The grand hall shimmered with candlelight as the brothers took their seats at the long table. Silver platters gleamed, fine dishes arrived one after another, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine.
Demure, the black-haired eldest, leaned back with a grin, his eyes fixed on Colden. Lars, the red-haired middle brother, mirrored the expression, both of them radiating arrogance.
"Well," Demure said, his tone dripping with mockery, "do you still remember us?"
Colden's voice trembled but held firm. "Yes," he replied, pointing to Demure. "You are Demure, the oldest. You once said you would strangle my neck if I ever admitted I didn't like tall girls." Demure smirked, the memory clearly amusing him.
Colden shifted his gaze to Lars, swallowing hard. "And you are Lars, the middle one. You've hated my guts ever since I said I liked tall girls… and—" He faltered, glancing nervously back at Demure, his words trailing into silence.
The brothers chuckled, their laughter low and unsettling. The dinner continued, but the atmosphere grew heavier. Isabelle, seated at the head of the table, raised her voice with deliberate calm. "Do you two know," she said, her eyes gleaming, "that Colden has already given his decision?"
Both brothers smirked in unison. "Oh?" they said, their eyes narrowing, turning almost demonic as they leaned forward. Their gaze stalked Colden, pressing him into the chair as though their presence alone could suffocate him. Isabelle's smile sharpened. "He says he needs time."
The aura of the room shifted, thick and oppressive. Colden's skin glistened with sweat, as though he had stepped into a sauna. Isabelle, Demure, and Lars stared directly at him, their combined force crushing his resolve.
And then, the doors opened. Carmine entered.
Her presence was unexpected, unplanned. Isabelle's eyes flickered with irritation — this was not part of her scheme. She had arranged for Glinda to keep Carmine occupied, but Carmine was no ordinary servant. She was a trained spy, her instincts sharper than any blade.
Colden's eyes lifted, and for the first time that evening, his shoulders straightened. With Carmine in the room, his confidence returned. The oppressive aura faltered, the demonic stares losing their grip. Isabelle's plan of manipulation had cracked, and Carmine's quiet defiance had shifted the balance.
The dinner was no longer Isabelle's stage.
To be continued…