It was only a few days later that a formal summons, edged with the stark imperative of a command, arrived for Odeliah, requiring her immediate presence in her father's study. It was not a request, nor a gentle invitation; it was an unequivocal order, and Odeliah, steeped in a lifetime of rigorous lessons in decorum and deference, knew better than to contemplate defiance.
She dressed in a simple black dress, its lines elegantly severe, adorned with no jewels save for the somber gleam of the fabric itself, and applied only the barest whisper of makeup, soft and barely even noticeable, allowing her pale skin and green eyes to speak for themselves.
She knocked softly upon the heavy oak door, her knuckles making only the faintest whisper against the polished wood. A deep, resonant voice from within bade her enter, and she pushed the door inward, stepping into the study's hushed, austere atmosphere.
Marquess Luciano sat behind his grand desk, a formidable figure. With his rich red hair, piercing green eyes, and a tanned complexion, he and Odeliah shared the same striking eyes and an undeniable, keen intellect; yet, in virtually every other aspect, they were worlds apart.
Her father, it was an unspoken, palpable truth, despised her, believing with a fierce, unwavering conviction that Odeliah had led to his beloved wife's untimely death. Odeliah did not blame him. Even now, after all these years, she could still hear her mother's desperate screams, faint yet sharp, echoing in the innermost chambers of her mind from that fateful day.
He had never remarried since her mother's passing, a testament to his enduring grief. He still mourned her deeply, visibly, his customary attire restricted solely to the somber depths of black. It had been many years since that profound loss, but still, with a devotion. He would visit her grave, sometimes writing long, heartfelt letters to her, as if he needed to sneak them through the window, just as he had in the ardent, romantic foolishness of his youth.
"Odeliah," her father began, his voice cutting through the silence of the study, devoid of warmth, "I have received an offer. A rather... opportune one, considering recent events." His gaze, sharp and assessing, held hers. "It is a marriage proposal, from Count Boleyn."
Odeliah's stomach instantly curled, tightening into a cold, hard knot of dread. Count Boleyn. The name itself was synonymous with repulsion throughout Belamour: an old man, rumored to be nearing Death's door, yet stubbornly clinging to life, a man infamous for his countless wives, each mysteriously vanishing or succumbing to an illness only a few years into their marriage, always without producing an heir. Surely, Odeliah thought with a horrifying certainty, she would be destined for the very same chilling fate.
Her father continued, his words falling with the merciless finality of decree. "You are to marry him. There will be no discussion on the matter. After the wedding of Lord Harper and Amorette, your engagement will be formally announced, and you will be married as swiftly as propriety allows. And, of course," he added, his gaze hardening, leaving no room for argument, "you will attend Amorette's wedding. No matter what foolish protests you might be tempted to utter, you will be there, a dutiful sister, a lady of this house."
Odeliah desperately wanted to protest, to scream, to lash out against the suffocating injustice, to defy him, but the words, sharp and bitter as they were in her mind, simply would not form on her lips. She remained quiet, her face a mask of serene obedience. Her father, his business concluded, simply dismissed her with a curt nod.
Odeliah curtsied low, her movements stiff, and left the room, feeling as if she had been utterly muted, her voice and will extinguished. A profound ache settled in her chest, a longing so intense it was almost physical.
She wished, with every fiber of her being, that Mama was still alive. Mama would always have been by Odeliah's side. She always was.
As she navigated the familiar, yet suddenly alien, hallways of the manor, a figure emerged from the shadows of a recessed archway, causing her to nearly shriek aloud. She had known he was back from his duties, of course, the household murmurs had confirmed it, but his sudden, unexpected presence always had the unnerving effect of a phantom.
It was Soren Luciano.
His rich red hair, a vibrant echo of their father's, framed a face dominated by striking green eyes – he looked exactly like Marquess Luciano, save for the noticeable paleness of his skin and a jagged scar that bisected his left eyebrow, a grim memento from fighting on some distant battlefield, though in truth, he preferred the calculated moves made from the strategic safety of his home to the raw chaos of combat.
As the eldest son and heir of the esteemed House of Luciano, he had always been somewhat isolated from his younger sisters, a solitary, studious figure. Not that he held any particular affection for them; he always looked at them with an unnervingly cold detachment and spoke to them only in clipped, succinct sentences.
For the past year, he had been serving diligently within the Imperial Palace, steadily carving out his path. He had been quietly eyeing the intensely coveted position of being a primary advisor to the Emperor himself, one of the strongest and most influential positions in the entire Empire—and undoubtedly one of the most dangerous.
Not dangerous from enemies, but rather from the Emperor's notoriously capricious temper; His Majesty had quite the habit of summarily executing his advisors if they made even the slightest perceived wrong move.
"Scared of me, little sister?" Soren's voice was a low, dry scoff, devoid of genuine amusement, his eyes, as always, cold and unwavering, observing her with a disquieting intensity.
Odeliah braced herself, fully expecting him to simply turn and walk away, his brief acknowledgment of her existence concluded. But to her utter surprise, he did not. Instead, with a gesture that seemed entirely alien to his reserved nature, he inclined his head slightly.
"Come," he stated, his tone flat, "join me for tea."
What?
The single word echoed incredulously in Odeliah's mind, a question mark of bewildered disbelief.
A mere twenty minutes later, Odeliah found herself seated in a quiet parlor, bathed in the soft afternoon light, her fingers wrapped around a delicate porcelain cup. For the first time in three agonizing months, she was truly eating, savoring the subtle sweetness of carefully prepared pastries and sipping warm, fragrant tea.
Soren, impeccably dressed as ever, sat opposite her, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed solely upon her. He didn't touch any of the delectable food; he notoriously despised both tea and sweets. He simply watched Odeliah eat, his intense, unwavering scrutiny making her shiver despite the comforting warmth of the tea.
Soren was, in truth, an incredibly frightening individual; his intellect was razor-sharp, his mind a labyrinth of strategic thought, and he possessed an extensive, often unsettling, network of connections throughout the capital. Odeliah feared him almost as profoundly as she feared her own father, perhaps even more so, for his cold calculation seemed less predictable.
"So," Soren began, his voice softer than she had ever heard it directed at her, a carefully measured cadence that held a surprising, almost gentle quality. "The wedding of Lord Harper and our younger sister approaches. It is, I imagine, quite the topic of conversation throughout the city."
He paused, observing her closely, a flicker of something that resembled pity, or perhaps genuine concern, momentarily softening the usual chill in his green eyes. "Tell me, Odeliah, how do you truly feel about it? About their impending union, after... after all that transpired?"
Odeliah, sensing the unexpected, almost unsettling, pity in his tone, instinctively stiffened. She was not a woman to be pitied, not by him, not by anyone. Her demeanor, honed through years of rigid discipline, immediately strengthened, her spine straightening, her head held high. She took a slow, deliberate sip of her tea, allowing the warmth to spread through her before she answered, her voice regaining its cultivated, prim composure, utterly devoid of the raw emotion that had consumed her days earlier.
"My dear brother," she replied, her gaze meeting his, unwavering, "they have my complete and unequivocal blessings. It is indeed a most fortunate match for both, and I sincerely hope they find great happiness in their marriage." A polite, almost serene smile touched her lips, a perfect mask. "Their joy, I assure you, is all that truly matters in such a significant societal arrangement."
Soren's mouth was a straight, unmoving line, but a subtle, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed a hint of amusement at her perfectly composed, yet utterly transparent, response.
"I see," he mused. He then shifted, his focus turning to a more immediate, uncomfortable subject.
"And as for your own future, Odeliah," he continued, his voice losing some of its surprising softness, becoming more direct, "Father has informed me of Count Boleyn's proposal. A rather... mature gentleman, is he not? And with a history of rather... unfortunate matrimonial outcomes, if the whispers are to be believed."
Odeliah flinched, a subtle, involuntary tremor that she instantly suppressed. The mention of Count Boleyn was like a cold hand closing around her heart. She said nothing, merely awaiting his next words, her mind racing.
"It is a match," Soren continued, observing her reaction with keen interest, "that I, personally, find... less than ideal for a woman of your particular endowments." He leaned forward slightly, his green eyes, for the first time, holding a genuine earnestness that shocked Odeliah to her core. "Odeliah, I possess certain... resources. Connections. If you wished it, I believe I could find a way to extricate you from this arrangement with Count Boleyn. Perhaps arrange for you a modest, yet comfortable, house in the countryside. A quiet, independent life, far from the prying eyes of society, where you might pursue your studies, your painting, unburdened by further societal expectations."
Odeliah stared at him, her green eyes wide with unconcealed disbelief. Had he truly just offered her freedom? A quiet life? Had Soren Luciano, her cold, calculating brother, been afflicted with some sort of strange drug, or perhaps a sudden, debilitating fit of madness? The notion was so utterly foreign, so entirely unexpected, that for a moment, she suspected a trap, a cruel jest.
Sensing her profound uneasiness, Soren allowed himself a soft, dry chuckle, a rare and unsettling sound from him.
"Yes, Odeliah," he mused, his gaze unwavering, "this is perhaps the first time in your life you've seen me exhibit anything remotely resembling concern for your personal welfare, is it not?"
He paused, a flicker of something akin to genuine regret crossing his features.
"Our mother, before... before she departed," he began, his voice dropping to a lower, more thoughtful register, "she made me promise. She held my hand, and she made me swear that I would always take deep care of my sisters, that I would cherish them, and protect them from the harshness of the world. A promise," he concluded, a self-deprecating note entering his tone, "that I have, until now, fulfilled rather poorly, I admit. It was just... her death. It shocked me to my very core. I lost myself in other pursuits, in ambition, in proving myself, and I neglected the promise I made to her, to you."
Odeliah closed her eyes, a wave of familiar, agonizing memories washing over her. Screams echoed in her mind, faint yet distinct, her mama's tears, the hauntingly beautiful smile she had given Odeliah, telling her, with a voice full of love and sorrow, to let go. When she opened her eyes softly, the green depths were glistening, but her composure remained.
She gazed at her brother, seeing him, truly seeing him, perhaps for the first time.
"Brother," she said, her voice a little tremulous, but resolute, "do not worry yourself on my behalf. I assure you, I am quite capable of navigating my own fate."
A faint, almost mischievous smile touched her lips, a hint of the Odeliah who had once dreamed.
"However," she conceded, the softness returning to her tone, "it would indeed be... nice... to not marry Count Boleyn. A quiet house, you say? Unburdened? That does hold a certain appeal."
She gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod of farewell, her decision made, rising gracefully from her chair. Her silent, cold chambers awaited, and with them, the arduous task of contemplating this sudden, unexpected glimmer of hope.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜
Meanwhile, within the Imperial Palace, bathed in the opulent, yet often sterile, grandeur of his private study, Emris Ravenswood sat, his crimson eyes fixed upon a single, delicate piece of parchment: the wedding invitation for Cedric Harper and Amorette Luciano.
A soft, dismissive scoff escaped his lips, a sound of utter contempt. His fingers, long and elegant, twitched almost imperceptibly, a silent urge to crumple the offensive document, to consign it to the nearest waste bin. He didn't even like the two of them; in truth, he despised them, especially Cedric.
The particular animosity towards the Harper heir had festered, growing steadily, ever since that one glittering gala years ago, when Emris had first laid eyes on Odeliah, her ethereal beauty captivating him from across a crowded ballroom, only to see Cedric's arm casually wrapped around her slender waist.
Odeliah.
Her name, a mere whisper in the silent vastness of his mind, made his cold lips curve into a slow, chilling smile.
Odeliah. Odeliah.
The name resonated within him, a perfectly formed obsession. He leaned forward in his grand chair, his elbows resting on the carved, obsidian surface of his desk, his gaze losing its casual disdain, sharpening with a predatory intensity.
He should prepare a marriage proposal soon, he mused, the thought settling comfortably, irrevocably, in his mind.
He had always, from that very first moment, wanted to marry her, to possess her utterly, but with Cedric and the Harper family's considerable power and influence standing as an inconvenient, irritating barrier, it had taken longer than his singular, impatient will desired. The only reason he had waited these three additional months, after the scandal broke, after Odeliah retreated into her hermit-like despair, was because he knew, with an uncanny certainty, that Odeliah needed time.
Time to heal, to break free from the shackles of her past, to shed the skin of her old life. He had not wanted to tread in her space, not yet, not until she was, in her own broken way, ready.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors to his study burst open without warning, slamming against the wall with a resounding thud. His assistant, the honorable Viscount Bourbon, a man usually prone to rigid decorum, practically burst into the room, his face flushed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Emris's crimson eyes narrowed, a silent, deadly glare aimed at the Viscount's blatant breach of etiquette, but for once, the Viscount seemed utterly unconcerned by the Emperor's obvious displeasure. He strode forward, his hand slamming down onto Emris's desk, the unexpected force rattling the inkwells.
"Your Imperial Majesty!" Viscount Bourbon declared, his voice strained with urgency. "News! The elder Lady Luciano... she is to be married!"
Emris's blood-red eyes, previously narrowed in irritation, now snapped wide, a sudden, lethal focus. "What?" The single word, though softly spoken, vibrated with an immense, contained power, chilling the very air in the room.
The Viscount, somewhat regaining his breath, quickly explained, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Her father, Marquess Luciano, has accepted an offer, Your Majesty. She is to be married to Count Boleyn."
The name, when spoken, caused Emris's teeth to grit together, a low, guttural growl escaping his throat. Boleyn. That vile, decaying old lecher, with his sordid reputation and his string of conveniently deceased wives.
"She is being married to a creepy murderer?" Emris spat, his voice laced with an icy fury that permeated the very foundations of the palace. "No. That cannot, and will not, happen."
His gaze became distant, lost in a possessive, terrifying vision. Odeliah belonged by his side, nowhere else, never with some worthless, ancient count who did not deserve Odeliah's ethereal embrace, her soft, rare smile, the gentle curve of her lips in a kiss, the sacred intimacy of her nights.
Emris leaned back in his grand chair, his earlier contempt for the wedding invitation replaced by a chilling, resolute determination. His eyes, the color of fresh blood, were now utterly cold, devoid of any warmth.
"This marriage," he stated, his voice a low, dangerous purr, "must be stopped. At all costs."
He then paused, his gaze drifting back to the discarded wedding invitation for Cedric and Amorette. A cruel, intelligent smile began to grow on his lips, spreading slowly, chillingly. Odeliah would be at that wedding, would she not?
He had been told she was commanded to attend. A ripple of dark amusement went through him.
Yes. He would make her trust him. He would make her desire him. And he would marry her within months.
The honorable Viscount Bourbon shivered, a visceral tremor running through his body at the sight of Emris's terrifying, triumphant smile, a smile that promised both untold power and inevitable bloodshed. Emris merely smirked, a dark satisfaction settling in his core.
Odeliah would be his, at last.