---
"Hart, how could you—" Margaret's voice rises, sharp and trembling with disbelief.
"Silence," Emilia's command slices through the air like a blade. Her tone is calm, yet final.
All eyes turn to her as she approaches the center table.
She pauses, takes a long, deliberate look at the thick ledger before her, and, with a steady hand, signs her name at the bottom.
The ink gleams dark against the parchment—an official mark of power.
Rufus bows low and hurries off, cradling the royal portrait Emilia painted just days earlier.
He hangs it next to her father's, right at the heart of the ancestral hall.
"Father has just died," Emilia says quietly, her voice heavy with restrained grief.
"I will not argue with either of you today."
A thick silence settles over the room.
"The mourning rituals should begin now. After that, both of you are confined to your rooms until further notice."
Nobody dares move. Nobody dares speak.
Then Emilia turns her head slowly toward Sophia, who has been standing quietly near the window. Her voice drops into a colder register.
"Viscountess," she says. The entire room stiffens.
"You will resume taking care of the household, as you did before.
Louis and Adam will handle the business affairs moving forward."
"What?! But—" Margaret gasps, her voice filled with protest.
"That will be all." Emilia doesn't even look back as she walks away, her spine straight, her resolve unshaken.
She moves with the composure of a queen, not a grieving daughter.
She doesn't hesitate to make the decision. Hart, her second brother, is a brilliant artist—but utterly unsuited for business.
Her eldest brother, a soldier at heart, has long insisted on joining the military like their grandfather.
That leaves Louis and Adam—steady, loyal, and pragmatic.
The household shifts swiftly into mourning. Velvet-black drapes cover the walls, and white candles flicker along the hallway.
The servants change into somber garments, heads bowed, while a fresh memorial table is assembled in the great hall.
Emilia leads the ritual with haunting spirit.
She wears a gown in muted silver rather than the traditional black—signifying loss because of her marriage the next morning.
The ceremony begins. One by one, family members kneel, placing offerings and tokens of personal meaning into the casket.
Each item suppose to represent their affection, regret, or reconciliation.
Then the coffin is carried away under a somber gray sky.
But Emilia does not follow.
As the future Queen, she is bound by custom—she is forbidden from escorting the dead to their resting place.
To do so would be considered treason against the King she is set to marry.
Emilia stops at the threshold of the mansion, her knuckles white as they grip the doorframe. She lowers her head.
"Father," she whispers, barely audible.
Her tears falls like rain and her maids also joins her to weep for their master.
Then she turns and walks back inside, her heart fracturing with each step.
~
The knocking begins before dawn and Emilia didn't even get any sleep.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
June and Alice pound on the chamber door, worry etched into their voices.
"Lady Emilia, please," Alice pleads.
"The palace has sent another message. Preparations must begin. You haven't even opened the royal gifts."
Inside, Emilia sits in stillness. The gifts sit untouched in the corner like an invasion. She doesn't move.
"Open this door!" Sophia's voice comes sharply from outside.
Emilia ignore her as well
But then a cough from Sophia cuts through her ear—rough, strained.
The sound breaks Emilia's numb tranceand she opens the door quickly.
"You think you can escape this marriage by hiding?"
Sophia scolds, waving the maids in.
"You have to prepare. Now." Her tone is fierce, but her eyes shimmer with unspoken fear.
She grabs Emilia's hands—but Emilia flinches, startled by the sudden touch.
Sophia softens.
"No matter what happens, you must survive in the palace. Do you understand?" Her voice trembles and her tears falls on Emilia's hands.
"Stay alive. Only that way can your father be assured in his grave"
Then she steps aside.
More servants enter, heads lowered.
"Take her out," Sophia instructs.
"She must be bathed, shaved, and her innocence confirmed again."
Emilia's jaw clenches, but she says nothing.
As she follows them out, she glides to her safe and tucks the sealed will behind a loose panel.
Then, with quiet precision, she slides a small ceremonial dagger into one of her traveling boxes.
---
The hours blur into endless preparation.
Fragrant herbs and petals float in her bath.
The maids whisper, but Emilia stays silent. Her body allows them to dress her, to cleanse her, to lace her into a gown heavy with meaning—but her spirit floats above, disconnected.
They drape her in the wedding robe—white silk embroidered with silver thread, trailing like fog.
Her hair is brushed until it gleams, then styled into an elegant cascade of curls.
She barely breathes.
Once everything is ready, she walks to the carriage with cold resolve.
The entire household has gathered to see her off.
Before stepping inside, she removes a delicate necklace around her neck and presses it into Louis's hand.
"Keep this safe," she murmurs.
"Protect it with your life."
Louis nods, unable to speak.
The ride to the palace is silent.
The decorated carriage rolls through cheering crowds, but inside, it might as well be a funeral procession.
~
The palace doors open to reveal a grand ceremonial hall.
At the far end, King Lucas waits beneath an ornate arch of white roses. His robe gleams. His crown sits straight.
He looks every inch the King—untouchable, cold, and impossibly regal.
Emilia walks forward, her snow-colored gown gliding across the marble floor.
Her pale red hair glows like flame beneath her veil.
She joins him at the altar. The rituals begin—long, drawn-out, and soaked in symbolism.
When the final rite approaches, Emilia kneels.
Lucas lifts her veil. Their eyes meet—for the first time in eight years.
Her gaze is cold. Fragile. Distant...yet he is stunned.
His breath catches, just for a moment.
He raises the crown up and places it on her head.
"I crown you, Queen Emilia of Eldrid," his voice rings through the hall.
"Long live Queen Emilia!" the crowd roars, rising in reverence.
Emilia's expression remain the same and she refuse Lucas's help, getting up to her feet by herself.
---
Later, she is escorted to the King's private chambers, where she is expected to wait for the consummation of their union.
Lucas remains behind, indulging the guests. Drinking. Laughing.
But eventually, the festivities drain him. He waves Robert off and walks alone down the gilded corridor.
He stops at the door to his chambers, hand resting on the handle.
For a moment, he hesitates.
He considers sending her away—like the others.
But then, he exhales and enters.
Emilia sits in the candlelit room on a cushioned chair, her veil removed but her crown still firmly in place.
Her eyes are closed, her posture composed.
Lucas pauses at the sight of her.
She is breathtaking.
Even in stillness, she looks radiant.
The rumors were right—Emilia Gregorio is the most beautiful woman in the kingdom---
No—beyond that. She is devastating in her elegance.
Her beauty, her poise, her tragic elegance... they strike him harder than he expected.
She looks very different from when he last remembers her at the age of ten.
She is Grown.
He shuts the door quietly. The click startles her.
Emilia jumps to her feet, clearly not expecting him to arrive so soon.
She was mid-thought, rehearsing what she planned to do with him and flinches--nervous.
Yet... her expression reminds Lucas of the little girl from his past again and he furrows.
"Y-Your Majesty," she stammers.
Lucas watches her hands—they tremble.
And her eyes… they hold that same familiar fear he has seen in countless others and he never cared about it.
But this time—it bothers him.