The sun rose over the Vellion estate with the sort of smug optimism Arila Vellion found highly suspicious. It was the kind of morning that radiated good intentions—cheerful birdsong, a cloudless sky, sunlight kissing the dewdrops on the rosebushes like a bard composing a love ballad. It was, in short, offensive.
Especially when you were expected to host a prince for tea before noon.
The knock on her bedroom door came like a thunderclap. Lira's voice followed, far too composed for someone who was clearly complicit in morning crimes. "Lady Arila? We need to get you ready. The prince is due for tea in three hours."
Arila bolted upright like a startled cat. "Three hours? What is he bringing with him, a royal orchestra? Is he arriving via parade float? Are we staging a political opera in the garden?!"
Lira, who had long since developed immunity to Arila's dramatic monologues, entered without pause. Draped over one arm was a cocktail dress of midnight blue, the fabric shimmering faintly with interwoven silver threads. It sparkled as if stitched from stars, elegant and undeniably regal. But it was the accompanying footwear that made Arila's jaw drop.
"Sneakers?" she gasped.
"Custom embroidered. Silver soles. Enchanted to never scuff," Lira confirmed.
Arila clutched the shoes with reverence. "Fashion that finally respects my need to sprint away from emotional responsibility. It's beautiful."
Her outfit came together quickly: the dress hugged her in all the right places without sacrificing comfort, her hair was pulled into two chaotic buns on either side of her head, and a swipe of lip tint made her look somewhere between "accidental heroine" and "off-duty magical pop star." Ninko, her divine fox familiar, perched lazily on her shoulder, chewing dried mango like a tiny diplomat preparing for high-stakes negotiations.
"You look wonderful," Lira said sincerely, stepping back to admire the effect.
Arila frowned at her reflection. "Do I look like someone who can sabotage a marriage proposal with sarcasm and weaponized sugar? Because that's today's emotional strategy."
"You look like someone who could survive a royal scandal, a kitchen explosion, and a formal duel before lunch," Lira replied. "Which is exactly what I expect from you."
Downstairs, Evelaine Vellion was mid-floral revolution. The garden had been transformed into a pastel dreamscape that would've made most fae weep with envy. Floating blossoms hovered over lace-trimmed tea tables, shimmering enchantments kept the breeze at bay, and garden sprites were organizing the cutlery with military precision. Each napkin had a pressed violet charm. The tablecloths were ironed with offensive crispness.
Caelan Vellion watched the chaos unfold while nursing a cup of very strong coffee. He looked like a man who had accepted that his wife viewed flower arranging as both art form and blood sport.
Then came the sound of hooves.
A royal escort arrived in full formality, though discreetly enough to avoid scaring the hydrangeas. Prince Lucien dismounted with practiced grace, his silver-white hair gleaming under the morning sun. He wore a high-collared jacket of deep royal blue, embroidered with silver along the sleeves—a perfect mirror of Arila's outfit, though neither knew it yet. Sir Darian followed, armored in subdued steel and exuding the constant vigilance of a man who had once witnessed a noble duel end in an exploding dessert cart.
They were welcomed with practiced warmth. Evelaine offered a curtsy that somehow conveyed both grace and "you better not upset my daughter." Caelan extended a handshake, calm and firm.
"We're honored to have you here," Evelaine said. "We've prepared a light spread. Arila should be down shortly."
Lucien nodded politely. "Your hospitality is appreciated."
"She's... quite a force," Caelan said with amusement.
Lucien's lips twitched. "So I've gathered."
A beat passed. Then—
Enter Arila Vellion.
She strode through the garden like a reluctant protagonist summoned into a diplomatic boss battle. Her cocktail dress caught the light with every step, her silver-trimmed sneakers making the softest of crunches against the gravel path. Her divine fox looked unimpressed. Her expression said she had just remembered she was emotionally allergic to anything involving royalty.
"Sorry I'm late," she announced, munching a jam-filled pastry. "I was busy mentally preparing for awkward small talk and possible royal doom."
Lucien blinked.
Darian raised a brow.
Caelan sipped his coffee.
"You look..." Lucien paused, eyes flicking briefly over the starlight shimmer of her dress, the shoes, the buns, the unapologetic pastry. "Very much yourself."
Arila grinned as she collapsed into a seat. "That's either a compliment or a warning. I accept both."
Tea was served. The teapots poured themselves gracefully, sugar cubes floated like obedient clouds, and Ninko immediately committed a sugar heist, swiping one cube and curling around Arila's shoulders like a scarf of divine judgment. Darian did not comment. Lucien looked vaguely impressed.
Arila began loading her plate with enough pastries to suggest she was preparing for winter hibernation.
Once pleasantries and pastries had settled, Lucien leaned forward slightly, his tone gentler. "There's something I wanted to share with you. My father recently suggested something rather... unexpected."
Arila narrowed her eyes. "Please don't say it's a gardening contest."
Lucien chuckled. "No. He hinted at a possible engagement."
Arila inhaled tea and nearly died.
"No. No. Absolutely not. I have goals! Schemes! A sugar empire to establish! I can't be betrothed. That's like being sentenced to emotional tax season for life!"
Lucien tilted his head. "So... that's a no?"
"I'm not saying he can't imagine it," Arila spluttered, waving a teacake for emphasis. "He's a king. He's allowed his delusions. But me? I like being unbetrothed! I have spontaneous baking privileges! A fox that bites people! Full access to library wings where no one yells when I set the rug on fire!"
Ninko yawned pointedly.
"She once tried to steam a soufflé with water magic," Caelan offered helpfully.
"That was innovative culinary alchemy!" Arila snapped.
"And the strawberry tart that exploded?" Evelaine added.
"It caramelized too hard! The sugar became sentient. That's a badge of honor."
Lucien was now openly smiling. "Your life is... colorful."
"Colorful? I live inside a magical sitcom directed by a rogue enchantress with a glitter addiction."
Still, the mood lightened. The weight of titles and expectations gave way to mismatched laughter, enchanted finger sandwiches, and Ninko stealing a second sugar cube just because he could.
Darian, who had been silent through most of it, watched Arila with something close to curiosity. Not suspicion—no, he'd seen enough to trust her chaos. But interest, perhaps. Interest in the girl who faced nobility with sass, monsters with bravery, and proposals with pastry flinging.
As the afternoon drew on, the golden light softened the garden's edges. Teacups emptied. The enchanted violins in the corner played a quiet waltz without being asked.
Lucien stood, brushing imaginary crumbs from his jacket. "Today was... enlightening. Thank you for the hospitality."
Arila raised her cup in mock salute. "I aim to confuse and amuse in equal measure."
Darian bowed politely, though his eyes lingered a moment longer on Arila before he followed the prince toward the waiting carriage.
Once they were gone, Arila collapsed dramatically into her chair.
"Well," she muttered, grabbing the last macaron, "I think I successfully delayed my royal doom for at least one more day."
Ninko jumped onto the table, grabbed the macaron from her hand, and began to gnaw smugly.
Arila didn't argue. She smiled faintly, watching the garden's lights begin to glow. "I deserve this breakdown," she sighed. "I was emotionally responsible for ten whole minutes. Never again."
To be continued...