With a few words from Bennett, Cecelia's position in the Whitmore estate was reinstated. The next morning, two maids greeted Cecelia by her bed and helped her get dressed. It was a bit odd for the young woman who not too long ago was handling all the household chores on her own.
Her closet was filled with the styles of the latest season along with an array of designer bags filling the shelves. The vanity table drawers were overflowing with priceless jewels. All these were not new to Cecelia as she grew up with these.
The soft clink of crystal echoed from the dining room below where the Whitmores were indulging in a breakfast so diverse that even the nobles could not have imagined to have it. And yet — as the soft thud of a heel touched the top step — conversation waned.
Cecelia stood at the top of the grand staircase, bathed in the golden glow of a chandelier so massive it looked as though it had been stolen from Versailles. She did not rush and she did not feel the need to do so.
She descended with the grace of a practiced waltz, each step deliberate, soundless but for the faint whisper of fabric trailing behind her — black, sheer, sculptural. The outfit hugged her silhouette like a glove made of ink and moonlight, skin peeking through in calculated, devastating slivers. The structured, origami-like folds of the shoulders gave her an almost celestial presence, sharp and ethereal. Light shimmered off the delicate layers of tulle and silk as she moved, like the flicker of fire seen through smoke.
Her hair was swept up in a loose, regal twist by the skillful maids that helped her get dressed — soft tendrils brushing her cheekbones — and her green eyes held the room in a quiet, iron grip. Somewhere to the left, a glass was set down too hard. A breath caught. A cough began and died just as quickly.
From the base of the stairs, Alden turned, already standing tall in a tailored suit — but he, too, paused when he saw her. His expression flickered. Not surprise. Admiration, perhaps. Or something closer to the wary reverence a general feels when a queen enters the room. He followed her into the dining room.
Cecelia's heels clicked softly on the marble now, her descent nearly complete. The last few steps stretched like ceremony. And when she reached the bottom, she smiled pleasantly and greeted her father and brothers seated at the table having their breakfast.
"Come and sit." Bennett said as he cut into the breakfast tarts on the fine china plate.
A plate was brought for Cecelia and she dug in. Bennett observed her manners, leaving nothing to be criticized, and put down his fork and knife to take out a precious velvet box from the butler's hands before sliding it in front of Cecelia.
She opened it cautiously to see the same ring she had received upon birth, the ring with the family crest. She immediately got up and bowed to thank Bennett who told her to sit back down and see if the ring still fit on her pinky.
The ring is forged from solid 18-karat gold, its surface a soft, brushed luster that catches the light with quiet arrogance. Neither flashy nor gaudy, the gold is warm and carried an old feeling, suiting since it was indeed old. Heavy for its size, the ring rests with purpose on the pinky, unmistakably a mark of their lineage
Its signet face is a slightly oval plateau set with a dark onyx inlay, deep black against the warm gold like a secret kept. Carved into the onyx with sharp, painstaking detail is the Whitmore family crest:
A rearing stag, muscles coiled and eyes forward, its antlers wide and commanding — the image of pride and untamed control. Beneath it, a terraced stone foundation, suggesting legacy built layer by layer. Flanking the stag are a scroll and a navigator's compass, symbols of intellect and direction. Encircling the crest is a crown of laurel, denoting triumph through will rather than war.
Above the stag's antlers glints a tiny North Star, engraved directly into the gold frame — not celestial worship, but a quiet nod to inner compass and generational precision. A fine rope border rims the signet, softening the edge while still commanding attention. Inside the band, faint but permanent, is the Whitmore family motto.
"Fortune Favours Resolve."
"Good morning." Dawn, the eldest daughter-in-law of the estate entered the scene, her eyes falling onto the glittering ring on Cecelia's hand.
"Oh, you got the ring?"
Dawn wore a floor-length satin slip dress in a soft, pearl white shade. The fabric glides over her figure, shimmering subtly with every movement. Thin spaghetti straps and a gentle cowl neckline frame her collarbones elegantly, adding a hint of sensuality masked by a cover-up.
Long, opera-length satin gloves in matching white extend past her elbows, giving her a classic touch. On her feet, strappy white heeled sandals expose a fresh pedicure, the delicate straps wrapping her feet like minimalist ribbon.
Her jewelry is refined and luxurious. Dangling baroque pearl earrings set in gold, and a fine gold chain necklace with a single pearl pendant resting gently at her collarbone.
There was an awkward silence in the room as Bennett avoided eye contact with Dawn and sipped the freshly squeezed orange juice. Upon being ignored, Dawn's body visibly tensed up. Her husband rushed to hold her hand under the table as a way of comforting her.
"You remember Duchess Sinclair, right?" Bennett had his attention fixated on Cecelia, "She has been worried about you and contacted your mother last night. She is anxious to see her daughter-in-law in the pink of health so…expect an invitation soon."
A fork dropped, a glass nearly shattered onto the marble floor but was caught just in time by a maid, and everyone stopped mid chew. The only one not acting out of character was Bennett who acted like he had not just dropped life changing news for everyone in the family.