Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 259: The Question Behind the Question

Chapter 259: Chapter 259: The Question Behind the Question
Ethan had expected the Grand Duke’s office to feel intimidating.
He hadn’t expected it to feel... quiet, quiet in a way that made him suddenly aware of his own breathing. The room was spacious without being showy, the furniture chosen with the tact that suggested the person who used it didn’t need reminders of his own importance. Light came in through tall windows instead of chandeliers. Nothing glittered. Nothing tried to impress.
That somehow made Ethan’s mood even worse.
Trevor Fitzgeralt rose from behind the desk as Ethan was shown in, and Ethan stood a little straighter without meaning to. The man looked exactly like what Ethan imagined a Grand Duke should look like: composed, unreadable, and calm in the way that came from being very used to being listened to.
"Mr. Miller," Fitzgeralt said, voice level. "Thank you for coming."
Ethan gave a short nod. "Didn’t feel like much of a choice."
To his surprise, Fitzgeralt didn’t bristle. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth instead.
"No," he said simply. "It wasn’t."
That honesty helped, a little.
"Please," the Grand Duke added, gesturing to the chair opposite the desk. "Sit."
Ethan did, folding his hands together the way he did in meetings when he didn’t want them to shake. He felt like he was waiting for a verdict he didn’t understand yet.
"I won’t keep you long," Fitzgeralt said, settling back. "I just need you to tell me what you saw."
That, at least, was familiar territory.
"You were the one who found Christopher’s apartment," Fitzgeralt continued. "Aside from the interior damage, did you notice anything unusual? People around the building. Vehicles. Signs of forced entry."
Ethan shook his head slowly. "No. And that’s what bothered me." He hesitated, then went on. "Outside, everything looked normal. The door wasn’t broken. Cameras were fine. Neighbors didn’t seem disturbed."
"So whoever did it knew what they were doing," Fitzgeralt said quietly.
"Yeah," Ethan replied. "And they knew what they were looking for."
The Grand Duke nodded, as if that confirmed something he’d already suspected.
Then he asked, almost casually, "After Christopher left for Saha, did anyone from the Church ever contact you?"
Ethan blinked his gold lashes, trembling. "The... Church?"
"Any clergy," Fitzgeralt clarified. "Any representatives. Anyone checking in under the guise of concern."
"No," Ethan said immediately, confusion overtaking caution. "Neither of us had anything to do with the Church. Ever. Not personally, not professionally. Chris avoided them whenever he could." A beat. "So did I."
That answer seemed to matter more than Ethan liked.
Fitzgeralt studied him for a moment, silent, thoughtful. Ethan resisted the urge to fill the space with nervous explanation.
"I see," the Grand Duke said finally.
Ethan frowned. "Should I be worried that you’re asking that?"
Fitzgeralt met his eyes; those damn purple eyes were unnerving. "No. You should be glad I am."
That did not make Ethan feel better. If anything, it confirmed his unease.
"Am I... in danger?" Ethan asked, bluntly. He’d learned a long time ago that dancing around questions only wasted time. He was a friend of someone important in every way. Chris may not have a formal wedding yet, but everyone knew it was only a matter of time. Christopher would become the Queen of Saha.
"No," Fitzgeralt said at once. "Not as long as you continue doing exactly what you’ve been doing."
"And that is?" Ethan tilted his head, his blonde hair falling across his brow.
"Paying attention," the Grand Duke replied. "And telling the truth."
Ethan nodded slowly. "I can do that."
"I know," Fitzgeralt said, standing. "You’ll be housed somewhere secure, close to your worksite. Your routine will remain intact as much as possible."
Routine. Ethan almost laughed at that.
As he was escorted back toward the door, a single thought kept circling his mind, heavy and unsettling.
If the Church mattered enough to be asked about...
Then whatever had happened to Chris hadn’t started with the crown.
And it definitely hadn’t ended with that apartment.
—
A few days later, Ethan was standing ankle-deep in dust and gravel, hard hat tucked under his arm, listening to the site chief explain,
again,
why the maintenance schedule needed to be pushed back another week.
The dam loomed behind them, concrete scarred by decades of water pressure and weather, the kind of structure that demanded respect whether you believed in symbolism or not. Ethan preferred it this way: measurable stress, visible wear, and problems you could point at and fix if you were patient enough.
"This section here," the site chief said, tapping a tablet with a thick finger, "we’ll need reinforcement before we touch the spillway gates. Otherwise we risk..."
"Microfractures along the southern face," Ethan finished automatically, eyes following the line of concrete. "Yeah. I saw them in the last scan. We’ll need to shore it first or we’re just buying trouble."
The man nodded, relieved. "Good. Glad we’re on the same page."
They were. That part of Ethan’s life still made sense.
He was about to suggest a revised load redistribution when one of the workers jogged over, helmet crooked, expression uncertain in the way people get when they don’t quite know how to phrase something.
"Uh... Engineer Miller?" the man said. "Sorry to interrupt."
Ethan turned. "What’s up?"
"There’s... someone here asking for you."
The site chief frowned. "Inspector?"
The worker shook his head. "No, sir. He says he’s..." He hesitated, glancing back toward the temporary offices at the edge of the site. "A priest."
The word landed wrong.
Ethan felt it immediately, the way his stomach tightened before his brain caught up, a delayed echo of Trevor Fitzgeralt’s calm question days earlier.
’Has anyone from the Church ever contacted you?’
"No," Ethan said automatically, then stopped himself. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Where is he?"
"By the admin trailer," the worker replied. "Didn’t try to come onto the site. Just... waiting."
That, somehow, made it worse.
Ethan exhaled slowly and handed his hard hat to the site chief. "Give me five minutes."
The man studied his face. "You want me to..."
"No," Ethan said, more sharply than intended. He softened his tone. "It’s fine. I’ll handle it."
He walked across the packed dirt toward the trailers, boots crunching, mind already spinning through possibilities he didn’t like. Chris hadn’t been religious. Neither of them was. No baptisms, no temples, no blessings over blueprints or foundations.
’So why now?’
The priest stood just outside the trailer’s shade, hands folded neatly in front of him, robes clean despite the dust and heat. He looked out of place without looking uncomfortable, posture relaxed, gaze calm. He was older than Ethan had expected, hair streaked with grey, expression mild in a way that felt practiced.
When Ethan approached, the man inclined his head politely.
"Mr. Miller," he said. "Thank you for agreeing to see me."
Ethan stopped a few feet away. "You were looking for me."
"Yes," the priest replied gently. "I hoped we might speak. Privately."
Ethan crossed his arms, more defensive than he meant to be. "About what?"
The priest’s eyes flicked briefly toward the dam, then back to Ethan. "About your friend," he said. "Christopher."