Celine slumped against the wall, the heat fading, the rage melting away. She slid down the length of the hallway. Her fingers dug into her arms, clinging onto her body as if it were the only thing keeping her whole.
The maids, the servants, the guards, all silent. Trained, to keep their gaze down, their ears shut.
"You," Celine called out, "All of you, gather everyone. Every maid, every cook, every stable boy, every guard. The staff, the gardeners. Gather everyone, and meet me in the ballroom. Right now."
They stared at her, confusion clouding their eyes.
Celine glanced up, her stare enough to send them rushing down the hall, the echo of their footsteps ringing in the emptiness.
A minute passed.
Five.
Ten.
And the doors of the ballroom swung open.
Silence.
Their eyes, on her. They noted how Celine stood, slightly disheveled, her face somewhat swollen and pale at the same time, yet still contrasting with the force that radiated from her.
Celine looked out at the sea of faces. Faces, whose names she never knew, whose stories she never bothered to ask. Faces, that had served her all her life.
"I know what you think of me, and I've done nothing to make you think otherwise," Celine began, "I am not here to tell you I am innocent. I am here, because I want you to know that the person who died was a servant like you. A servant, who was born, and lived, and breathed for the Rochefort family."
Her hands clenched, her nails digging into her palms.
"Tell me, who is more deserving of my respect, of my compassion, of my understanding, than the one who is loyal to me until the end? And yet, I'm being called a disgrace, a failure, a shame, a stain, when the only stain here is his blood, left unavenged and ignored?"
Her words echoed through the room, her voice rising.
"An affair, a loveless marriage, an illegitimate heir, a broken engagement, a fallen woman, a bastard child, a disgraced house, a ruined name – none of these can break a Rochefort. Many tried, many failed, and many will continue to try. But there is one thing that cannot be overcome, and that is the absence of a Rochefort. Without a Rochefort, the peace ends, and the power is up for grabs."
Scandal, gossip, misfortune – these were mere inconveniences, not threats. A Rochefort did not break under shame, did not kneel to slander. The House had weathered worse: betrayal, exile, war. Whispers could not kill what was built to last.
"So instead of wasting time on your stupid, pointless, mindless gossip, spend it on ensuring the future of the House, not its destruction. Your wage is the product of the House's profit, not its ruin, and the sooner you understand that, the sooner you can stop wasting my time on lectures nobody wants to hear, and please my ear with ideas that are actually worthwhile."
Their heads bowed, their eyes cast downward, and she knew they understood.
She laughed, lifting the mood, breaking the tension. "You don't expect me to raise your pay by getting on my nerves, do you? If you want the coins, give me a reason to throw them. Am I clear?"
"Yes, My Lady!" The room thundered.
"Good. Now get back to work."
They scurried out of the ballroom, their steps light, holding their chest, hearts beating rapidly as if they'd just returned from an integration room.
Rocheforts didn't need a spotless reputation to wield influence. Power spoke louder than gossip, and Lady Celine knew how to make it talk.
A broken engagement with the Royal Family? It didn't seem like the Rocheforts cared at all!
Lady Celine even began to parade her new boy toys in public in provocation, flaunting her status and freedom, her wealth and power.
Instead of punishing his daughter for her scandalous behavior, the Duke of Rochefort publicly announced his support, "These young men are undergoing special training under my daughter's guidance. She is personally ensuring they reach their full potential, and if all goes well, I will consider adopting one of them into the family."
The nobles were baffled by this, and even the common folk had no idea what the Duke's true intentions were.
Eventually, the scandal turned into a political conspiracy theory.
The Rochefort line was in danger of extinction. With no male heir to secure its legacy, there was no need for an alliance through marriage – no powerful house to swoop in and seize control under the guise of unity. What they needed was a puppet to carry the family name.
· · ─────── · ⊱❈⊰· ─────── · ·
The carriage rattled over the cobbled streets.
Lucian sat with one leg crossed over the other, gloved fingers drumming idly against the polished wood of the armrest.
He exhaled, tilting his head back against the cushioned seat.
How foolish.
For a moment – just a fleeting second – he had almost been worried.
Worried that he wouldn't make it in time.
When the rumors first reached him, he had entertained the thought that perhaps, this time, Celine had miscalculated. That perhaps, for once, she had pushed too far, too recklessly, and was now drowning under the weight of her own ruin.
But now?
A laugh slipped from his lips.
Foolish, really.
For a moment, he had considered offering his assistance – take advantage of her moment of weakness, and bring her down to her knees, make her regret the day she decided to treat him worse than the dirt beneath her shoes. But then, he had remembered just what sort of woman Lady Celine Rochefort was.
Her ruined reputation was a trap, and everyone walked right into it. They thought they were watching the Rocheforts's downfall, eager to use it to their advantage. But that was just an illusion – one they happily bought, and one the Rocheforts were happy to sell.
The carriage came to a halt, and Lucian stepped out, his boots clicking sharply on the cobblestones. He paused for a moment, letting his gaze rise to the towering castle ahead.
The sight was magnificent, shimmering with opulence, like something carved from a dream.
But he was not here to admire the view.
With a final breath, Lucian straightened, his face a mask of indifference.
He walked forward, each step unhurried.
· · ─────── · ⊱❈⊰· ─────── · ·
Lady Celine Rochefort was quite famous for hosting the most unique banquets. No one ever left one of her gatherings without feeling that they had witnessed something beyod ordinary.
An attention seeker, some called her, but the truth was, they knew she found events hosted by other nobles dull, boring, and lackluster, and would rather host her own than suffer through theirs.
If she accepted an invitation to attend another's event, it meant she either truly wanted to see what the fuss was about, or the host was so impressive (high ranked) she had no choice but to show up and be impressed.
The greatest embarrassment was to have Lady Celine Rochefort leave your party early. It was a statment: the host was not entertaining enough.
This event hosted by the Royal family carried a similar vibe like hers, and everyone was excited to participate.
The security was tight.
The rules were simple: no family crests, no house colors, and no titles.
And, above all, the most important rule: no talking until the feast. The weight of one's presence, and the subtle power of gestures, was to be the language for the first part of the night.