The Elerian estate held its breath.
A rare thing, really.
Servants whispered in corners. Footsteps softened. Drapes were straightened, boots polished, even the dust knew to disappear.
The Duke was home.
Virelle stood by her window, spine as straight as the cane she used to measure her posture. Down below, the black carriage pulled in, its royal sigil—an iron hawk clutching a broken sword—catching the evening sun. The air around her was still, heavy, as if the entire house was waiting to see whether it would be acknowledged.
Lia sat hidden in the drawer under her desk, nestled in a velvet scarf. She hadn't moved all day, except to silently watch Virelle braid her hair.
Don't come out, Virelle had said that morning, her fingers careful and even. Not today. He can't know about you. If he sees you, he won't see you as mine. Just something… replaceable.
Lia had only blinked.
Got it.
The Duke of Elerian was not a loud man. He didn't slam doors or bark orders. He didn't need to. His presence was enough to still a room, to twist stomachs into knots with a glance.
He hadn't knocked when Virelle entered his study.
He hadn't offered her a seat.
"Virelle," he said, setting aside a sealed document. "You've grown."
Her face stayed neutral. "Yes, Your Grace."
He frowned slightly at the title. "You may call me Father."
She didn't.
Instead, she curtsied. Not deep, not warm. Just enough to pass inspection.
"You look well," he offered after a beat. "Your stepmother wrote to say your health's improved."
Virelle's blood turned cold. "Lady Mirane said that?"
He nodded, eyes already drifting back to his paperwork. "She says you're quiet, reserved, but dutiful. She's done her best to raise you, considering the burden of this estate."
Her best?
A spike of nausea rose in her throat.
She locked me in the storage cellar for three nights when I forgot to greet her.
She made me eat on the floor like a dog after I dropped a spoon.
"Of course," Virelle murmured.
"I hope you've been kind to her in return," he continued, glancing up. "She's not your mother, but she's been good to this house. And to you."
That was the moment she stopped pretending.
"I see," she said softly.
He paused again. "You disapprove?"
"No," she lied.
"You've always been like her, in a way," he said, reaching for his gloves. "Quiet. Controlled. Mirane said you never cry. That you were a model daughter."
That's because she beat it out of me, Virelle thought.
She called tears disgusting. Weak. A thing that only unwanted girls did. I learned to be a statue for her. And you weren't here to see otherwise.
"I'm glad to hear I met expectations," she said.
He nodded absently. "I'll be in the capital again next week. There's an imperial hearing I'm required to attend."
She kept her face neutral.
He just returned after three years and he's already leaving again.
It didn't even hurt. Not anymore.
Virelle's Thoughts (Unspoken):
After my mother died, I was eight.
He stayed six months, then brought Mirane home. Told me I should be grateful she was willing to act as my new mother.
Then he left. Again.
Two years later, he visited once. We had tea. I spilled it and Mirane apologized for me. He patted her hand and called her "admirable."
He left again that night.
Now I'm thirteen. He's been gone three more years. This is his first visit since I bled into my bed alone at ten and had to burn my own sheets so the maids wouldn't mock me.
He says I've grown.
He says Mirane raised me well.
And I wonder why I ever hoped.
The meeting ended with no fanfare. No embrace. No inquiry.
Virelle returned to her room with her hands shaking inside her sleeves.
The moment the door shut behind her, she collapsed onto the floor. Not crying. Not breathing loudly.
Just empty.
The drawer creaked.
Lia crawled out, soft as a whisper, and climbed into her lap. The silver-furred kitten blinked up at her like she knew.
Like she always knew.
"He doesn't see me," Virelle whispered, burying her fingers into Lia's fur. "He never did."
Lia nuzzled her hand.
"And if he did… it was through her eyes."
Her voice cracked just slightly. "Even if I screamed, he wouldn't hear me. Even if I bled, he may just say I stained the rug."
She looked down at Lia, green eyes sharp, dry, burning.
"You're the only one who sees me."
Lia pressed her forehead to Virelle's.
And they sat there in silence—girl and cat, two souls discarded by the world.
But not by each other.