t last, the long-awaited day had arrived—the wedding day.
The great hall was radiant, its vast ceiling glittering with crystal chandeliers, while cascades of white roses spilled across the marble floor like a snowfall that had taken root. Guests filled the space with their whispers, a restless murmur wavering between approval and discontent.
Olivia entered gracefully, cradling little Anne in her arms. A dozen gazes followed her immediately—some with admiration, others with suspicion—but all with curiosity.
Isabella, seated nearby, studied her for a long moment before remarking, "You're smiling today. Are you… happy?"
Olivia's lips curved with a wry edge. "Ha. Did you imagine me a demon, incapable of such things? I am human, Isabella. I know joy and sorrow as any other does." There is no one who is wicked at all times."
"No offense was taken," Isabella said " and you look beautiful today ", "thank you."Olivia replied "I am always beautiful. But you too look quite well today."
A rare laugh slipped from Isabella's lips. "To receive a compliment from the duchess herself—I suppose this must be my lucky day."
They shared a gentle ripple of laughter, a fragile brightness in the solemn atmosphere. But when their eyes turned toward their husbands seated behind them, the mirth dimmed. Both men sat rigid, their expressions blank, as though their presence was not choice but duty.
Olivia sighed, her voice lowered. "We should stop laughing. It seems they are in no mood for joy."
"You're right," Isabella murmured.
Olivia's gaze grew heavy with memory. "Yesterday they wept for their mother… and today they must celebrate their sister's wedding. To divide grief from joy is no easy task."
Silence settled like a shroud over their table as Leon joined them, shadows of sorrow clinging to their movements. Soon after, Amelia approached and took her seat among them.
Across the hall, Olivia's eyes wandered—only to meet the sharp gaze of her father and sister, seated in the distance. Her sister smiled at her with a sly, taunting curve of the lips. Olivia turned away at once, refusing to dignify her with attention.
Isabella noticed and leaned close, whispering, "Hey… what was that?"
Olivia's voice hardened, her words edged with bitterness. "Do you remember when you told me no one is truly evil?"
Isabella frowned, confused. "Yes… I think so."
"It does not apply to those two," Olivia said coldly, her gaze narrowing on them. "They are demons cloaked in human skin."
Isabella didn't dare look. From the beginning, she had avoided their eyes—for each time she glimpsed them, the image of her father would rise before her, and with it, all the pain she tried to bury.
Olivia noticed Isabella's hands trembling under the table. She leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "Still yourself. If Leon sees, he will know."
The heavy doors of the hall opened with a solemn groan, and all whispers fell into silence. Every head turned.
There she was—Laila—clad in ivory silk that shimmered faintly under the chandeliers, her veil trailing like mist behind her. She seemed almost unreal, her steps measured, graceful, yet her eyes revealed the storm within. At her side walked her brother, guiding her with a rigid arm, his face carved in stone, as though the act of giving her away drained the last of his strength.
Behind them, Kyle waited at the altar, tall and immovable, his figure wrapped in the dignity of restraint. His jaw was set, his hands clasped tightly before him, yet the flicker in his eyes betrayed the gravity of the moment.
The music rose, slow and ceremonial, filling the vast chamber like a tide. White petals drifted under Laila's shoes with each step, softening her path, while the guests held their breath—some in awe, others in judgment.
From her seat, Olivia adjusted Anne in her arms and whispered to Isabella, "Look at her… she walks as though she carries both her own fate and her family's upon her shoulders."
"She does," Isabella replied, her voice barely audible. "And Kyle… he wears the same burden."
At the altar, Laila reached her place. Her brother released her hand with reluctance, then stepped back into the shadow of his grief. Kyle extended his hand to her, and for a heartbeat she hesitated, her eyes searching his face, as if questioning the world itself. Then, with a faint, trembling breath, she placed her hand into his.
A murmur swept through the hall. Some smiled, others frowned. But none could deny the weight of the silence that followed—the silence of a union that was not merely of two hearts, but of two destinies bound by circumstance and shadowed by loss.
The priest stepped forward, his voice calm, commanding, as he began the sacred rites. Yet Olivia, watching closely, could not tear her gaze from Laila's face. Behind the veil, she thought she glimpsed not only the fragility of a bride, but the steel of a woman who had chosen, in her own way, to endure.
And beside her, Kyle stood like a fortress—silent, steady, yet with a storm hidden deep beneath the armor of his composure.
When the vows were spoken and sealed with the solemn binding words of the priest, the hall trembled with restrained applause. Then, from their thrones, the King and Queen rose. The air thickened; even the chandeliers seemed to dim in anticipation.
The King carried a crown wrought of silver and emeralds, its weight symbolic of inheritance, of power, of burden. The Queen bore another, delicate yet regal, shaped for a lady destined to rule. Their steps echoed upon the marble floor as they approached the altar where Laila and Kyle stood.
The King's face was unreadable, carved in the discipline of centuries of tradition. Yet the Queen… ah, her eyes betrayed her. As she lifted the circlet toward Laila's head, her lips curved ever so slightly—not in joy, but in disdain. Her gaze, cold as a winter blade, slid past the bride and landed squarely on Olivia in the crowd. A flash of loathing, sharp and poisonous, lingered there before she lowered the crown upon Laila's brow.
Kyle received his crown in silence, his posture rigid. The proclamation followed, loud and clear, reverberating through the grand chamber:
"By will of the Crown, you are henceforth the Crown Prince and Crown Princess—the heirs of this realm."
The guests rose in a wave of applause, though it was not unanimous. Whispers curled like smoke among the tables, some praising the union, others condemning it in hushed breaths.
And then—Elvira stood. Her palms clapped together, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the noise. A cunning smile played at her lips as she called out, her voice honeyed with venom:
"I daresay Duchess Eloise would have been proud to see her daughter crowned today. Should she not offer her blessing from beyond—or has she forsaken her child entirely?"
Her words slithered across the hall, every syllable baited. All eyes turned, many toward the Luceron family, who stiffened under the weight of her gaze.
But before the venom could seep deeper—before the shame could set in—the great doors creaked once more.
Eloise entered.
She was a vision both fragile and formidable—her frame draped in silk, one hand steadying herself upon an ivory cane, every step measured with poise. Though illness clung to her, nobility radiated from her like an unyielding flame.
The hall gasped. Some rose to their feet. Others froze as though witnessing a ghost. Elvira's confident smile faltered, paling as her eyes widened.
"Thank you, Miss Tharón," Eloise said, her voice resonant despite its softness, "for reminding me to bless my daughter. Though sickness has kept me, no ailment could keep me from this day."
Elvira's lips parted, but no sound came. She turned sharply, seeking her father's eyes, panic twisting in her features. Her whisper hissed, frantic, audible only to him:
"She cannot be alive. I am certain she is dead. Did the maid fail me? How can she stand here? By all that's holy, I swear—I will see that wretch finished once and for all."
Eloise, ignoring the venomous silence, stepped forward. She raised her trembling hand and placed it gently upon Laila's cheek.
"My blessing upon you, my precious child. May your union endure, and may your crown never weigh heavier than your heart can bear."
Then, with the dignity of one who knew her limits, she turned and withdrew, her cane striking softly upon the marble, leaving behind awe and confusion.
At the table, Olivia's lips curved in a smile—a quiet, dangerous smile of triumph. She shifted Anne in her arms, her eyes glinting as they found Isabella and Leon, who understood at once. And across the room, Matthias caught her glance, his own smile faint but incredulous, as if to say:
"I cannot believe your reckless scheme has actually worked."