Aveline stepped into the grand dining hall.
For a moment, her breath stalled.
The long solid-wood table that was large enough to seat a hundred guests, had once been the pride of this house. She remembered how her mother used to stand at its head, radiant and warm, welcoming nobles, merchants, artists. Laughter used to echo beneath these ceilings.
The house had once been alive.
Now, the wallpaper had been changed to thick patterns, excessive gold threading, meant to scream wealth.
Instead, it whispered emptiness.
Dancers twirled across the polished floor. Musicians played flawlessly. Servants moved with mechanical precision.
Everything was perfect. And yet, It felt like a corpse dressed for celebration.
Her gaze drifted toward the table.
It was covered in delicacies — roasted meats glazed to shine, fruits arranged like jewels, desserts crafted with intricate care. It resembled a royal feast.
Did they always eat like this? Or was this performance prepared specifically for Theron?
Her fingers curled slowly into her skirts.
Then she saw her.
Beatrice Willowgrave.
Seated proudly near the center, wrapped in layers of silk and arrogance. Gems glittered at her throat, wrists, ears: heavy, excessive.
And there.
Aveline's chest tightened.
Her mother's pearl necklace was layered carelessly among others, as though it were just another ornament. And the ring… The one her father had given her mother on their tenth anniversary. Beatrice wore it like a trophy.
Aveline's jaw tightened.
She might have grown up in this mansion, but she had not been allowed in this hall for ten years.
While music played here, she had slept in the back quarters. Not even in the kitchen like a proper servant, but in the laundry room and the chicken coop. The scent of damp cloth and feathers had clung to her skin no matter how hard she scrubbed.
She had spoken quietly with the kitchen maids. Girls who trembled whenever Beatrice or Isolde entered. Hot water had been thrown at them for small mistakes.
One little maid…Aveline's stomach twisted. That girl had once been struck in the eye with a jeweled hairpin because she had "looked at her wrong." She had not survived the infection.
The music in the hall sounded distant now.
Beatrice had not spared Aveline either.
There were afternoons when Beatrice would stroll to the chicken coop in embroidered slippers, claiming boredom.
She would release her hunting dogs.
Aveline could still feel the claws, the mud, the humiliation of falling face-first into filth while Beatrice laughed.
If Beatrice were in a particularly inspired mood, she would repeat the entertainment in the stables.
Now that same Beatrice sat plump and glowing, her cheeks flushed with indulgence, smiling widely at Theron.
Aveline's lips pressed thin.
Beatrice's gaze lingered openly on Theron.
Ah. So that was the game.
Aveline glanced sideways at him. She did not know what story he had given Mortimer. But clearly, they believed him wealthy… Eligible.
They were preparing Beatrice like a bride on display.
Her grip tightened.
Theron might be her captor. Her master. Her walking, breathing complication.
But even he did not deserve that fate.
She studied his face carefully.
Did he know? Did he see the trap being laid? Or was he walking willingly into it?
Suddenly, she felt a heavy, lingering stare. She resisted the urge to look immediately, for she knew that gaze.
Henry Willowgrave. Mortimer's youngest son.
Her fingers fisted harder in her skirts.
He…
Her breathing shifted.
The music continued to play, but the ghosts in this hall had begun to stir.
Theron noticed it.
A moment ago, the fierce girl he remembered had flashed through Aveline's eyes, sharp and untamed. Now she had retreated again, shoulders subtly stiff, silence wrapping around her like armor.
That would not do.
They guided him toward his seat, strategically placed between their son and daughter. How thoughtful.
Theron did not even slow down. With one smooth motion, he flipped his elaborate cape back and pulled out a chair.
For Aveline.
Only after she was seated did he take the seat beside her. A quiet statement. Clear enough.
Mortimer's smile tightened.
"This is a fine spread," Theron remarked casually, surveying the table heavy with meats, wines, sugared fruits. "You didn't go into debt for this, did you?"
Mortimer nearly choked on air. "N-No, Young Master. We prepared this carefully for your visit."
"Good," Theron nodded.
Then he smiled. It was a pleasant smile. The kind that made merchants sign contracts they would later regret.
Mortimer pretended not to notice and gestured for the butler to begin serving.
Aveline noticed that smile. There was something behind it. Something sharp.
She was still staring when Theron turned slightly and, without shame, winked at her. Winked. Just like that.
And for reasons she refused to examine too closely, that small gesture steadied her.
Fine. If he is playing a game, I will too.
Across the table, Beatrice sat glittering like an over-decorated festival lantern, giggling every time Theron lifted his glass.
Something about that irritated Aveline more than it should have.
Why did it irritate her?
Irrelevant.
The cow has to be handled first.
"Miss," Aveline said sweetly, turning to Beatrice. "How skilled are you in the arts?"
Beatrice beamed instantly.
Her mother had clearly rehearsed this moment with her a hundred times. Be charming. Be soft. Secure the wealthy merchant. Live forever surrounded by pastries.
Isolde leaned forward eagerly. "She is excellent at painting and embroi—"
"Is she mute?" Aveline asked mildly.
The table stilled. Beatrice's smile twitched.
"I am good at painting and embroidery," she repeated, attempting a sultry tone that unfortunately resembled a rooster attempting courtship.
"I want to see you dance," Aveline said calmly.
Silence.
In Aurelmont, noble ladies did not dance for entertainment. That was for courtesans and for women bought by the hour.
Beatrice's face drained of color.
"Go," Aveline continued, leaning back and folding her arms. "Join them. Let me get entertained by a cow wearing curtains."
A fork clattered somewhere down the table. Aveline didn't flinch.
Didn't Beatrice once unleash hunting dogs for amusement? Now she could be the entertainment.
Isolde shot to her feet, trembling. "You are—"
"Excuse me, Miss…" Mortimer cut in quickly, voice strained but controlled. He had to protect his daughter's dignity, while not offending the golden goose seated beside him.
"They are not entertaining, Brother," Aveline said, turning to Theron with a small pout. "I thought you were keeping me entertained tonight."
Brother.
Theron's jaw flexed. The one address he'd never be comfortable with if it came from her… and she was using it so fluently.
He set his cutlery down with deliberate precision.
The sound was soft. The effect was not.
His gaze lifted.
The temperature at the table seemed to drop.
A stare-down began — silent, suffocating.
Theron's expression remained pleasant.
But his eyes? They were cold, calculating and dangerous.
He did not look at Beatrice. He looked at Mortimer. And Mortimer understood. This was no merchant dazzled by jewels.
This was a predator evaluating livestock.
Slowly, Theron leaned back in his chair, one arm draping across the back of Aveline's seat. A gesture that was casual and yet possessive and terrifying.
"My sister," he said lightly, "has very refined taste."
His fingers brushed lightly against Aveline's shoulder — steadying, anchoring.
"If she wishes to see a dance," he continued, voice smooth as silk drawn over a blade, "then surely this house can oblige."
Beatrice's breathing quickened. Mortimer's forehead glistened.
Theron tilted his head slightly.
"Unless," he added, smiling again, "this grandeur is only surface deep."
The music faltered. The dancers missed a step.
And Aveline, For the first time since stepping into that hall, felt powerful.
"What—what do you mean?" Mortimer asked, his voice suddenly thinner than the wine in his glass.
Theron did not answer immediately.
He let the silence stretch.
Then his lips curved.
"You lied to me, Mortimer," he said pleasantly. "You promised me prosperity. Stability. Influence."
His gaze swept lazily over the golden wallpaper, the overloaded table, the jewels dripping from Beatrice's neck.
"When in truth… you are drowning in debt."
The words dropped like a stone into still water.
Isolde gasped, one hand flying to her mouth. Henry's head snapped toward his father. Beatrice, in a panic, did not fully understand, and stuffed a large piece of meat into her mouth as if chewing could protect her from financial ruin.
Mortimer stood abruptly, chair scraping harshly against the floor. "W-What? How could you possibly—"
Theron leaned back in his seat, utterly relaxed.
"Regrettably, Viscount," he said smoothly, "I now own a considerable share of your obligations."
The room went very, very quiet.
Then his gaze turned on Henry, who was staring… staring at Aveline.