The clatter of silverware is the only sound in the room after my declaration. I don't let the silence turn awkward. Instead, I turn toward the head of the table. I look at the Duke—not as a daughter fearing a king, but as a person acknowledging another person.
"Father," I speak softly, "how are you today?"
The Duke's hand stops moving. He slowly looks up, his brow furrowing as if he hasn't quite heard me correctly.
"I hope everything is well with you," I continue, ignoring the Duchess's sharp intake of breath. "I know yesterday was incredibly hectic. There was so much chaos... so much happened. I worried that it might have affected your routine or, worse, your health. I truly hope you are feeling well today."
The silence that followed is absolute.
Orlando actually drops his spoon, the metal clinking loudly against his plate. He stares at me with wide eyes, his mouth slightly open. Beside him, the Duchess looks like she has seen a ghost.
In all the years of Elanore's life, she had only ever asked her father for things—for money, for dresses, for attention, or for forgiveness. She had never once asked him how he was.
The Duke stares at me for a long, heavy moment. His grey eyes, usually as cold as stone, flicker with a strange, fleeting emotion—was it confusion? Or is it the shock of being seen as a human being for the first time in his own home?
"I am..." he replies, his voice a bit rougher than usual. He clears his throat and sits up a little straighter. "I am fine, Elanore. The affairs of the Duchy are heavy, but they are my burden to bear."
"Even so," I say with a small, sincere nod, "even the strongest pillars need to be checked. Please make sure you rest today if you can."
The Duke doesn't smile —that would be too much to ask—but he doesn't look away either. He gives a single, slow nod of acknowledgment. "Your concern is... noted. It is a rare thing in this house."
I feel the Duchess's gaze burning into me, more toxic than any poison.
I keep my gaze steady on the Duchess, my mind whirring like a high-speed processor. I am trying to decipher her glares—the way she watches me as if she is waiting to see the old, timid Elanore crumble. I am so focused on the family members across from me, trying to read the Duke's silence and Orlando's stiff posture, that the rest of the room fades into a blur.
"What are you even doing, Elanore?" Suddenly, a warm breath brushes against my ear, shattering my concentration.
I am so determined to find a crack in Duchess's armor that I lose track of everything else. I don't hear the soft rustle of fabric or the quiet slide of a chair.
I gasp, my heart leaping into my throat as I spin around in my chair. My fork clatters against the plate, the sound echoing through the frozen dining hall. I expect to see a ghost or a threat, but instead, I find Orlando.
Without me even realizing it, he has moved his seat. He is no longer across the table; he is sitting right next to me, his eyes boring into mine.
"The concern for Father, the 'normal' family act... you weren't like this. You haven't been like this in years. It's like you're a different person."
I don't flinch. I look at his hand on my arm until he slowly lets go. Then, I meet his gaze with a steady, tired look.
"Orlando, how many times do I have to tell you?" I ask, my voice calm but firm. "I have forgotten everything. I don't have a map of who I was supposed to be. I don't know the 'Elanore' you are looking for."
Orlando opens his mouth to argue, but I hold up a hand.
"I don't know how I behaved before," I continue. "I don't know what games I played or why I was so bitter. But this is how I am now. I am behaving this way because it is the only way that makes sense to me."
I step closer, looking him dead in the eye.
"So just accept it, Brother. The girl you remember is gone. I am here, and I will behave like this forever. You can either keep fighting a ghost, or you can start getting to know the person standing in front of you."
Orlando looks like I've slapped him with a cold towel. He searches my face for a lie, for a smirk, or for a hidden motive. But all he found is a calm, stubborn sincerity.
"Forever?" he whispers, the word sounding heavy between us.
"Forever," I confirm.
I look at his hand, then back at his confused face. I realize I can't promise him a future I don't own. My heart is still in a small apartment with a brother and parents who are probably wondering why I've not woken up.
I took a breath, choosing my words carefully. "So just accept it, Brother. As long as I am here, you have to bear with me ."
Orlando's eyes widen, catching the specific phrase I use. "As long as you are here?" He repeats the words slowly, his brow furrowing. "Are you going somewhere? Where would you even go?"
A cold shiver runs down my spine. 'No, Sara, What are you saying?you're slipping,' I scold myself. I've almost revealed the truth—that I'm not the real Elanore.
I quickly force a small, mysterious smile to my lips, the kind of look that suggests a secret I'm not ready to share.
"Who knows where the wind takes a girl who has lost her past?" I say lightly, intentionally changing the subject before he can dig deeper.
"Are you going to embarrass our family again?" Orlando snaps. His voice rises, echoing off the high stone walls. He doesn't care about my "memory loss" or the mystery of my words. He is back to his defensive, angry shell. "Is that what the Academy is to you? Just another stage for your drama?"
I stop. I turn and look him dead in the eye. I don't feel like a scared teenager; I feel like the 25-year-old woman I am.
"I am not like that anymore, Orlando," I say, my voice flat and cold. "I have changed. I have become better. You need to accept that. If my behavior is truly that hard for you to handle, then fine—go somewhere else. I don't care. If you can't take who I am now, then just stay out of my way."
"Stop. Now."
The Duke's voice is like a heavy weight dropping in the room. He stands up, his tall frame casting a long, dark shadow over the breakfast table. The Duchess freezes, her tea cup hovering in the air.
"You will both finish this meal in silence," he commands. His eyes move from Orlando's flushed face to my steady gaze. "I will not have the morning air filled with your bickering. Orlando, enough. Elanore, you have said your piece."
The Duchess looks delighted by the scolding, but the Duke's gaze turns to her next, and her smile vanishes instantly.
"Finish your breakfast," the Duke says, his voice final. "Reflect on what it means to be a member of this house. Do not quarrel here again. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Father," Orlando mutters, staring down at his boots like a child.
I simply give a respectful, silent nod.
The Duke's command usually turns this room into a tomb, but today, I feel a strange spark of mischief. I'm in a surprisingly good mood, and I'm not ready to let the Duchess's glares or Orlando's temper ruin it.
I don't leave. Instead, I pick up my fork and look at Orlando, who is still sulking over his plate.
"Did you hear that, Brother?" I say, my voice light and teasing. "Our Father said we should finish our breakfast. So, don't ignore your food. It's rude."
Orlando looks up, blinking in confusion. "What?"
"I'm serious," I continue, leaning in slightly with a straight face. "If you ignore your food, the food gets upset. And if your food is upset, you'll end up with a terrible stomach pain and indigestion. You really shouldn't make your breakfast cry."
Beside me, I hear a muffled choking sound from one of the maids. Orlando's mouth actually hangs open. He looks at his plates, then back at me, as if I've finally lost my mind.
"You should respect your food," I add, pointing my spoon at him like a teacher. "And you should respect the creator of this food—the chefs worked hard. So, eat up, Lord Orlando. Don't let your stomach suffer for your pride."
I give a small, polite cough to hide the laugh bubbling up in my throat. The Duchess is staring at me like I've grown a second head, and the Duke is paused with his wine glass halfway to his lips, his eyes narrowed in total bewildermen.
The silence in the room is broken by a sound I never expected to hear. It's a soft, huffing noise—a stifled laugh.
I blink, looking around the table. Orlando is still frozen in shock. The Duchess looks like she's about to faint from indignation. Then, I turn my head toward the head of the table.
My heart nearly stops.
The Duke is smiling. It isn't a wide grin, but the corners of his lips are lifted, and the icy hardness in his grey eyes has thawed into something warm. The "cold" expression he wears like armor has shattered, and for a moment, the sunlight hitting the window catches his features perfectly.
He looks... incredible. The harsh lines of his face soften, and he looks years younger. The entire room seems to brighten just because he's letting a bit of joy through the cracks.
I'm a 25-year-old woman, but I can't stop the honest reaction that bubbles up inside me.
"Father," I blur out, my voice filled with genuine wonder. "You look handsome. You look... beautiful when you smile."
The Duchess drops her spoon. It hits the floor with a loud clang, but I don't care. Orlando looks like he's forgotten how to breathe.
I realize I've just broken every rule of royal etiquette, but I don't take the words back. I stay there, staring at him, captivated by the change. The "Cold Duke" isn't a statue after all; he's a man who has been waiting for someone to make him laugh.
The Duke's smile falters for a second, a look of utter surprise crossing his face as he processes my compliment. He clears his throat, the mask trying to slide back into place, but the warmth in his eyes remains.
"Eat your breakfast, Elanore," he says. His voice is still firm, but the edge is gone. It sounds almost... affectionate.
I take a bite of my food, feeling a small victory. I've done it. I've started the "buttering up" process, and for the first time, the Great House of Valerius looks like a real family.
Beside me, Orlando is staring at his plate, his ears slightly red. He isn't snapping at me. He isn't mocking me. He's just... there.
I look at the sunlight dancing on the silverware and wonder: 'Is this real? Can I truly change this cold fortress into a home? Or am I just building a castle out of sand that will wash away by morning?'
After this event, will things truly change between Sara and her family, or will the old grudges return once the sun goes down? Will she be able to keep up this "perfect" act, or is the atmosphere of this house too cold for a modern heart to survive? Is this the new beginning of her family, or is it all just a beautiful imagination?
Let's find out in the next chapter.