Evelyne had never been dumped over tea before.She'd been ghosted via text.
Ignored on Valentine's Day.
Even cheated on with her own roommate once. But this?
A royal breakup, in front of half the nobility, while sipping Darjeeling in a gown worth more than her old apartment?
This was a new low.
Or maybe... a new high, depending on how dramatic she felt today. The tea salon was a polished battlefield.
Golden chandeliers glinted above. Walls lined with velvet curtains. Every noblewoman dressed like she was about to enter a pageant. And at the center—him.
Crown Prince Lucien von Albrecht. Tall. Golden-haired. Eyes like cold sapphire.
And a face that looked like it had never once experienced rejection in his life.
He stood with perfect posture, surrounded by three ministers, a cardinal, and the Heroine herself—Isla.
Sweet, delicate Isla. The novel's golden girl. The one who would "open his heart" and "save the empire."
Ugh. Spare her.
Evelyne resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She entered like a queen anyway.
Back straight, head high, chin tilted just enough to say: I'm still better than all of you.
Whispers rippled through the room like perfume.
"She doesn't look shaken…"
"Didn't she faint this morning?"
"She's still wearing the engagement ring—!"
She approached the prince calmly, nodding politely at Isla, who looked like she wanted to melt into the floor.
Lucien turned to her, his expression tight.
"Lady Evelyne," he said. "Thank you for joining us. I didn't think you would come."
"Well," Evelyne replied smoothly, "it's rude to keep people waiting, even if they're here to ruin your afternoon."
A few gasps echoed. A minister dropped his spoon.
Lucien blinked, clearly not expecting that.
"I wanted to speak to you alone—"
"Ah," she cut in sweetly, "but you didn't wait, Your Highness. You summoned an audience. Surely you don't mind if they hear every word."
His jaw tightened. Perfect.
This was it. The moment where, in the novel, he'd coldly announce their broken engagement and Evelyne would erupt in jealous rage, cementing her status as the villainess.But that Evelyne was dead.
Literally. This Evelyne… smiled.
"I believe you have something to say?"
Lucien hesitated. "Our engagement… must come to an end."
There it was.
She stared at him. Not with anger. Not with tears.
But with amusement.
"Oh. Is that all?" she said, reaching for her teacup.
Isla looked confused. The nobles whispered louder now. Even the cardinal shifted awkwardly.
Lucien frowned. "You're not… upset?"
Evelyne tilted her head.
"I was upset, once. But that girl died."
She sipped her tea.
Then calmly slipped the ruby engagement ring off her finger and placed it on the table between them.
"Good luck, Your Highness. I hope your new bride enjoys public spectacles as much as you do."
And with that, she stood, nodded politely again, and turned on her heels.
Every head in the room followed her. Every mouth gaped.
And for the first time in her life—this one, or the last—Evelyne Everhart walked away from a man with her dignity intact.
And oh gods, it felt glorious.
Behind her, someone dropped their teacup. She didn't flinch.
Let them talk.
Let them wonder.
Let them panic.
Because while everyone expected her to throw a tantrum or beg for mercy, she'd done the one thing none of them had prepared for:
She walked away like she didn't need him.
Because she didn't.
Evelyne may have been dumped.
But she'd also just declared emotional independence, in a dress that cost more than most of the guests' carriages. And she wasn't done yet.
Outside the salon, she let out a slow breath and smiled to herself. The air felt lighter already. No ring. No prince. No deadweight dragging her toward a miserable future.
She passed a pair of noble ladies in the hallway.
"Did you hear? She didn't even cry!"
"She looked like she planned the whole thing!"
Evelyne gave them a polite nod as she walked by."Scandalous," one whispered behind a lace fan.
"Iconic," the other whispered back.She grinned.If they wanted a villainess, she would give them one.
But not the one from their story. This time, she was writing her own.