The Virell Estate glittered differently by evening.
Lanterns floated above the garden like low stars, casting a soft golden sheen over polished marble and manicured blooms. A string quartet, now accompanied by a vocalist, had shifted from formal hymns to something slower, something older, melodies meant for those paired sways.
Guests gathered in an elegant circle around the polished dance floor, where the new bride and groom now stood at its center.
Dahlia, resplendent in a second, more flowing gown of pearl white and lilac hues, extended her gloved hand to Frederick. He bowed, gently pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and the music began.
Their steps were graceful—Frederick's tall, composed figure leading Dahlia's softer, more fluid movements in perfect rhythm. They swayed in silence as all eyes fell upon them, and then—
A voice called out from the MC's stand.
"As tradition bids, let the first dance of the newlyweds be blessed by the presence of wedded couples. Will the honored guests join the floor?"
Couples began stepping forward slowly—some with laughter, some with practiced grace. But before Seraphine could even consider joining, she felt Callum's hand brushing over hers.
She turned to look at him. His face bore no command, only quiet certainty.
"Dance with me?" he asked manly with no flirt.
Seraphine blinked. She hadn't danced since the military ball two years ago. And certainly never here, in this kind of crowd. But there was no reason to refuse.
No reason, except the ache still raw beneath her ribs.
Still—she gave him her hand.
They were the last to step onto the dance floor.
The quartet didn't pause, and neither did the murmurs of surprise that rippled through the crowd.
Callum Virell, whose name had long been entangled with Dahlia's in gossip and history, now danced with the woman who held his surname—Seraphine Elion Virell.
He placed a hand at the small of her back with quiet respect, his other hand cradling hers. She followed his lead instinctively, the fabric of her gown brushing against his tailored slacks. They moved slowly, a quiet rhythm between them. Their moves have no elegance, more like rehearsed yet deeply personal.
Seraphine's eyes remained lowered until—
"Look at me."
His words were quiet, but their weight stole the air from her lungs.
Sera hesitated.
For a moment, she wondered if she could bare to look into those eyes that had lost every spark that been there to begin with.
But Callum repeated.
Softer this time, he said, "Let your gaze linger, and keep my eyes from straying into sin."
Almost reluctantly, Seraphine lifted her head.
And there they were.
His deep stares.
His eyes held hers with no light but no darkness as well, it is a balance of nothingness and calmness.
She could have looked away.
But she didn't.
Seraphine allowed her eyes to dance where his gaze can find her.
More couples joined until the floor was filled, but Sera felt nothing of the crowd. And not once, did they both stare away.
Then came the traditional shift where couples exchanged partners to symbolize unity among families.
A soft voice from the host signaled, "COUPLES, IT'S TIME FOR THE FIRST SHIFT."
Callum looked at the host, then across the floor where a woman was already moving toward him, her eyes meeting his gently.
Seraphine felt her hand about to be guided away.
But Callum turned to the woman's husband and, without hesitation, said, "Sorry but I'll stay with my wife."
The words were clear.
Audible enough for several guests nearby to hear, yet not boastful. His tone was final, without apology.
Instead, he stepped forward, crossed the slight divide, and took Seraphine's hand once more before anyone could guide her away. Without ceremony, he pulled her back into the dance.
Seraphine didn't say a word.
But something inside her shifted.
They danced until the music faded.
No more switching. No more spectacle.
Just Callum and Seraphine, standing at the end of a song that belonged to someone else—but somehow became theirs for a fleeting moment.
---
The carriage ride home was quiet.
Stars scattered overhead, hidden behind the soft tint of the windows. The cityscape blurred past in streaks of gold and blue. Callum hadn't let go of her hand since they left the estate, his palm warm around hers.
She didn't ask why.
She just held it back.
At the final turn toward their estate, just as the driver slowed by the last security gate, Callum broke the silence.
"I wish them well," he said softly, almost like a benediction.
Seraphine turned her head, brows furrowing faintly.
"I really do," he added. "May they find joy… and stay better to each other than we ever were."
His thumb brushed over her knuckles once, absently.
She looked at his profile—his words were steady, but the shadows in his eyes told another story.
And then, as they passed the last of the lanterns and the estate walls glided behind them, she noticed it.
Dahlia.
She had stepped out briefly from the garden doors, standing under a lighted trellis as guests began returning to the banquet.
Her head was tilted slightly.
Her eyes, unmistakably, followed their car.
Followed him.
And Seraphine can see it.
That air in Dahlia's stand wasn't nostalgia.
It was longing.
It was love. Still.
And maybe even regret.
Callum didn't see it.
He had turned his head, eyes closed, leaning against the window like the exhaustion of the day had finally reached him.
But Seraphine did.
She saw it all.
And for the first time, she didn't feel victorious.
She felt… tethered.
As if she were now the keeper of a fragile thing neither of them had fully claimed.
His grief. Dahlia's love. Her own growing ache.
And yet, as the car pulled into the private courtyard, as Callum gently squeezed her hand before letting go, Seraphine did not pull away.
She walked beside him, shoulder to shoulder, into the house they shared.
And though neither said a word, something between them had changed.
Not fully healed.
Not yet whole.
But no longer broken in silence.