The clink of silver and the soft rustle of silk filled the grand dining hall of the Delacroix estate. Candles flickered in crystal sconces, their golden light dancing off gilded walls and polished wood. The long banquet table gleamed under its opulent feast—roasted pheasant, candied apples, honey-glazed carrots, cheeses wrapped in fig leaves, and goblets filled with spiced red wine.
Yet none of it could distract from the woman seated at the Duke's right hand.
Seraphine sat stiffly, back straight, hands resting gently in her lap. The soft gold gown she now wore—borrowed hastily from Celestine's old wardrobe—clung to her like borrowed skin. Her hair had been loosely pinned by Nana Elspeth's trembling fingers, but no amount of grooming could prepare her for the icy glares burning into her from across the table.
Celestine's smile was the most brittle of all.
Lady Jane, seated beside her favored daughter, wore a mask of strained politeness. Her fingers clutched her wine goblet tighter with each passing moment. Beside her, Lord Delacroix sat mute, his eyes flicking between his wife and the Duke, clearly wishing himself elsewhere.
The Duke Alaric Vaelthorne , however, was composed. He ate with the grace of an old-world king, every motion slow, deliberate. His presence seemed to mute the room. Every noble invited to witness the banquet—every minor baron, countess, and whispering guest—found their attention pulled to him...and to the girl beside him.
Seraphine tried not to tremble. Her throat was dry, her thoughts spinning.
Why me?
She had asked herself that again and again in the quiet moments before being brought to the table. The Duke had said little after declaring his intent. He had merely nodded once, as though confirming a decision long made. She, a maid, seated beside a man whose wealth and power were whispered about in both awe and fear.
"You do not eat," Alaric said, his voice low and private, meant only for her.
Seraphine blinked. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I—I'm not accustomed to such food."
He tilted his head slightly. "Or perhaps not accustomed to being seen."
Her heart skipped. "I'm seen often enough."
"No," he said softly. "You are watched. Not seen."
She looked down at her plate. "Yes, I perhaps."
His silver eyes glinted. No response.
She met his gaze then, confused and wary, but before she could question him, Lady Jane's sharp voice cut across the table.
"Your Grace, might I offer a private tour of our wine cellar after supper? The Delacroix estate holds some of the kingdom's oldest vintages."
Alaric did not look at her. "Another time."
Celestine leaned forward, smile flawless. "Perhaps you'd enjoy a song? I've recently mastered a piece composed for Her Majesty's spring garden party. It was said to have moved the Queen to tears."
"I am not fond of tears," the Duke said simply.
A few nobles chuckled awkwardly. Celestine's smile did not falter, but her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Seraphine caught it—and knew at once: her sister was humiliated. Not by rejection alone, but by being overshadowed by the one person she had always believed beneath her.
By Seraphine.
---
That night, as the manor slept, Seraphine lay in her small servant's bed—back in the quarters despite having dined like a duchess—and stared at the cracked ceiling. Her thoughts circled endlessly.
Carlos had tried to speak with her after the banquet, but Lady Jane had intercepted him. Her threats were hissed under her breath, but Carlos had looked defiant.
Seraphine knew then: things would never be the same.
She finally drifted into a restless sleep.
----
Morning light crept slowly into the Delacroix estate, but its golden hue brought no warmth. Servants whispered behind corners, glancing nervously at doorways. Overnight, the household had transformed into a den of quiet panic. The Duke had chosen Seraphine. Not Celestine. Not the polished jewel of the Delacroix family—but the maid, the adopted shadow.
Lady Jane had not slept.
At the crack of dawn, she swept through the corridors like a storm, skirts billowing and eyes alight with fury. She found Duke Alaric in the drawing room, sipping tea beside the hearth as though nothing had unraveled.
"Your Grace," she said sweetly, too sweetly, "may I have a moment in private?"
Alaric did not look up from his cup. "Lady Jane."
When she did not move, he gestured with two fingers. The chambermaid and footmen promptly exited, leaving the Duke and the Lady of the house alone.
Jane approached him slowly. "I fear there has been a misunderstanding."
"No misunderstanding," Alaric said calmly. "I've made my intentions clear. I intend to take Seraphine Delacroix as my bride."
"She is no Delacroix," Jane snapped, the mask slipping. "She is a charity case—a child we took in out of mercy. A maid."
Alaric met her eyes then, cool and unblinking.
Jane bristled. "She is promised to someone. She and my ward Carlos—my servant's son—have long been in love. Surely you would not come between such a bond?"
Alaric tilted his head. "Do they speak of love?"
"They're to be wed before summer. It's been arranged. They've grown up together—inseparable. She would never choose a stranger over him."
There was a pause.
Then Alaric stood, his height casting her in shadow.
"I see," he said quietly. "And yet she does not speak of this love. Nor does Carlos. Interesting."
Jane hesitated. "Perhaps they're too shy to speak openly."
"No," Alaric said. "You are lying."
Her lips parted in protest.
Alaric stepped closer, his voice low and cutting. "You fear her. You see what she is becoming. And you fear that your perfect daughter's light is not enough to hide her growing flame."
Lady Jane's breath caught in her throat.
Alaric continued, "You will not stand in my way. The wedding will be in six months. Until then, Seraphine will leave this house under my protection. Tonight."
"You cannot simply take her!" Jane hissed. "She is—"
"She is not yours," he said coldly. "She never was."
With that, he turned and left her standing alone in the drawing room, trembling with rage.