The Devonshire Estate bloomed like a fairytale come to life.
For Belle's tenth birthday, the Duke of Devonshire had spared no coin, no luxury, no grandeur.
The grand ballroom, typically austere in its northern gothic splendor, had been transformed by Diana's direction into a floral wonderland. Cascading garlands of wisteria and enchanted white lilacs spilled from the gilded balconies, while fountains of starlight magic glittered from floating crystal chandeliers above. Each table was draped in embroidered damask of blushing rose and sage green, dotted with tiered silver trays bearing candied violets, spun sugar, and imported fruits from the Southern Isles.
The Empire's nobility was present in full regalia. The women wore pastel silks and jewel-toned brocades adorned with floating gems and fragrant blossoms. The men, glittering in military regalia or tailored ceremonial robes, held crystal goblets of summer wine as they exchanged whispers behind jeweled masks and fans. The children were aristocratic in their own way.
And at the center of it all stood Belle.
Chestnut hair, hazel eyes.
Dressed in a gown of periwinkle satin and lace, with pearl detailing and fluttering sleeves like wings, she looked every bit the image of spring incarnate. A wreath of fresh flowers crowned her flaxen curls, and her laughter echoed through the ballroom like wind chimes in sunlight.
Vivica stood at the edge of the celebration, as poised and unmoving as a painted portrait.
Her dark amethyst gown, simple yet undeniably luxurious, clung to her like shadow to light. With no need for adornment, she radiated a quiet elegance, like moonlight suspended over the breaking dawn. When she took a step forward, the hum of conversation seemed to still, if only for a moment.
Belle twirled toward her, eyes alight. "Sissy!" She called, beaming. "Did you come to dance?"
"No." Vivica replied evenly, reaching into a velvet pouch. "But I brought you a gift."
She held out a delicate hairpin—platinum, in the shape of a rosebud, with a diamond nestled at its center.
Belle gasped. "It's so beautiful...!"
Without hesitation, she rushed forward and kissed Vivica on the cheek—the right one.
Vivica froze.
The entire room seemed to pause, breathless.
But Belle, ever radiant and naive, twirled away to show off the gift to her friends. Vivica exhaled slowly. She touched her cheek once, then let her hand fall. Her lips remained flat, unreadable, but there was no frost in her eyes.
Across the room, Damon observed it all, standing beside Diana. She clasped her hands over the smooth fabric of her gown, her lips curving into a faint smile, one she couldn't quite suppress. The bitterness that often shadowed her gaze didn't entirely disappear, but it seemed to soften, like a cloud passing over a stormy sky.
Damon, for his part, allowed the smallest flicker of relief.
His daughters stood on opposite ends of the same world, yet today—for one fleeting moment—they had reached across.
The ball resumed its rhythm. Gossip resumed. The orchestra swelled.
And then the music shifted.
A herald announced with crisp precision: "His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Killian of the House of Ashford!"
A hush fell.
And Killian entered.
Clad in a striking contrast of white and obsidian, his only adornments the crest of his House and a gleaming silver sword at his hip, he embodied every inch of the Crown Prince—aloof, regal, almost untouchable. His eyes, sharp and cold as pale steel, scanned the ballroom with practiced detachment before settling on Vivica.
From the elevated dais, Belle clutched her flower wreath so tightly her fingers turned white, her wide eyes never leaving him. "He's the most handsome Prince I've ever seen…" she whispered, her voice barely a breath, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the spell he'd cast upon the room.
And she wasn't the only one. All around, eyes lingered on him—fascinated, mesmerized—each person seemingly drawn into the same unspoken truth. He was a vision of perfection, too striking to ignore, and too magnetic to look away from… at such a young age at that.
Just behind Killian, another figure stepped into the light.
"His Imperial Highness, Second Prince Nathaniel!"
With soft blond curls framing his face and an easy, disarming smile, Nathaniel was the very picture of charm—an effortless contrast to his older brother's more reserved presence. He gave a playful bow to the children near the orchestra, his mischievous wink sending them into fits of giggles, their laughter ringing through the air like music.
The ballroom shimmered with the weight of unspoken ambition, filled with future heirs and fragile dreams, each person hiding their true intentions beneath polished facades.
Amidst it all, Vivica stood still, watching in silence.
No smile touched her lips, but her gaze sharpened—piercing, calculating.
This was no mere ball.
It was a prelude. And she was already playing her part.
**
The great ballroom of the Devonshire Townhouse shimmered with the excess of noble wealth.
Chandeliers glittered like clusters of stars, marble floors gleamed like mirrors, and orchestras played sonatas with needlepoint precision. But the little lady of the North neither adored nor despised such splendor.
She was simply... a loner. An introvert, or whatever kids these days call it.
Silently, she stepped beyond the silk-draped doors and out into the garden.
Her gown—midnight amethyst, with fine starlit embroidery near the hem—barely whispered as she moved. No flutter of nerves. No hesitation. Only poise, practiced from the cradle. Though knights watched from discreet corners of the estate, she paid them no mind.
The gardens stretched before her like a tapestry of shadows and silver. Roses spilled over trellises. White peonies slept in moonlight. The wind stirred faintly, threading perfume through the hedgerows.
Vivica walked with the stillness of one who belonged in silence. She made her way toward a marble bench beneath a weeping willow and sat, back straight, hands folded in her lap.
Peace. At last. She thought.
But it did not last long.
"I thought I saw you disappear," a voice broke the hush.
She turned her head with quiet precision.
The boy behind her stood with his hands behind his back, expression caught between amusement and curiosity.
Crown Prince Killian.
His golden hair glinted pale in the moonlight, and his formal attire—pristine white and imperial blue—looked stiff with ceremonial embroidery. Despite it all, he offered a boyish smile.
"You should head back inside, Your Highness." Vivica's tone was even.
"Not a fan of these things. But for people like us, duty comes first." Killian replied, stepping closer.
"Duty…" Vivica let out a soft sigh, "where smiling is mandatory, and happiness is optional."
Killian's smile widened, followed by laughter. "Haha! You truly are amusing, my lady."
"I'm not."
"Oh, but you are—"
"I am not… your lady."
He tilted his head. Stunned. Again. "Right. I apologize. You're ten. That's a rather... pragmatic view of the world."
"I'm nearly eleven," she corrected, without a trace of pride. Just fact.
"Of course. Forgive me for the second time..." He sat beside her, careful not to crowd her. "Lady Vivica Devonshire. Heir to the Northern Duchy. Known for her sharp mind and alarming clarity... I see."
She did not smile. But there was a pause long enough to suggest she was deciding whether or not to respond.
"I suppose that's better than being known for reckless charm."
"Touché." Killian responded, chuckling.
Silence settled once more, broken only by the water's soft music.
He turned his gaze upward. "Do you ever wish to be anywhere else?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"There's no advantage in wishing," she said. "It dilutes focus."
Killian blinked. "You really are terrifying."
Vivica gave him a sidelong glance. "You're exaggerating."
"Maybe," he admitted. "But in the Council before, you calculated those grain tariffs faster than any man twice your age. I was impressed."
"I didn't do it to impress anyone," she said plainly. "It was the logical solution."
"That's why it was impressive."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, then plucked a small white blossom from the bush beside them. He held it out between two fingers—not with flair, but almost absentmindedly.
"I don't usually talk this much," he admitted. "But you make it feel like I should earn my place in the conversation."
Vivica looked at the flower. Lilac. She did not take it immediately.
"Is this symbolic?" She asked.
"No," Killian said quickly, ears turning faintly pink. "Just… a gesture. Of mutual respect. Politically."
"I see."
After a second, she accepted it. Graceful. Unhurried.
Killian seemed relieved.
Then a chill gust passed through the garden. Vivica didn't flinch, but her shoulders stiffened slightly.
Killian, watching, quietly shrugged off his velvet cloak and placed it around her shoulders. The gesture was clumsy. Unrefined. But sincere.
She looked down at the heavy fabric, then up at him.
"You didn't have to."
"I know," he said. "But I wanted to."
Vivica didn't thank him. She simply allowed the moment to exist.
They sat that way for some time, two royal children beneath a tree, the future heavy on their young shoulders, though neither spoke of it.
Eventually, Killian stood and brushed off his trousers with theatrical care.
"I suppose we should return before the terrifying Duke of the North sends a search party for his beloved daughter."
Vivica rose as well, letting the cloak slide off. She folded it neatly and returned it to him.
"You're more tolerable than I expected, Your Highness."
He gave an exaggerated bow. "A shining review."
She turned, walking back toward the ballroom with deliberate steps.
Killian lingered behind for just a moment, staring at the moonlit place where she'd sat.
"…I'm going to regret adoring her, aren't I?" He muttered.
Then, with his cloak over one shoulder and a quiet grin, the Crown Prince of Ashford followed her back into the golden world that would never know what passed between them under the stars.
Not yet.