The rose was gone.
By the time Lyra returned to her chambers, the bloom on her pillow had vanished—no trace of crimson or thorn, no bloodied stem, no vase to hold its ghost.
She stared at the untouched sheets. Something in her twisted.
Caelum had always been careful like that. Sweet, polished, clean. A man who could offer you a knife dressed as a kiss—and you'd thank him for the wound.
She walked to the mirror, fingers ghosting over her collarbone. No bruises. No scars. But her skin remembered the cold of his touch.
He hadn't hit her. Never needed to. His cruelty came softer than steel. A word at the wrong moment. A smile sharpened just enough to draw blood.
And now, that same man had greeted her in the garden as if she were nothing more than his obedient wife.
Radiant.
She gritted her teeth.
No one had ever looked at her and meant it. Not really. Not even Caelum—especially not Caelum. His gaze had always belonged to Evelyne. She could be wearing ash and blood and Evelyne would waltz in wearing pearls—and still, Caelum would see only the shine.
But not this time.
Lyra opened her wardrobe with a jerk. The silks were still there. Powdered pastels, modest cuts, the gowns a proper Vellorin wife should wear.
She reached past them, toward the back.
There. A dress untouched by court rules. Deep blue velvet. Sharp neckline. Open back. A little scandal, stitched in secret, paid for with stolen coin. She had ordered it the week after her wedding and never dared wear it.
Until now.
The fabric whispered over her skin like a promise. When she turned to the mirror again, the girl was gone. What stood in her place looked carved from defiance.
She pinned up her hair. Left her neck bare.
Let Caelum look at her now.
The ambassador's reception was a carefully curated nightmare. Crystal chandeliers. Champagne that tasted like duty. Laughter laced with venom.
The garden terrace overlooked the marble courtyard, and noblemen spilled across it like perfume—showy, sickly, cloying.
Lyra walked in and silence followed.
Not loud. Not obvious. Just a flicker. A turn of heads. A sharp inhale here, a pause in a toast there. Enough to say: She shouldn't be here.
But she was.
And she smiled like the devil had taught her.
Caelum turned at the sound of her heels. For a moment—just a breath—his expression cracked.
She saw it. Saw the flicker of something primal beneath his charm. He masked it quickly, but too late.
"Lyra," he said, moving to greet her. "You changed."
"Did I?" she said, lifting a brow. "I hardly noticed."
He leaned in, lips near her ear. "You're making a scene."
She didn't flinch. "Let them watch."
"Must you always—"
"Yes," she cut in, voice a whisper made of knives. "I must."
Their eyes met.
And for the first time since her return, Lyra saw him hesitate. Not out of guilt. Never guilt. But discomfort. Unease.
Good.
The ambassador, some minor lord with a forgettable smile, approached with Evelyne on his arm. Lyra recognized the dress—borrowed from her old collection. How poetic.
"Lady Lyra," Evelyne said, tone saccharine. "You look… different."
"I am," Lyra said simply.
Evelyne blinked. The ambassador chuckled politely.
Caelum cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should sit."
"Or perhaps," Lyra said, voice silken, "I'll take a walk. The night air is kinder company."
She didn't wait for permission. Didn't need it.
She stepped away, heels clicking against polished stone. Every footfall echoed with intent.
When she reached the far end of the terrace—out of sight, almost out of sound—she exhaled. Her hand went to her bodice. Inside, pressed against her skin, was the second letter.
Not to Thorne.
This one was for her.
A list. Names. Reminders.
Evelyne: the lie
Caelum: the betrayal
Father: the silence
Beneath those, a final line.
Burn them. But smile while you do it.
Lyra looked up at the stars. Cold. Distant. Honest.
She smiled.
And this time, it wasn't for anyone else.