The Hidden Empress Stripping Her Secrets After Divorce novel Chapter 586

Astor Manor.

The corridor on Basement Level Two was endlessly long. Harsh, cold white light reflected off the concrete walls, casting a sickly pallor over the space. Footsteps echoed through the hollow hallway, each rhythmic thud feeling like a heavy strike against the heart.

The assistant walked in front, with the Duke trailing closely behind. Two figures moving in tandem, their steps heavy and deliberate.

The Duke wore a dark dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the prominent veins tracking across his forearms. His hands were empty, but his knuckles were bone-white, curled into tight, unforgiving fists.

The assistant stopped in front of a heavy iron door, pulling out a key to unlock it. The sharp click of the mechanism echoed unnervingly loud in the dead silence of the hallway, snapping like a broken bone.

The door swung open.

The lights inside were off. Darkness spilled through the crack, carrying a damp, suffocating stench of iron rust and stale sweat. The Duke stepped inside and flipped the switch on the wall. The overhead fluorescent tube flickered twice before buzzing to life with a faint electrical hum.

Pierre sat in the corner.

A thin mat was spread across the floor, and he was slumped upon it, his back pressed flat against the wall. He was still wearing the same clothes from the day he was dragged away—a dark blue suit jacket over an unbuttoned shirt, its collar torn open where the buttons had violently been ripped off. There were no visible wounds on his face, but his lips were badly cracked, and heavy, dark bruises shadowed his under-eyes. He looked entirely drained of life.

When the light hit him, he squinted. Not out of fear, but simply because his eyes hadn't adjusted to the sudden brightness. Once his pupils contracted, he finally registered the man standing in the doorway.

His father. The Duke.

Pierre didn't move. He didn't stand up, and he didn't speak. He just sat there, watching as the Duke took slow, measured steps toward him. The leather soles of the Duke's dress shoes thudded against the concrete floor, dark and steady.

The Duke stopped right in front of him, staring down with predatory dominance.

"Have you thought it through?" His voice wasn't loud, but in that confined space, every word carried a suffocating weight.

Pierre lifted his head. "I didn't kill Leon."

The Duke stared at him for a long moment. Then, a terrifying smile crept across his face—a fleeting, frozen crack on the surface of ice.

"Your stubbornness reminds me entirely too much of myself at your age," he sneered.

Pierre's pupils dilated slightly. The Duke had already turned around, walking over to the adjacent wall where a whip hung suspended. It wasn't some decorative artifact—it was a real leather whip, midnight black, its handle polished to a sheen from years of use. The lash split into multiple tails, each end tipped with a wicked, metallic barb.

The Duke pulled it down, wrapping his fingers around the grip. The leather gleamed menacingly under the harsh fluorescent light.

Pierre's entire body went rigid.

"Father—"