refusing to make a sound, even as the tears streamed silently down his face.

He remembered that when the door finally opened three days later, his legs had completely given out.

Leon swallowed the lump in his throat.

He took a deep breath and walked further in.

At the far end of The Vault stood a man.