I hate it. I truly do.
The glimmering lights that promise warmth yet illuminate nothing but pretense. The extravagant decorations meant to impress, though they serve only to disguise cowardice. The laughter that rings too brightly, too rehearsed. The two-faced masks worn like jeweled heirlooms — polished, admired, passed down from generation to generation as though deception itself were a treasure.
And yet…
I cannot truly despise it.
It is the world I was born into.
It is the language I learned before I understood sincerity. The air I breathed before I knew how heavy it was. Control stitched into every expression.
This estate — these halls — this lineage — they are not cages forced upon me.
They are the inheritance I was raised to uphold.
"Derick."
My father's voice carried across the grand hall, steady despite the years that had bent his frame but never his will.
"Yes, Father?"
He stood at my side beneath the cascade of crystal chandeliers, his silver hair gleaming in the candlelight. Age had claimed his strength, but not his presence. Even now, leaning lightly on his cane, he commanded the room as though I assumed he would decades ago.
"I am impressed," he said, surveying the decorations, assessing eyes, "with the decorum with which you have conducted yourself."
A faint, restrained smile touched my lips.
"Not once," he continued, "have you disappointed me, my son."
There it was.
The sentence I had spent a lifetime earning.
Not once.
I drew in a careful breath, ensuring my composure did not falter. "Your guidance has made it possible, Father."
He waved the compliment aside, though I saw the satisfaction in his gaze.
"Even your sister will be attending tomorrow evening," he added, softer now. "It has been too long since I have seen the two of you together beneath one roof."
A flicker of something gentler crossed his expression.
"To behold my children side by side once more… ah." He exhaled slowly. "It is a blessing I am grateful to witness before I depart this earth."
"Father…" The word left me lower than a whisper.
He had spoken of mortality more often of late.
He laughed lightly. "Do not look so grim. I am not dead yet."
But the truth hung between us regardless.
"Well then," he said suddenly, a familiar spark lighting his eyes, "should you not consider seeking a wife before I go as well?"
I stiffened — only slightly.
Marriage.
The topic that returned with relentless patience.
He grinned broadly, revealing teeth still remarkably strong for a man of his years. "I would like to see my grandchildren before I die, Derick. Surely that is not too much to ask?"
I scratched the back of my neck, an unpolished gesture I allowed myself only in his presence.
"I have been… occupied with family business," I replied carefully. "There has been little time to consider suitable candidates."
He studied me.
"You are a capable man. Influential. Respected. Your position must be secured properly. Marriage is not merely companionship — it is legacy."
Legacy.
The word pressed against something I had long kept contained.
How could I explain it to him?
How could I tell him that my heart — traitorous and irrational — had fixed itself upon a woman I could never claim so easily?
A woman who did not wear flowers woven by maids, but jewels placed upon her by a kingdom.
A woman whose laughter, when it came freely, felt like rebellion.
A woman who would never be merely a wife.
No.
To speak her name in this context would not simply shock him.
It would burden him.
And I would not do that.
"I have not yet encountered a lady who would suit both our expectations," I answered smoothly.
He narrowed his eyes faintly. "Or perhaps," he said, "you are too particular."
Perhaps.
Or perhaps I have already chosen — and cannot admit it.
He shifted his gaze toward the staircase where maids moved gracefully between conversations.
"A man may conquer markets, estates, rival families," he continued, "but without a wife, his victories echo."
Yes.
Echo in empty halls.
I followed his gaze across the ballroom.
Polished marble floors reflecting candlelight. Silk gowns gliding like water. Soon Gentlemen will be laughing there.
The truth is that here power was not seized — it was negotiated.
Reputation was armor.
Composure was weaponry.
And love—
Love was weakness.
Unless wielded correctly.
My mind betrayed me, conjuring her image without consent.
Adelaide.
Standing at the far end of a royal corridor weeks ago, spine straight, chin lifted, fury contained so tightly it trembled beneath her calm.
She had been radiant and furious all at once.
Not fragile.
Never fragile.
"Derick," my father said again, studying me with unsettling perception, "there is something on your mind."
I forced myself back into the present. "Only the success of tomorrow's gathering."
He hummed thoughtfully.
"You have always been ambitious," he said. "But I sense something more."
For a fleeting, dangerous second, I considered it.
Telling him.
But I saw his age. The fine tremor in his hand when he adjusted his cane.
He had built everything I now managed.
I would not burden him with uncertainty in his final years.
"You imagine too much, Father," I said lightly.
He studied me a moment longer.
Then, mercifully, he nodded.
"Very well."
He placed a firm hand upon my shoulder.
"Do not delay too long in securing your future, my son."
Future.
The word echoed long after he moved away.
I remained beneath the chandeliers, the glittering lights I claimed to despise casting fractured reflections across polished floors.
Future.
I moved toward the balcony doors, needing air beyond perfume and politics.
Outside, the night was cooler. Honest. The stars did not flatter anyone. They simply burned.
I gripped the stone railing and exhaled.
I turned back toward the hall.
I would stand beneath more glittering lights.
I would watch her face carefully.
And if there was even the faintest flicker of resignation in her eyes—
God help them all.
Because I would not remain silent again.