The ride back to the manor was silent.
Seraphine sat across from Alaric in the dimly lit carriage, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The weight of the ball—the mockery, the humiliation, and his public defense—pressed heavily on her chest. She dared not look up, unsure whether to feel grateful or ashamed.
Alaric, for his part, said nothing. He leaned slightly against the window, his face unreadable, illuminated by flickers of moonlight.
When they arrived at the manor, the servants bowed as usual, but Alaric spoke before any of them could disperse.
"Leave us," he ordered gently but firmly. "Prepare warm tea in the solarium. We will join shortly."
The servants obeyed without question.
Seraphine followed him through the arched hallway in silence, trailing behind like a shadow. He led her to the solarium—the circular glass room with ivy climbing up the walls and moonlight pouring in like silver rain.
The tea was waiting, steam curling from the cups.
Still, she said nothing.
Alaric took a seat in the cushioned alcove by the window and gestured for her to sit across from him. After a moment's hesitation, she obeyed.
Finally, his voice broke the silence.
"You're still upset."
She looked down, fingers gripping the hem of her dress. "I didn't want to cause a scene."
"You didn't," he said again, this time more softly. "You showed restraint. They didn't."
Seraphine's throat tightened. "They were only saying what most people think. That I don't belong here."
"You think I care what they think?" he asked, tilting his head.
She glanced up. "Shouldn't you?"
He didn't smile, but something in his eyes shifted. "If I cared about appearances, I would've chosen Celestine like everyone expected. But I didn't."
Her breath caught, heart fluttering.
"Why did you choose me, then?" she whispered.
Alaric looked out the glass wall, into the night. He was quiet for a long moment before answering.
"Because… something in you felt real. I've been surrounded by masks all my life. Flattery. Manipulation. Hollow smiles. But you were different. You didn't try to impress me. You didn't pretend. That matters more to me than perfect posture or noble blood."
She swallowed, eyes growing glassy.
"I was so ashamed tonight," she admitted. "I wanted to disappear."
"You don't need to," he replied, more gently than she expected. "You're not the one who should be hiding."
Seraphine blinked, startled by the softness in his voice.
After a moment of silence, he reached into the pocket of his coat and brought out a small, worn velvet pouch. He held it in his palm for a second, then extended it to her.
She hesitated. "What is this?"
"A token," he said. "Of House Vaelthorne. It was my grandmother's before she died. She told me to give it to someone who reminded her of a light she once had. I've never given it to anyone… until now."
Seraphine's fingers trembled as she took the pouch and opened it.
Inside was a delicate pendant—a silver crescent moon cradling a gem that shimmered between deep blue and violet, depending on how the light struck it.
"It's… beautiful," she breathed.
"So are you," he said quietly.
Her eyes lifted, stunned. Alaric's voice, often so cold and measured, held warmth—truth. Something rare.
She didn't know what moved her. Perhaps it was the aching emotion in his eyes, or the vulnerability in her own heart. Or maybe it was the way he looked at her—not as a mistake or a burden, but as someone chosen.
Her fingers curled tightly around the pendant as she stood.
"Alaric…"
He stood too, watching her. And in a breathless moment, they were inches apart.
His gaze dipped to her lips, then back to her eyes. "You shouldn't let others define your worth."
"I'm trying," she whispered.
"Then let me help."
She didn't know who leaned in first—him or her—but their lips met in a kiss as soft as a promise. It wasn't rushed, nor filled with heat, but something deeper. Something aching. Reverent. His hand rose to brush her cheek, while hers gripped the edge of his sleeve like it grounded her.
When they pulled away, she stared at him, eyes wide with wonder and fear.
"I—I should go," she whispered, stepping back.
He didn't stop her.
"Goodnight, Seraphine," he said quietly.
As she fled the solarium, heart pounding, he sat back down and watched the steam rise from his untouched tea. His thoughts spun, emotions stirring beneath the surface of his usually unreadable face.
Outside the glass walls, the moon watched over the manor, bright and full—witness to a beginning neither of them had expected.
Seraphine POV
The door to her chamber clicked softly behind her.
Seraphine leaned against it, her chest rising and falling as though she had just run a great distance. Her fingers brushed her lips—still warm, still tingling.
She had kissed him.
Or rather, they had kissed. She wasn't sure who moved first. She only remembered the feel of his lips—cool and controlled, yet lingering like he wanted more than just a fleeting touch.
"What did I just do?" she whispered, turning toward her bed.
Moonlight poured through the sheer drapes, bathing the room in soft silver. The pendant he gave her—the crescent moon—rested in her palm, still nestled in the velvet pouch. She held it close to her heart and lay down, unable to stop the rush of thoughts swirling in her mind.
She shouldn't have kissed him. She was just the adopted daughter of the Delacroix family. Just Seraphine. Chosen, yes—but unworthy of someone like him.
And yet, when she remembered the look in his eyes, all coldness melted. There was something unspoken there, something vulnerable. It frightened her… because she felt it, too.
The way he looked at her made her feel seen.
---
Alaric POV
Back in the solarium, Alaric hadn't moved.
The untouched tea had long gone cold. The shadows cast by the glass ceiling crept across the stone floor, but he remained seated, unmoving, staring into the night.
He had kissed her.
Alaric Vellaria Vaelthorne, Duke of the Northern Provinces, descendant of one of the most ancient bloodlines—and soon, heir to the hidden world's highest seat—had allowed himself to feel.
And it terrified him.
He wasn't supposed to want. He had agreed to marriage out of necessity, not desire. He thought he would take a wife, produce an heir, and carry out his family's legacy with cold precision. But Seraphine... She had changed the plan.
That kiss wasn't strategy.
It was real.
And that was dangerous.
Especially with what he knew about her origins—what she herself didn't yet know.
His jaw clenched as he glanced at the book tucked beneath the desk—the biography of his grandfather, Antoine Vellaria, and Princess Anastasia of the British monarch. That same mix of love and consequence once tore their world apart. Was history preparing to repeat itself?
He rose, crossed the room, and looked out the window. Across the garden, the faint candlelight of Seraphine's chamber glowed like a small flame in the night.
He placed a hand against the cool glass, brows furrowing.
"She's not ready," he murmured. "And I am not allowed to fall."
But despite his resolve, he couldn't deny it—
He already had.