Aveline stood framed between lamplight and dusk, the fading sunlight catching on her gown like liquid gold. The fabric embraced her waist before cascading down in soft, elegant layers. Her hair was half pinned, the rest falling in loose strands that brushed her shoulders whenever she moved.
Theron forgot how to breathe.
Beautiful.
The word rose instinctively, and felt painfully inadequate.
It struck him without warning, like lightning cleaving through a silent sky. For one unguarded moment, the corridor, the guards… everything disappeared.
There was only a man standing still. And the woman before him.
The girl he once loved. The girl he had tried to forget. She was not the child from his memories. Not the broken woman from that dark hall.
She was radiant. Whole.
A lady.
Aveline shifted slightly under his stare. He wasn't blinking.
Why wasn't he blinking? Was there something on her face?
"Isn't it… too much?" she asked carefully, lifting her hand a little. The sleeve alone weighed as much as her future. How exactly was she supposed to run for her life in this thing?
Theron finally moved.
He straightened, though his eyes never left her.
"No."
His voice was lower than usual. Rougher.
"It's not enough."
Her brows furrowed.
Not enough?
Not heavy enough?
Was he planning to attach ankle chains next? Perhaps a ceremonial iron ball for authenticity?
Before she could clarify whether he intended to improve her mobility or eliminate it entirely, he stepped toward her.
The corridor seemed to shrink with every movement.
He stopped close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, steady and overwhelming. His gaze had changed. It wasn't sharp or calculating as it was with everyone else.
It was softer… Almost unguarded.
His fingers lifted.
Her breath caught instantly.
He brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his knuckles grazing the faint flush blooming across her cheek.
The touch was careful.
Theron swallowed. She deserved more than silk and gold. She deserved power. A throne. The world.
The words pressed against his throat.
'You look like you should rule everything.'
But the thought frightened him.
"You look…" He paused, forcing himself to breathe evenly. "Like you can't walk in it."
Aveline's eyes lit up.
"Yes! I can change into something else—"
"If you can't," he interrupted calmly, "I'll carry you."
Her heart stopped.
Then resumed at double speed.
Does he… read minds?
Was that a skill of the Greenvale knights? Was that taught in royal academies? Because that was highly unfair.
"I-I can walk," she said quickly, taking a step forward.
Being this close to him did something strange to her chest. It wasn't fear.
Fear didn't feel warm. Fear didn't make her aware of the way his gaze lingered on her lips for half a second too long.
Theron watched her steady herself, watched the way she lifted her chin in stubborn pride.
And something inside him tightened.
If she ever truly ran… He wasn't sure whether he would chase her, or burn the world that tried to take her away.
-----
Inside the carriage, Aveline sat in dignified misery.
The window was open. Wide open. Invitingly open.
The cool evening air drifted in as the carriage rolled past stretches of woodland — quiet, shadowed places where a girl could disappear forever if she jumped at precisely the right moment.
If only she could move.
She glanced down at her dress and sighed.
She had once heard the phrase gilded cage. Today she had discovered its advanced evolution. Gold-embroidered shackles. The skirt alone could smother three small children and possibly a goat.
Is this how my life ends? Suffocated by fashion?
Across from her, Theron shook his head faintly, hiding a smile.
This woman… What was he supposed to do with her?
Aveline, meanwhile, was not smiling. She was observing. No, she was evaluating.
Her gaze traveled slowly from his polished boots, which shone as though they had never once encountered honest mud, upward to his coat, tailored within an inch of perfection.Then… to the rings.
There was enough gold on his fingers to finance a modest war.
Her lips trembled. She tried. Truly. She attempted to behave like a refined lady of breeding and restraint.
She failed catastrophically.
"What," she began delicately, "are you supposed to be?"
Theron merely smiled. That was never a good sign.
She gestured vaguely at his entire sparkling existence. "Is this a costume? Or… a five-year-old's interpretation of a wealthy merchant?"
His smile deepened.
Ah. So, she has struck correctly.
"There is no real merchant," she continued sweetly, leaning forward to flick one of the heavy gold chains resting on his chest, "who would parade around this district wrapped in enough bullion to sink a ferry. Unless he is actively hoping to be robbed."
She leaned back and studied him again.
"Or," she added thoughtfully, "unless he intends to lure a particularly foolish fish."
Silence.
Infuriating man.
"You are not dressed for trade," she concluded, folding her arms. "You are dressed to trap a nincompoop. Or… you are the nincompoop."
Theron's eyes glinted.
Aveline immediately leaned back, crying in her heart.
She had done it. She had provoked him. Again. Why did her mouth betray her so consistently?
But before he could retaliate, her gaze shifted past him, through the carriage window. And her world stopped.
The mansion loomed in the distance.
Her mansion.
Her fingers went cold. "You're… handing me over to them?" she whispered, turning sharply toward him. "Wh-Why?"
Her heart began pounding violently. The mere sight of that place made her chest tighten, memories clawing their way upward.
No.
She twisted, pushing against the seat, attempting to stand. She would jump. Heavy dress or not. Better broken bones than…
Theron caught her immediately.
She struggled.
He saw it then. It was not defiance or stubbornness. It was fear, raw and trembling, and far too familiar.
"Aveline!" he said sharply, gripping her wrists, firm enough to steady her, gentle enough not to hurt. "Listen to me."
His breath warmed her cold cheeks.
She fought him for a few seconds more before finally looking at him. Her chest heaved. Her eyes were glassy.
"I'm not handing you to them," he said quietly.
Her breath stuttered.
"I'm handing them to you."
The words settled slowly, like snow, like something fragile that might melt if touched too quickly.
"What does that mean?" she whispered.
"Tonight," he said, his voice lowering, "you can be anyone you want. Do whatever you want."
His gaze sharpened. "I've already trapped the nincompoop."
Her head tilted slightly.
Is he… serious?
Her hands tightened in her skirts as memories flickered through her mind — every insult, every humiliation, every night she had endured within those walls. The humiliation of being in chains… to be sold as a slave.
She had imagined what she would do to them if she had the power.
Theron covered both her hands with one of his. Even together, they fit within his palm. She looked so small.
"You can do whatever you want tonight, Aveline."
The carriage slowed and then stopped.
Outside, Mortimer Willowgrave was already waiting at the entrance. Aveline released the curtain slowly. She did not know if she could fully trust Theron. But she would try.
Theron stepped down first and offered his hand. She took it.
Her pulse thundered as her feet touched the ground. It had been years since she had stood at the front entrance of what was once her home.
She inhaled deeply.
Mortimer did not look at her. Not at first. "Young Master Karlos Blumenthal," he said with a bow, his eyes on Theron. "It is an honor to host you."
Aveline's teeth clenched at the sight of her father's ring and brooch pinned arrogantly to his chest.
Fine. Let's play.
Then Mortimer looked up. And saw her. His face drained of color.
"Aveline?" His brows shot up. "How did you—"
"Aveline?" she echoed lightly, lifting her brows. "Who is that?"
Oh… She adored that expression. Was it fear? Panic? Rage struggling to surface?
"I am Karlos' sister, Helena," she said smoothly. "You don't mind me joining, do you, Lord Mortimer?"
Theron whipped his head toward her.
Sister?
Of all identities.
He told her she could be anyone. Anyone. And she chose to be his… sister? Really?
Sister.
He stared at the side of her face, jaws tightening.
Sister.
Unbelievable.
"And this pig in a dress. Is that your wife?" Aveline asked with an innocent and indifferent smile, as if she were amused.
This woman was the one who threw food to the dirty floor and made her fight with the dogs for a single bite.
Isolde, Mortimer's wife glared at Mortimer. He bowed his head, unable to speak a word.
Theron's gloved hand settled lightly at Aveline's back.
Aveline didn't know which man was more dangerous tonight.
She only knew one thing.
The girl they destroyed would not be the one walking out without making them pay.