Francis stepped through the grand entrance of the Velloria castle, his polished shoes echoing against the marble floor. The air was thick with the scent of roses and panic. Servants rushed past with half-tied ribbons, overturned trays, and mismatched linens.
It was chaos.
Nothing like Colden's engagement — which had been poised, elegant, and dignified.
This was a spectacle stitched together with nerves and shouting.
He turned a corner and saw her.
Lady Viremont stood in the center of the hall, barking orders at a trembling maid. "No, no, no! The lilies go on the left! Do you want the royal guests to think we're savages?"
The maid nodded, eyes wide, and scurried off.
Viremont turned, her gown sweeping dramatically, and spotted Francis at the base of the staircase.
She smirked.
"Ah," she said. "The butler."
Francis bowed slightly. "Lady Viremont."
She descended one step, her voice syrupy. "Where is Colden?"
Francis kept his tone neutral. "The prince has chosen not to attend."
Viremont's smile didn't falter. "Has he?"
She turned and ascended the stairs without another word, her presence trailing like smoke.
Francis watched her go, unease settling in his chest.
His room was modest, tucked near the west wing. He entered quietly, scanning the space — the curtains were new, the sheets freshly pressed, but something felt… off.
He checked the drawers. The wardrobe. The corners.
Then he pulled a small photo from his coat pocket and placed it gently on the bedside table.
It was the same image — him and Noir, standing behind the great fountain, smiling like time had stopped.
Francis sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it.
He thought of leaving.
But not yet.
Outside, the city buzzed with celebration.
Carmine walked briskly through the market, her merchant's cloak fluttering behind her. She passed the bakery and paused.
Inside, Marco stood behind the counter, flour on his cheek, arranging trays of pastries.
Their eyes met.
Carmine stepped in.
Marco rushed forward.
They embraced — tight, silent, full of everything they hadn't said.
"You're safe," Marco whispered.
Carmine nodded. "And we're ready."
They sat at the back of the bakery, heads close, voices low.
The plan was in motion.
Three days. Three roles. One chance.