I knelt quickly, the long train of my dress settling around my feet in the grass, heedless of the delicate white flowers that bent beneath the silk. The afternoon sun filtered softly through the canopy above, dappling my shoulders in gold and shadow. A faint breeze tugged at the loose strands of my hair, carrying with it the scent of rain-soaked earth and distant roses. I should have felt calm in such a serene setting—but instead, a restless irritation coiled inside me. The message Raul had brought still echoed in my mind, every syllable of it reminding me of his tone—commanding, cold, and completely sure I would obey.
"He's so insufferable," I thought bitterly, pressing my lips together before the words could slip out. My fingers tightened around the folds of my skirt, the silk creasing beneath my grip. "It was my choice to learn from him, not an invitation for him to summon me like a servant." My voice was low, tinged with quiet defiance. The sunlight, warm against my skin, did little to ease the spark of frustration burning in my chest. How many times had he done this—called for me at his whim, as though my time, my peace, my will itself belonged to him? I wanted to stay right here, in this fragile stillness, and ignore him entirely. But that, I knew, was impossible.
I leaned in close to Raul, the hem of my sleeve brushing against his arm as the faint scent of wildflowers rose between us. My lips nearly touched his ear as I whispered, "It's because... I'm stronger than... your master."
The words came out soft but playful, like the secret rustle of a breeze through leaves—mischievous and full of quiet challenge.
Raul froze. His wide eyes darted to mine, and in an instant, color flooded his face, the deep crimson of a startled rose. He stumbled backward, flailing with embarrassment.
"P-please stop teasing me!" he squeaked, voice cracking in mortified protest.
I couldn't help it—a laugh bubbled out of me, light and melodic, a sound I hadn't realized I'd been holding back all day. "Haha." The simple joy of it loosened the knot of irritation in my chest, if only for a heartbeat. For that brief moment, Raul's innocence cut through the endless cycle of formality and tension that came with my place at Eiser's side.
But the memory of why he was here quickly returned, dragging the weight of duty back down upon me like an unwelcome cloak. Sir Eiser's imperious summons. The man never failed to command the world as though it existed purely to orbit him.
Raul, still flustered and fidgeting, suddenly produced a small, crinkled plastic bag from behind his back. "I was… enjoying the breeze for once, but you ruined the mood," he said, attempting a pout, though the effort only made him look more like an offended kitten than an authoritative messenger. "Here, take this."
The bag landed at my feet with a soft plop.
I blinked, stooping to pick it up. "Um… these are… cookies?" The buttery scent reached me before the question was even fully out.
"Finish it all," Raul said with exaggerated sternness, arms crossed and cheeks still pink. "Don't leave a single bite! That's your punishment for spoiling my mood."
I arched a brow, amused by his attempt at severity. "A cruel sentence indeed," I murmured, rising to my feet and brushing off my skirt. The sunlight warmed my back, golden and steady—a quiet reminder that time was slipping away.
"Eiser," I said aloud, letting the name taste like tempered steel on my tongue, "I'm only doing as you wish because of Raul." A convenient lie, though perhaps not entirely untrue. I needed a reason to justify the irritation of always yielding to him—and Raul's flustered loyalty made an easy one.
I turned toward my own attendant, who had been waiting with his usual quiet patience. "Let's go, Frederick."
Frederick inclined his head, a small, unreadable smile touching his lips. His long, dark hair gleamed in the light, the ends brushing his shoulders, and his calm green eyes held none of the judgment or exhaustion that others would have shown by now. I had to admire that about him—his steadiness amidst all the chaos that surrounded Eiser and me.
The walk back to the house was lined with tall hedges and the distant sound of wind chimes. For a fleeting second, I wished I could just stay out there with the scent of grass and the rustle of silk skirts instead of stepping back into the lion's den.
Once inside, I changed quickly, selecting an elegant dress in soft ivory with delicate embroidery at the sleeves. The matching floral sandals slipped easily onto my feet, the leather cool against my skin. A glance in the mirror revealed someone who looked composed, serene—even if my heart simmered beneath the surface.
Each CLACK of my sandals on the polished marble floor echoed like a countdown as I made my way toward Eiser's study.
We stopped before the tall, imposing double doors. Frederick knocked lightly.
KNOCK KNOCK.
"Sir Eiser," he announced smoothly. "Lady Serena is here."
From within came the familiar voice—cool, commanding, and maddeningly calm.
"Come in."
The doors opened, and the scent of ink, parchment, and faint cologne filled the air. Eiser was seated behind his desk, his posture perfect, his silver hair falling neatly over one shoulder as he reviewed a stack of documents. His attendant stood nearby, bright and far too cheerful for the icy tension that usually filled this room.
As soon as I entered, the attendant's face lit up. "Oh, we meet again, Ms. Serena! You look stunning in your new outfit!" he exclaimed with a grin that bordered on reckless enthusiasm. "We didn't get to chat earlier. Why don't we have a cup of coffee before I leave—"
Before he could finish, Eiser's voice sliced through the air like a drawn blade.
"There's some reading for you to do. Have a seat."
The cheerful attendant fell silent at once, his smile faltering. But I quickly realized—Eiser hadn't been speaking to him. His sharp, disinterested tone had been aimed directly at me.
I stared at him, incredulous. The nerve of that man—dismissing me as though I were just another servant summoned for instruction. My fingers twitched slightly at my side as I forced my expression into something resembling poise. But inside, the irritation burned hotter, sharper, coiling around the edges of my patience.
So this was how our afternoon would begin—Eiser, with his cold arrogance and unreadable eyes; and me, pretending I wasn't seconds away from throwing one of Raul's cookies at his perfectly composed head.
And judging by the faint smirk that ghosted across his lips as I took my seat… he already knew it.
The words "have a seat" cut through the room like the sharp crack of a whip.
For a moment, even the attendant's cheerful chatter withered into silence, and all I could hear was the faint ticking of the clock on the far wall.
I didn't move right away. My expression remained perfectly neutral, but beneath that calm surface, irritation coiled tighter. He always did this—issued commands instead of requests, as if the world itself bent at his word. And perhaps it did… but not me. Not today.
My new shoes clicked sharply on the floor as I crossed the room.
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
Each step echoed through the study, slicing through the heavy air of authority that always seemed to cling to this place.
The room was vast and tastefully oppressive—lined with tall shelves of leather-bound volumes, their spines glinting gold in the afternoon light. Heavy drapes half-drawn let in slanted beams of sunlight that dusted the floor in gold. And there, on a low table between two overstuffed sofas, rested the "document" Eiser expected me to read.
I stopped before the grand, high-backed armchair that dominated the space near his desk—his usual seat. The air seemed to still as I laid my hand upon it. The polished wood was cold under my fingers, but I didn't hesitate. Slowly, deliberately, I dragged the chair a few inches forward. The legs groaned softly against the floor as if protesting the audacity.
Then, I sat.
A dignified, deliberate sit.
I adjusted the folds of my skirt, crossed my legs neatly, and lifted my chin, the ruby on my ring catching a glint of sunlight.
From the corner of my eye, I caught the attendant's barely concealed grin of astonishment.
He mouthed a silent "wow," clearly not used to anyone challenging Eiser's invisible rules of order.
Eiser, for his part, hadn't even looked up yet—still reading, still pretending I didn't exist. That made it worse. That infuriated me.
I cleared my throat softly, more a declaration of presence than a polite gesture.
"What do I need to read?" I asked, my tone calm but clipped. The sunlight pouring through the tall arched windows framed me like a painting, haloing me in gold. "Bring it here."
That made him look.
Eiser's head lifted slowly, his blue eyes catching mine across the expanse of the room.
For an instant, the entire atmosphere seemed to change—like a storm gathering behind a calm sea. His gaze moved from my face, to the ruby on my finger, and finally to the chair I'd claimed.
He said nothing, but the tension between us thickened—an unspoken current of defiance and control.
And then—
"...Wow," the attendant whispered, breaking the silence, clearly impressed at my audacity.
The moment shattered. He clapped his hands together nervously. "Ah—well, I should be going now! You two don't even seem to notice me—so, uh—fare—farewell! Meeting! Hotel! Bye!"
He nearly tripped over himself as Eiser's personal aide—Raul, who had been standing frozen near the door—hurriedly pulled him along. Their voices faded down the corridor, and the door closed with a heavy THUD.
Now, it was just Eiser and me.
Eiser loomed over me, tall, rigid, and unyielding. His expression was a mask of controlled authority, but the slight flare in his nostrils and the sharp line of his jaw betrayed the impatience simmering beneath.
"GET UP. YOUR SPOT IS OVER THERE," he commanded, motioning toward the plain, unremarkable chair tucked quietly at the side—a seat meant for someone who served, not someone who led.
I didn't move. My fingers rested lightly on the velvet armrests of the ornate chair, the cool fabric grounding me as I met his piercing blue eyes with steady defiance. My voice was calm, deliberate, carrying a resonance that seemed to draw the very air toward me.
"Didn't I tell you?" I began, letting my words stretch, measured and deliberate, as if they themselves weighed the room. My gaze drifted over the polished wood and the deep, plush upholstery beneath me. "THIS SEAT BELONGED TO MY GRANDMOTHER AND MOTHER."
The room seemed to inhale. I paused, letting the weight of that history hang between us. My voice softened slightly, not in submission, but in the gravity of legacy. The implication was clear: this chair was not merely furniture—it was a symbol of authority, inheritance, and the bloodline that shaped me.
Eiser's jaw tightened imperceptibly. I continued, my hand gesturing toward the humble spot he had chosen for me. "That seat belongs to a secretary," I said, dismissive but elegant. "So if we are going to do business, THIS SHOULD BE MY SEAT." My tone was crisp, unwavering. This was no longer just a conversation about furniture—it was a subtle declaration of hierarchy, of respect, of boundaries.
Eiser's eyes narrowed. His patience, normally vast, was beginning to fray. "I don't have time to argue with you. GET UP," he repeated, sharper this time, the edge in his voice a warning. He did not tolerate defiance lightly, and yet, here I was, unmoving.
I leaned forward slightly, closing the invisible distance between us, my posture unbowed. "Let me make something clear for you," I said, each word deliberate, heavy with authority. "JUST BECAUSE I'M LEARNING FROM YOU, DOESN'T MEAN I'M YOUR SUBORDINATE." My gaze locked with his, unwavering. Then I issued the final, unyielding command: "YOU SIT OVER THERE."
For a heartbeat, the room seemed suspended, the tension a tangible thread stretched taut between us. Eiser simply stared, lips pressing into a thin line, as if recalculating his approach. Then, a deep, audible sigh escaped him—a sound that was almost human in its frustration, a fleeting crack in the mask of his control.
Before I could savor even a moment of triumph, Eiser moved. Quick, precise, deliberate. He stepped closer, closing the distance I had maintained, his presence overwhelming. His hands landed on either side of the chair, steady and strong, effectively hemming me in. The armrests, once a place of safety and dominance for me, suddenly felt constricted under the weight of his control.
He leaned down, his face dangerously close, sharp features illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the windows. The proximity was electric—charged with tension, unspoken words, and the thrill of challenge. My breath caught, shallow and quick.
My hand, adorned with the gold of my wristwatch, instinctively lifted, a reflexive gesture of defense, hesitation, or perhaps daring. But I paused, caught in the gravity of the moment, aware that any movement could signal submission—or provoke him further.
Eiser's eyes locked on mine, a storm behind their calm surface. One way or another, he was asserting dominance, testing boundaries. And yet, in that closeness, there was something else—something unspoken, dangerous, and compelling.
The unspoken war for power, pride, and control had only just begun—and I knew, with a thrill that both unnerved and emboldened me, that neither of us would yield easily.
Eiser's face was so close that I could see the faint glint in his eyes, the sharp lines of his jaw, the subtle twitch of his expression betraying every ounce of controlled frustration. His arms pressed firmly against the rich velvet of the armchair, effectively caging me in the seat I had defiantly claimed. Every instinct screamed at me to recoil, but I stayed rooted in my own stubborn defiance.
This wasn't just about a chair. It was about crushing my challenge before it even began.
His voice, a low rumble like distant thunder, cut into the room with the weight of authority.
"LISTEN, YOU ANNOYING LITTLE MISS," he growled, leaning closer. Each word landed like a hammer strike against the fragile air of composure I had been trying to maintain.
"Compared to the big ego you have, you must have no shame at all. ARE YOU NOT ASHAMED OF YOURSELF?" His fingers flexed against the armrests, tendons prominent and nearly white from the tension. I could feel his energy, the controlled ferocity of his presence, as each exhale—HUFF… HUFF…—beat against me like a physical force.
He continued, his words merciless, questioning my very existence.
"If you want to sit in a place of more importance, make sure you earn that spot. You can't do anything on your own, nor have you achieved anything. AND YOU WANT TO SIT WHERE YOUR GRANDMOTHER AND MOTHER WORKED SO HARD FOR?"
The words cut sharper than any blade, dismissing generations of effort, all my pride, my bloodline, as if it were meaningless. I gasped, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath that rose in indignation and panic. My chest heaved. HUFF… My voice trembled with rage and incredulity.
"I'm…" I tried to form words through the storm of humiliation and fury. "SERENA SERENITY!" I threw my name like a shield, a declaration, a challenge. I am not defined by your scorn.
Eiser, however, did not care for declarations. Names were meaningless against his discipline. Without warning, he gripped the arms of the chair and, with a sudden, forceful motion, KICKED its base.
The ornate chair lurched violently beneath me, sending my feet and elegant sandals flailing into the air. I shrieked, the sound piercing and raw, a mix of terror and indignation.
"WH-WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" I cried, voice cracking as the room spun around me. "LET ME DOWN IMMEDIATELY!!"
The chair spun and slid across the polished wooden floor like a runaway carriage, bumping against a low table, a bookshelf, finally coming to a graceless stop against a heavy piece of furniture. I toppled over within it, my skirt rumpled, my hair falling loose, my dignity scattered in chaotic strands across the floor.
Eiser took a single, deliberate STEP toward me, his piercing gaze unblinking. He watched, unmoved, as I flailed helplessly, my hands gripping the edges of the chair for dear life, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
"I TOLD YOU TO LET ME DOWN!" I shouted again, voice cracking, equal parts fury and mortification.
But Eiser remained statuesque—cold, precise, the embodiment of control. His eyes never wavered, his jaw tight, the faintest glimmer of frustration softening the hard edges of his expression.
It was unmistakable: he had no intention of ceding this battle. He was committed, fully and utterly, to teaching me a lesson in humility. And whether I liked it or not, I was trapped—literally, physically, and symbolically—in his classroom of dominance, my defiance testing his patience in ways I had never imagined.
For a brief moment, suspended in the absurdity of my upended chair, I couldn't decide whether to cry, laugh, or scream.
The unspoken message was clear: in Eiser's world, no one earned the seat of power without first surviving the storm he conjured—and I was still very much in it.
My indignation still burned like wildfire from Eiser's cold dismissal and the ignominious way he had upended my chair. He finally helped me right it, hands firm and deliberate, but there was no apology, no softening of his glare—just the silent, unyielding assertion of dominance. I straightened my dress, smoothed the folds of silk over my legs, and tried to reclaim the composure that had been rattled in seconds.
He simply stood there, a statuesque figure, waiting for me to acknowledge his position. The tension in the room hummed like a live wire. I had braced myself for a long, dull session of reading tedious, dry documents—but Eiser had something entirely different in mind.
Without preamble, he tossed a thick, leather-bound folder onto the desk. Its cover gleamed under the afternoon sun, embossed with a magnificent crown insignia. Above it, the name "SERENITY" stood in bold, regal letters.
"We are preparing for THE SERENITY HOTEL ANNIVERSARY," he stated, his voice clipped, pure business, devoid of the previous ferocity—but no less intimidating.
I froze. I knew exactly what that meant. It wasn't merely a celebration; it was the event of the year. In the height of summer, when the trees were lush and green, the Serenity Hotel would host a secret night for the kingdom's elite. The grandeur of the night was legendary—every room reserved, every detail scrutinized, every guest's arrival choreographed with precision.
My stomach sank. This wasn't simply a social affair—it was the pinnacle of influence. Invitations weren't frivolous; they were statements. A single misstep could embarrass our family or shift the balance of power in subtle, irrevocable ways. Royalty, nobles, influential figures—they all converged on that night, unaware of the undercurrents that dictated who held sway. To be seen as competent, precise, and in control during this event was to wield power.
Eiser's gaze cut into me, sharp and unwavering. "I'm not letting you sit in a chair you haven't earned," he said slowly, almost savoring the weight of his words. "But I will give you a chance to earn it."
He outlined the scope of the task with precision. From curating the guest list to preparing the entire event—dinner, entertainment, seating arrangements, even the after-party—every detail fell under my responsibility. Only if I executed it flawlessly would he allow me the 'seat of honor' I had so boldly claimed.
I blinked, the enormity of it crashing over me like a wave. My mind spun with the sheer scale of what he demanded.
"…WHAT?" The single word escaped me, trembling between disbelief and outrage.
"YOU WANT ME TO HOST THE PARTY…?" My voice rose slightly, a mixture of panic and incredulity.
Yes. That was exactly what he meant. The most critical, high-stakes event of the year, the one my grandmother and mother had poured months of labor, strategy, and sheer perfection into, was now my responsibility. Every misstep, every minor flaw would reflect on me, on my capability, and my claim to the chair I had dared to occupy.
It wasn't just a lesson. This was a gauntlet, a test designed to challenge my resolve, intelligence, and composure under the weight of legacy and expectation.
Eiser stood rigid before me, his piercing blue eyes assessing, calculating, daring me to falter. He had thrown down the ultimate challenge: to host the Serenity Hotel Anniversary, a task of monumental scale and intricate responsibility. His words had landed like a gauntlet across the polished floor.
"From making the guest list, to preparing the event, dinner, and the after-party. Then, I'll let you sit there."
I gaped at him, my heart pounding. "…YOU WANT ME TO HOST THE PARTY…?" My voice cracked slightly with a mix of incredulity and rising fury.
He didn't flinch, didn't soften his gaze. His expression was icy, utterly serious, and every syllable dripped with condescension.
"Do you think you can do it?" he asked, voice low and sharp. "IF YOU THINK YOU CAN DO IT, THEN YOU MAY. IF NOT… GET OUT."
His arrogance was suffocating, but I refused to let him see my hesitation. Memories of the spinning chair, his humiliating words, the sheer force of his presence—all of it—flashed through my mind. I clenched my fists, inhaling sharply, letting the heat of indignation fuel my resolve. Walking away was never an option. Not now. Not ever.
"I can do it," I said firmly, each word deliberate, unwavering. "I WILL DO IT."
For a fraction of a second, I thought I saw the barest twitch of a cynical smile tug at his lips, a shadow of disbelief he couldn't fully hide.
"Hmph," he scoffed, turning back toward his desk. "THEN DO IT PERFECTLY." He picked up a pen with effortless grace, already dismissing me in thought, assuming failure was inevitable.
"I won't let you down," I said, tone sharp, resolute, but he didn't even look up. A gesture toward the door was all the acknowledgment I received. GO.
My hands tightened into fists. I was being tossed out of his presence as though I were an irritating child—but the fire in my chest only grew brighter.
"THEN PLEASE EXCUSE ME!" I hissed, storming from the study, my footsteps echoing through the hallway like a drumbeat of defiance.
Outside, Frederick rushed to my side, his expression a mixture of concern and alarm. "MS. SERENA! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?"
I stopped, inhaling deeply, trying to tamp down the white-hot fury that threatened to consume me. "…THAT… THAT BASTARD!" I hissed between teeth, the words tasting sharp. "HE TOLD ME TO HOST THE HOTEL ANNIVERSARY!"
Frederick froze, horror written plainly across his handsome face. He knew the magnitude of what I had just accepted. "WHAT?!"
I drew a slow, deliberate breath—INHALE. EXHALE. The world suddenly seemed to narrow, focus sharpening like a lens.
"It's alright, Frederick," I said, voice steadier now, commanding even myself to remain in control. My mind .
I didn't wait for the appointed hour. Dawn had barely brushed the sky with pale gold when I slipped into the kitchen. If I was going to pull off the Serenity Hotel Anniversary, I needed to start with the most critical element: the dinner. The first meal would set the tone for the entire event, and any mistake here would ripple into every detail afterward.
The kitchen was already a whirlwind of motion—steam rising from massive pots, the rhythmic clatter of knives against cutting boards, and the low murmur of staff coordinating under the watchful eye of the Head Chef.
He was a short, stout man, his sharp mustache twitching as he moved. When I stepped forward, he paused mid-stir, his gaze piercing, evaluating me as if I were a recipe in question rather than its master. That look was more intimidating than any scorn Eiser had ever shown me. 'You?' it seemed to say.
"Chef," I began, trying to mask the flutter of nerves with authority, "I'll be in charge of the anniversary party this year."
The Chef stopped stirring entirely, straightening slowly, every movement deliberate. His eyes scanned me top to bottom, sharp and unyielding, measuring the confidence he sensed—or doubted—in me.
"The anniversary party is an important tradition," he said flatly, voice low, precise. "It is not a game."
"I am aware," I replied, voice stiff but controlled. I handed him a preliminary proposal of the menu, my fingers brushing the papers like a shield of intent.
The Chef took the papers and began reading, eyes darting rapidly over the intricate list. I felt the tension rise with each measured glance. Finally, he looked up at me, his expression a mixture of incredulity and suspicion.
"ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS DISH?" he asked, finger tapping the line with quiet insistence.
I straightened my back. This was it—the true test of my knowledge and poise. My mother had always drilled into me that the menu wasn't merely food; it was diplomacy served on a plate.
"Yes," I said firmly. "It's essential. The Marquis is attending this year. The main course must be the Royal Deer Rump with Juniper Berry Sauce. It is his favorite, and serving it will solidify our agreement regarding the new shipping routes."
His eyes narrowed for a brief moment—a flicker of surprise. He moved his finger down the list, stopping on a wine selection.
"AND THIS WINE?" he asked, voice sharp.
"The Estero Vintage," I explained, holding his gaze without flinching. "It is only served when the King is present. He is not attending, so we will not waste such a rare bottle." My tone was calm, but my words carried the weight of strategy. Prestige must be measured, not squandered.
The Chef's frown deepened. "BUT YOUR GRANDMOTHER ALWAYS SERVED THE ESTERO VINTAGE. IT IS TRADITION."
"And my grandmother had different priorities," I countered, tilting my chin with quiet defiance. "I AM NOT MY GRANDMOTHER. We will serve the Aethelred. It is an expensive vintage, but not so rare that we diminish the Estero for when the King truly attends. We must preserve it as leverage."
For a long moment, silence hung between us, thick and expectant. Then, slowly, the stern lines of his face softened. The twitch of his mustache relaxed, and he gave a measured nod.
"Hmph. You seem to know your history," he admitted, the faintest approval in his tone. "VERY WELL." With a deft toss, he returned the papers to the prep table, already slick with the morning's rush. "I WILL DO AS YOU WISH, MS. SERENA."
Relief surged through me, warm and invigorating. I had passed the first test. My pulse still raced, but it was tempered with the fierce spark of satisfaction.
"Thank you, Chef," I said, my voice steadier now, the weight of determination replacing panic. "Now, I need to speak with the Head Gardener about the floral arrangements for the Ballroom."
I turned to Frederick, who was already quickening his pace to match mine, eyes wide with anticipation. The day was just beginning—and so was the gauntlet I had accepted.
The dinner menu was secured, a feat that had tested both my knowledge and nerve—but it was only the beginning. The most delicate, consequential element of the entire event remained: the guest list. I retreated to the quietest corner of the Serenity estate library, a sanctuary of polished wood and towering shelves, where whispers of history seemed to hang in the air. Here, surrounded by ancient tomes and family records, I could think—and plan—undisturbed.
I pulled a large, polished table close to a sunlit window and opened the hefty book of family contacts. Each name, each family line, carried weight. A single overlooked guest or misplaced invitation could ignite a scandal, a rivalry, or a silent but deadly political shift. I traced my fingers over the names, feeling the pulse of influence running through the pages.
"Frederick," I instructed, keeping my voice low but commanding. "Fetch me the political dossiers for the families marked in red."
Frederick appeared almost instantly, as if summoned by the gravity of the task itself, a neatly stacked bundle of files in his hands. "Yes, Ms. Serena. Are you seeking details on their recent activity?"
"Precisely," I confirmed, scanning the pages with an intensity that made the air feel heavy. "This list isn't just about attendance; it's a statement. Every invitation, every exclusion, will send a message. We must assess who gains power if they attend, and who suffers loss if they're left out."
I leaned over the registry, circling a name with a deliberate pen stroke: COUNTESS RAE.
"She must be invited," I said, voice firm. "Her family holds the keys to the eastern grain contracts. But we must control her interactions. Frederick, ensure her seating places her next to the Minister of Trade, not the Minister of Agriculture. We want productive discussions on exports, not petty disputes over local tariffs."
Frederick jotted down the note swiftly, his pen moving like clockwork.
Next, I paused on THE MARQUIS OF TILLER, chewing the end of my pen in thought. After a long beat, I drew a thick line through his name. "He is not invited."
Frederick's eyebrows shot up. "But the Marquis is highly influential, Ms. Serena. Excluding him could provoke backlash."
"He backed the wrong candidate in the last election," I said, my tone firm, unyielding. "He has publicly criticized the Hotel's expansion. Inviting him would signal weakness. A lack of invitation is a direct message: Serenity's opponents will face consequences. We won't invite him—but we'll leak that he declined due to an 'unexpected illness.'"
Frederick paused, impressed, and scribbled notes furiously. "A LADY, I PRESUME."
I nodded, circling another critical name: THE DUCHESS OF MONTAGUE.
"She is key," I said. "Immense social capital, but notorious for leaving early. We need to ensure she remains until the end."
"How?" Frederick asked, genuinely curious.
I leaned back, my eyes glinting with calculated precision. "The Duchess is fiercely competitive. We'll schedule the private auction an hour into the after-party, not immediately after dinner. And the main item? Something she cannot resist." I tapped a blank section of the notebook. "A rare diamond necklace. She will stay, because the fear of losing it to another guest is stronger than her usual impatience."
I surveyed the guest list, the pages now alive with potential alliances, tensions, and subtle power plays. Each invitation was a move in a silent chess game, each deliberate omission a strategic strike. Eiser had tasked me with hosting the party, but I was going to host a political summit cloaked as a social affair.
A thrill ran through me. For the first time that morning, I felt the full weight—and the full possibility—of the challenge before me. The Serenity Hotel Anniversary would not simply be a party. It would be a statement. And I intended to make it mine.
The game had begun.