The chandeliers burned too bright.
Diana's face remained a flawless mask, practiced over years of keeping the storm beneath calm.
Tonight, it wasn't even her daughter's birthday being celebrated—it was Vivica's shadow that loomed across the ballroom, whispered by every tongue.
"She looks just like her mother," someone murmured for the fourth time that evening, a lady in rose taffeta fanning herself as though fearing the very mention might summon Vivian's ghost to slap her.
"She even moves like her," another added.
"Yes, but her demeanor's all her father," one voice observed, the comment weighted with something darker. "I swear I saw Duke Damon's jaw tighten when both Princes approached her. Just like in the old days... back when Lady Vivian Von Thesse still held court before she became the Duchess."
Diana said nothing.
She didn't need to. Her smile—a cool, delicate thing—froze the conversation mid-breath.
She sat beside Damon on the raised platform, poised, her wine untouched, her sapphire silk gown expensive enough to shame royalty. But even the finest fabric felt threadbare next to the girl standing below.
Vivica. Nearly eleven now.
She stood just beyond the golden pillars, surrounded not by friends, but by sycophants. Noble children gathered like hungry wolves at her heels, hoping for even the smallest scrap of attention. But she didn't need to do anything—she never did.
The amethyst gown she wore shimmered, threads of stars tracing delicate patterns along its hem. Her hair—black, long, and braided in the way Diana remembered Vivian once wearing it in her final years. The girl was serene, distant. She didn't smile—she didn't need to. A slight nod, a quiet blink, and the crowd practically bowed at her feet.
Even the Crown Prince, Killian, had sought her out, speaking with her alone. Their return to the ball had been... notably close.
Diana swallowed a sharp, bitter breath.
"This is Belle's night," she murmured to Damon.
"She's enjoying herself," Damon replied, his voice an unreadable ice.
Diana's gaze flickered to her daughter—Belle, innocent and full of life, spinning through the crowd with noble girls, her laughter ringing sweet and unrestrained.
So young. So bright. So beautiful. So... invisible.
"They don't see her," Diana said flatly, as though the words were already a verdict.
Damon's gaze never left Vivica. "No. They don't."
"You could at least pretend to care," Diana's voice was quiet, but sharp.
Damon's eyes flicked to hers for the briefest of moments, cold and fleeting. "This isn't the time."
Diana's fingers dug into the edge of her chair, the pressure grounding her, reminding her of how far she had come. She'd fought for this—driven by ambition and Damon's desire, she had clawed her way from the dirt. Mistress. Commoner. She had endured years of silence and manipulation, positioning herself carefully until she became his wife. Not Duchess—the court would never accept a woman of her blood, especially not one who had once been the Duke's mistress.
There were whispers about the late Duchess's disappearance. Rumors that had always lingered, just beneath the surface… that she was the very reason behind the scandal.
She hadn't hated Vivian. Not really.
But she had envied her. Perfect, untouchable, aloof. While Diana had been scrubbing blood from sheets, Vivian had walked among gods.
Now, she envied her daughter's reflection in Vivica. The same face, the same haunting beauty, but with Damon's eyes and hair.
"She'll be trouble," Diana said under her breath.
"She already is," Damon replied.
"She's not even mine, and she's stolen Belle's ball."
"She didn't steal anything. The court gave it to her." Damon's words were final.
Diana exhaled slowly, steadying herself. "She's got your stillness," she said after a beat. "Your eyes. But her mother's face. Your presence. But her mother's popularity. It's not fair."
"She'll need more than presence."
Diana glanced toward the ballroom, her eyes narrowing. "She'll need protection. If they love her now, they'll tear her apart when she's older."
Damon didn't respond, his gaze locked onto Vivica.
"She's too perfect. And too quiet. That combination... it never survives long without armor."
"She has me."
Diana let out a low, bitter laugh. "Do you really think that's enough? They'll come for her the moment she falters."
"She's not your concern."
"No," Diana said, her voice colder now. "But Belle is."
Her gaze returned to Belle, still laughing too loudly by the chocolate fountain, her twirling skirt fluttering with the innocence of childhood.
"She's illegitimate," Diana said flatly, the words like a weight on the air. "She will never have her place in this court. If Vivica ever decides to challenge her…"
"She won't."
"You don't know that." Diana's eyes were sharp. "Vivica could do anything. And the court will follow her. She'll claim this place like her mother before her."
Damon's voice was ice. "She won't."
Diana sipped her wine, letting the cool liquid settle against her throat. "You think you've raised a dutiful heir. But what you've really raised is Vivian's ghost. And when Vivica grows into that face, they won't know whether to crown her... or to kill her."
The girl below moved through the crowd with a quiet grace, like a shadow spun from silk. Vivica slowed as Belle brushed against her, the briefest moment of contact, their gazes meeting across the ballroom—two girls, the same age, sisters.
Vivica's nod was slight, cool, unreadable.
Belle, caught off guard, dipped into an awkward curtsy, her cheeks flushed. But then a hesitant smile flickered across her lips, and the familiar, almost teasing "Sissy... ehehe, I'm sorry!" broke the tension.
The crowd watched.
"Look at them," Diana murmured, her eyes narrowing. "The daughter you had with a duchess, and the one you had with a mistress. Standing side by side."
Damon's eyes were steel.
"They both belong here," he said, his voice final. "Don't ruin my mood, Diana."
Diana didn't argue. Not out loud. But her mind was already calculating, already planning. She didn't need to destroy Vivica.
But she would make sure Belle survived her.
Because even if she didn't hate the girl—especially because she didn't—Diana knew exactly what Vivica could become.
And she wasn't going to let her daughter be trampled under the weight of another woman's legacy.
THREE YEARS LATER
The Devonshire Townhouse gardens shimmered beneath the late spring sun.
Wisteria dripping from trellises, roses climbing in full flush, and silver trays laden with delicate petit fours and spun-sugar delights. A harpist played something light and courtly in the distance, notes floating like petals on the wind.
At the center of it all, Belle Devonshire sat like a portrait come to life.
Thirteen, and already the Capital's darling.
Her tea gown was a soft lilac silk, the color of early dusk, catching the light with every flutter as she moved. Chestnut curls crowned her head in a careful cascade, held in place by jeweled pins that sparkled like laughter—laughter that rang out, clear and honeyed, drawing every eye to her.
She smiled just enough. Tilted her chin just right. Blushed on cue.
"She's blossomed beautifully," sighed a countess, dabbing her lips with a lace kerchief.
"A perfect candidate for Crown Princess," murmured another, eyes bright with gossip.
Diana heard them all.
She sat composed, pearls nestled against her throat, her teacup poised in slender fingers. Every ounce of poise masked the truth beneath—the clawing, scraping, whispering, enduring it had taken to reach this moment. To see Belle shine. To push open doors that had always been closed to women like her.
She worked hard.
Tirelessly.
To shape her daughter.
She was not a duchess. She was not a noblewoman.
But today, none of that mattered.
Today, Diana was the mother of a girl the court couldn't look away from.
The Imperial Family hadn't declared anything, not yet. But Belle's name had been printed in gold ink on the invitation to Crown Prince Killian sixteenth birthday banquet. And there, in front of all of high society, she'd been seated beside him—publicly, deliberately.
It was enough.
The whispers were growing, exactly as Diana intended. Belle was becoming inevitable.
She had worked tirelessly to shape her daughter into the court's little dove.
And the Imperial Capital adored her.
Far to the north, where snow never quite melted from the cliffs, the name "Vivica Devonshire" was rarely spoken now.
THE NORTHERN DUCHY – THAT SAME WEEK
The Northern wind bit sharp as Duke Damon Devonshire stepped down from the carriage, its chill cutting through the layers of velvet and wool he'd grown used to in the Capital. Snow clung to the stones of the courtyard, and above, the sky hung grey and vast.
Home.
Fucking finally.
A year in the Imperial Capital had felt twice as long for Damon.
Diana had made Belle the centerpiece of every occasion, every banquet, every morning salon and twilight soiree. And Belle had danced the part to perfection—charming, luminous, never faltering.
Damon had been proud. He wasn't without eyes. Or reason. The girl had worked for that shine.
But it was here, in the frost-lit quiet of the Northern keep, that a different pride took root.
The study had changed. Ledgers, charts, correspondence—all precisely ordered. The massive map above the hearth was studded with pins marking troop movements, supply points, and trade routes. The hearth crackled low, its warmth nothing against the cold clarity of strategy.
Vivica stood by the tall window, midnight-blue cloak pooling at her feet, her hands clasped behind her back. She didn't turn.
"You've grown," Damon said, his voice quieter than he'd meant it.
"I manage a duchy now," she replied without looking. "Growth is required."
He almost smiled.
The staff had spoken with a mix of awe and disbelief—how she'd restructured winter grain storage, solved three land disputes, and implemented a patrol schedule along the coast to curb smuggling.
She was only thirteen.
"I expected fire," Damon murmured. "But you inherited my stillness instead."
She turned her head slightly, eyes dark and unreadable. "And Mother's legacy."
He stilled. "You don't need to compare yourself to Belle."
"I don't." Her voice was flat, cool. "Everyone else does."
No bitterness. Just the plain, unsentimental truth.
He tried to reach her sometimes. Truly. But Vivica wasn't the sort to seek warmth or praise. She didn't bend, didn't soften. She was steel born of frost and silence.
"I brought you something," he said, clearing his throat. "A new edition of The Rhetorics of Imperial War Doctrine."
"I already have it," she replied. "In both Imperial and Old Krouxian."
He blinked. "You read Krouxian?"
"I intend to study there."
Silence crackled between them like static.
"…Where?"
She turned fully now, posture still regal. "The Kroux Empire."
Damon's eyes widened. "That's… across the sea," he said slowly. "It takes half a year to get there. And another to return."
"I know."
"What about the Imperial Academy?"
"They teach compliance. Kroux teaches innovation."
He sank into a chair, the air suddenly heavier.
"You'll miss your debutante. Your coming of age. Everything society expects of you."
"I don't need a ball to validate who I am."
"You'll be gone for years."
"I'll return at eighteen," she said. "I'll return with more than a title."
Damon looked at her. No waver. No flare of emotion. Just certainty—sharp, deliberate, and final.
"People will talk," he said. "Diana will take your absence and use it to elevate Belle further. You'll disappear from the court entirely."
"I already have." Her words were ice. "They don't speak of me. Let them forget me completely. It's more useful that way."
He rubbed a hand over his face, wearied more by her composure than the cold.
"I'll think about it."
"I already have."
She turned back to the window, framed in blue and snow.
"I don't need society's approval," she said, quieter now. "I am Vivica Devonshire. Vivian's daughter. Your heir. With or without ribbons. With or without a crown."
Damon sat in stillness.
She was so much like Vivian, it ached. But there was none of Vivian's softness here—no silk, no honeyed charm. Vivica was carved of stone and snow, of isolation and discipline. She would not bend. She had chosen.
And Damon, more than anyone, knew—
Once Vivica moved forward, she never looked back.