The Dowager Duchess Bianca’s face contorted into a mask of pure, concentrated fury. She didn't even wait for me to finish my sentence before her hand whipped out, slapping the velvet box from my hand.
The ruby necklace tumbled across the floor, the heavy pendant hitting the polished wood with a sharp, sickening *clack*.
I stared at the fallen jewelry, my expression cold and unreadable. The stones were fine—rubies were hard enough to withstand a fall—but the delicate gold filigree of the frame had been bent out of shape.
“Lauren,” I said, my voice quiet but vibrating with command. “Pick that up and give it to me.”
The maid, who had been watching the scene with wide, terrified eyes, scrambled forward. She picked up the broken necklace and pressed it into my hand, her fingers shaking.
I examined the damage. It was a mess, much like my relationship with this house. *You never change, do you, Bianca?* I thought. *Even in this life, your rage is as predictable as the tides.*
“I bought this as a token of my esteem,” I said, meeting the Dowager’s gaze. “If you find the design distasteful, you only had to say so. I would have been happy to have it reset.”
“You... you trickster!” Bianca hissed, her voice trembling. “You knew! You knew exactly what you were doing when you brought those stones into this house!”
“Whatever do you mean, Mother?”
“Do not play the innocent with me! You gave me rubies! You dare to offer me the very stones that... that...”
She trailed off, her teeth grinding together so hard I could hear the sound. Her blue eyes—the same eyes as the man I’d once loved—were burning with a hatred that was almost manic.
“I truly didn't know,” I said, my voice a model of faux-sincerity. “I realized that in five years, I’d never seen you wear a ruby, so I asked Madeleine. She told me they were your absolute favorite. I believed her.”
Bianca let out a strangled, incoherent sound.
I remembered how hard I’d tried in my past life to win her favor. I’d given her my own jewelry, I’d studied her favorite composers, and I’d spent countless hours listening to her lectures on etiquette. I thought that once I was pregnant with the heir, she would finally accept me. I’d given her a ruby gift then, too, hoping to bridge the gap.
And she’d responded with a torrent of insults that had left me weeping in my room for days. She’d never told me *why* she hated them, only that my choice was proof of my "vulgar, imperial blood."
“I see now that my efforts were misplaced,” I said, clutching the broken necklace in my fist. “Next time, if you find a gift offensive, please try to communicate like an adult. Destroying a work of art because you have a personal grudge against a color is... beneath you.”
“You... you!”
I didn't wait for her to find her voice. I turned and walked toward my room, leaving her standing on the landing like a statue of spite.
***
After Cornelia disappeared around the corner, Dowager Duchess Bianca let out a scream of pure, unadulterated rage.
“How dare she! That insolent, gutter-born crow!”
She didn't remember exactly what Cornelia had said. All she remembered was the tone—that calm, condescending royal authority that made her feel like a child. It was a look she’d seen before.
*It’s just like Mercedes,* she thought, her fingers curling into claws. *That bitch!*
Years ago, when she was still Bianca of House Gilrathi, she had competed with the young Mercedes von Arguin for the position of Crown Princess. At a memorial service for Saint Johann, Bianca had worn her finest ruby parure, hoping to dazzle the court.
Mercedes had approached her in front of the entire peerage and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear: *“To wear such sparkling, blood-red jewels at a memorial for a saint... one should really have a sense of shame, Bianca. It’s so very... extravagant.”*
That single comment had ruined Bianca’s reputation. She was labeled as superficial and insensitive, while Mercedes was praised as the "wise and noble" choice for the throne. Mercedes became the Empress, and Bianca was left with a lifelong, burning hatred for the color red.
“That miserable woman trapped my son!” Bianca muttered, her mind spiraling.
She had raised her real son, Eric, to be the perfect heir—kind, dutiful, and brilliant. But he had fallen for Cornelia, a girl who shared the same "imperial" arrogance as Mercedes. It was a betrayal she could never forgive.
And now, even the "fake" son she had pulled from the gutter to replace her lost child was turning against her. He’d set a condition: *“Do not interfere with Cornelia, and I will be your puppet.”*
But he’d broken his side of the bargain. He’d canceled the Arjin contract and defied her orders.
“If the fake won't listen to me,” Bianca hissed, “then there is no reason for me to protect the woman he treasures. If he wants a war, I’ll give him one.”
***
The next morning, I woke up with a singular focus: satisfy my hunger and get back to work.
“Bring me breakfast,” I told the maid as she entered the room.
The girl hesitated, her face full of a nervous, shifting anxiety. “My lady... I have a message from the Dowager Duchess. She has requested that you join her in the dining room if you wish to eat this morning.”
I smiled, a slow, predatory curving of my lips. *Oh, so it’s going to be like this, is it?*
I knew exactly what Bianca was planning. It was a childish, petty game she’d played a dozen times before my return. She would summon me to a "family meal," only to serve me exactly what I loathed.
“Tell the Dowager I’ll be down shortly,” I said. “I just need to change.”
The maid’s face lit up with relief. “Yes, my lady! I’ll inform her at once!”
As soon as she left, I called for another maid. “Help me into my traveling dress. The dark blue one with the silver embroidery.”
“The traveling dress, my lady? But the Dowager is waiting in the dining room...”
“Hurry up and get it,” I said, my voice leaving no room for argument.
***
In the Brant dining room, the long mahogany table was a sea of silver platters.
Bianca sat at the head of the table, her eyes fixed on the door. In front of her was a platter of fresh, chilled oysters and delicate seafood salads. But in front of Cornelia’s empty seat, the oysters were slightly grey, the scent of the seafood just a fraction too sharp.
Bianca knew I loathed seafood—the texture, the smell, everything about it made me nauseous, especially now that I was pregnant. She’d made a special effort to ensure the most offensive dishes were placed directly in my path.
“Why is she so late?” Bianca muttered, tapping her rings against the table.
Nearly an hour passed. She was waiting for the satisfaction of seeing me gag, for the chance to berate me for my "weak constitution" and my "disrespect for the household’s bounty."
Finally, a maid entered the room.
“Is she coming down?” Bianca asked, her voice sharp with anticipation.
“She... she did come down, madam,” the maid stammered, her face pale.
“Then where is she?”
“She went out. She said... she said she was going to eat at the Gilded Solitaire’s tea room. She mentioned that the smell in here was a bit... 'stagnant.'”
Bianca’s face went from red to purple in a matter of seconds. She stared at the cooling, spoiled oysters, her jaw working in a silent, impotent rage.
***
I sat in the plush booth of a high-end restaurant run by a former royal chef, a plate of perfectly fluffy eggs and warm bread in front of me. I smiled as I took a sip of my tea.
*I wonder if she’s flipped the table yet?* I mused.
In my past life, I’d been trapped by those invitations. I’d sat through hours of her insults, forcing down food that made my stomach turn, all because I didn't want to be "rude." I’d let her hold the ledgers and the keys over my head, telling me I wasn't "skilled enough" to be a real hostess.
But I wasn't playing that game anymore. Bianca wanted a puppet to torture; I was giving her a ghost to chase.
*Enjoy your oysters, Mother,* I thought. *I have a world to move.*