The rain grew heavier the closer we got to the door, as if the sky itself was trying to warn us. Each drop was sharp and cold, the kind that soaked through layers and left you shivering not from chill, but from nerves.
Eiser's arm was still hooked with mine, and no matter how composed he looked, I could feel the subtle tension in him—tight, controlled, buried under several practiced layers of elegance. His grip wasn't forceful, but it was firm enough that I couldn't slip away without making a scene.
And making a scene in front of the President's staff was the last thing I wanted.
The staff member marched ahead of us, his shoes squelching on the wet stone steps. With every SPLASH, SPLASH, my irritation grew.
He knew. He absolutely knew I'd demand an explanation.
And he planned this. He timed it.
Right when the staff member approached—right when I couldn't fight back—he pulled this stunt.
My heartbeat was a mix of anger and nerves, thudding painfully against my ribs. I leaned slightly toward him and hissed under my breath, "We are talking about this. Later."
He didn't look at me. Didn't acknowledge me at all. He only adjusted the umbrella angle so the rain wouldn't hit my shoulder. A small gesture. The kind that might've been sweet if I wasn't fully aware it was also a distraction.
We reached the entrance—a pair of tall varnished doors, simple but dignified. The porch light flickered from the storm, casting pale gold over Eiser's features. The rain sliding down his hair made him look colder… sharper.
And then—finally—after all this silence, he glanced at me.
One second.
Two seconds.
A calm, unreadable stare.
Almost as if he were saying:
Behave.
I wanted to smack him.
The staff member pushed open the door. Warm light spilled out, brushing against our damp clothes and misty breath. A rush of heat fogged my glasses for a moment, and in that instant, I caught the faintest hint of Eiser inhaling deeply.
Bracing himself.
The foyer was elegant but understated—wooden floors that gleamed, walls lined with framed paintings, the soft hum of classical music floating in from a distant room. Cozy. Warm. The exact opposite of the icy dread curling in my stomach.
"President Harold has been expecting you," the staff member said with a respectful bow. "We'll take your coats inside."
"Thank you," Eiser responded smoothly.
He released my arm just long enough to shrug off his coat, water droplets scattering. When the staff member turned to me, ready to assist, I moved a little stiffly. My hands were shaking slightly—not from cold, but from the unresolved, simmering panic of what Eiser had said earlier.
Something might come up that you know nothing about.
What did that mean?
What was going to happen in that dining room?
What was I walking into?
The staff member gestured kindly. "This way, Lady Serena."
"Lady Serena."
The title still felt foreign, like a borrowed coat that didn't quite fit my shoulders.
Eiser placed a palm lightly on my back—not pushing, but guiding. The warmth of his hand burned through the thin fabric of my dress.
"You'll be fine," he murmured, voice low, intimate enough that only I could hear.
I whipped my head toward him, eyes narrowed. "That's not comforting."
He offered the faintest smile. Not quite teasing. Not quite apologetic. Something in between.
But his eyes?
His eyes were cold steel.
Focused.
Anticipating.
Whatever awaited us inside this manor… he was ready.
I wasn't.
We stepped forward, following the staff deeper inside. My footsteps echoed, my pulse racing. The scent of polished wood and simmering food filled the air. Somewhere in the distance, voices murmured—low, authoritative, political.
I swallowed hard.
This wasn't just dinner.
This was something else entirely.
And I had no choice but to walk straight into it.
The golden light of the entrance hall seemed to melt the rain straight off our clothes. Soft shadows played across the floor, cast by the chandelier that hung above—a sparkling bloom of crystal. The contrast between the storm outside and the comfort inside made everything feel strangely surreal, as though we'd stepped into another world altogether.
President Harold was exactly the sort of man children trusted instinctively: warm eyes, a boisterous laugh, and an aura that made even the sharp-tongued politicians soften around him. The cane in his hand didn't diminish that impression; if anything, it added a touch of venerable charm.
Eva, on the other hand, was like a quiet reflection of the room's elegance—polished, poised, distant. Her smile was perfect, but her gaze held a quick, fleeting appraisal, as if measuring us both in a second and filing the information away.
When President Harold turned fully to me, his eyes warming with recognition, I felt a sudden urge to step back. Not from fear—just from the unexpected tenderness in his expression.
"Do you remember me by any chance, Serena?"
His voice was gentle, almost paternal. And those memories—soft, blurred memories of childhood—rose up before I could stop them.
A wide courtyard.
A gentle hand on my head.
A laugh that sounded exactly the way it did now.
"I do remember," I said, my voice a little quieter than intended. "You were always very kind to me."
What I didn't say—what lingered quietly in the back of my thoughts—was the image of the former First Lady. A woman whose smile had been sunlight itself. I had been too young to understand grief, but old enough to recognize her disappearance years later.
President Harold's laugh boomed warmly. "Princess Ribbon! That's what you were. Ribbons everywhere!" He mimed a flurry around his head. "Iansa insisted you'd get lost without them. Haha!"
Eiser's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly beside me; I felt more than saw it. Childhood memories involving Iansa always tugged at something complicated in him.
My face burned at the nickname. Of all things to bring up tonight…
Before the embarrassment could overstretch itself, Eva stepped in with flawless timing.
"Our guests must be hungry from the long trip," she said smoothly.
That was an understatement. My stomach had been twisting for several reasons—not all of them related to hunger.
"I'll step out to assist with dinner preparations," she added, already turning gracefully away.
That's when Eiser spoke, a faint note of politeness—or suspicion—woven into his tone.
"Will you not be joining us, Madam?"
Eva waved her hand lightly, dismissive and refined—yet there was a stiffness beneath it.
"Oh, no. Business talk is beyond me. I wouldn't know what on earth to say."
Her smile held, but her eyes briefly flicked toward her husband. A quiet look. Something coded, almost weary.
And then she disappeared down the hall, her heels tapping softly against polished floors.
I watched her leave, unease prickling at my skin.
Eva isn't joining us?
Three people at a dinner table:
— A president with political weight and old memories of me
— Eiser with secrets he refused to explain
— And me, completely unprepared
A triangle with too many unknowns.
President Harold clapped his hands together, cheerful once again. "Well then! Shall we head to the dining room? I've been eager to speak with you both."
Eiser nodded respectfully. "Of course, President."
He lightly touched my elbow, guiding me. Not forcefully—but firmly enough to remind me we were no longer outside, where I could glare, argue, or complain.
As we walked down the corridor, my thoughts spun tight circles.
Eva stepping out changed everything.
Without her there… the conversation would be bare. Direct. Possibly dangerous.
And whatever topic Eiser warned me about earlier—whatever information gap existed—I was about to walk right into it with no shield.
I stole a glance at Eiser.
His expression was composed
… but far too calm.
The way someone looked right before stepping into a negotiation.
He felt ready.
I wasn't.
The grand dining room doors loomed ahead, slightly ajar.
A soft glow escaped them.
A hint of voices.
And something else—
A weight of anticipation.
President Harold pushed the door gently. "Shall we begin the evening?"
I inhaled slowly, bracing myself.
Whatever this dinner was truly about…
I had the sinking feeling it was only just beginning.
The ornate dining room felt like a world separated from the storm outside. The chandelier above sparkled like a constellation, its warm light reflected in the polished silverware. Every dish on the table was arranged with careful precision—braised meats glazed to shine, vibrant vegetables, rich sauces, soft bread. The kind of dinner meant to impress guests without seeming like it was trying too hard.
For all its beauty, I felt strangely… out of place.
Or rather—out of sync.
The entire evening flowed so smoothly it felt choreographed. President Harold laughed at all the right moments, Eiser responded with the right amount of polite warmth, and I added small reactions as needed, just enough to stay involved.
It was almost too perfect.
"So then," President Harold said, chuckling as he cut into his steak, "your grandmother dragged me into that rainstorm just to show me that damn orchard. 'The peaches are finally in season!' she declared. As if that justified making the President trek out in muddy boots."
I smiled at the memory. "She always said peaches taste sweeter when you harvest them in bad weather."
"Ha! She certainly believed that."
He shook his head fondly. The nostalgia in his eyes made something inside me ache.
From there, the conversation slipped into safe territory—stories from the past, updates on the hotel, anecdotes about guests, the poet Natia Dali's outburst. Eiser handled most of it effortlessly, and the President responded with genuine interest… or at least a believable facsimile of it.
For a while, I forgot my nerves.
Then I remembered Eiser's warning:
Something might come up that you know nothing about.
My fork slowed.
My glance slid toward him.
He looked perfectly composed, but I noticed something—small, subtle, but present:
He was waiting.
Not a passive waiting.
A poised, intentional waiting.
Like a hunter waiting for the right opening to speak.
President Harold, meanwhile, did the opposite. Every time the conversation swayed toward business—even by accident—he redirected it.
Anecdote.
Joke.
Memory.
Light topic.
Another story.
Over and over.
It was like watching two seasoned fencers spar without ever letting their blades touch.
My unease returned, creeping up my spine.
Why was Eiser so determined?
Why was President Harold so determined not to go there?
I didn't have long to ponder.
A faint voice drifted in from the hallway—Eva's.
"Yes, yes. She's at my house right now! Dining with the President. Yes."
I blinked.
What?
Her tone wasn't anxious or urgent. She sounded… casual. Even cheerful. A housewife chatting with a friend.
But something about it was off. Too deliberate. Too precise. As if she were confirming our location for someone.
"—with the President. Yes, right now."
The repetition made my stomach tighten.
Who needed to know?
Why did she have to report our presence?
My eyes flicked toward the door, then back to the men at the table.
They hadn't reacted.
Either they hadn't heard…
Or they expected it.
I pressed my napkin into my lap, willing myself to remain calm. Keeping my expression neutral. Elegant. Controlled.
This was not the moment to lose composure.
But I could feel the shift.
The surface-level warmth of dinner had thinned just enough for me to sense the tension underneath.
The table fell into a short lull—a pause between topics. President Harold dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin, his eyes drifting briefly toward the closed door where Eva's voice had come from. His expression flickered for half a second.
A shadow.
A thought.
A worry quickly masked.
When he turned back, the smile was back in place.
"Now then—" he began.
And that was when Eiser moved.
Subtly. But unmistakably.
He placed his knife and fork down with a soft, deliberate CLINK. A sound that cut through the room. His posture straightened—not stiff, but sharper. Focused. Confident.
A signal I didn't miss.
Nor did President Harold.
The President's eyes flickered.
Just a moment.
Just long enough to reveal something heavy beneath the cheer.
There it was.
The opening Eiser had been waiting for.
The moment the air changed.
The moment the real conversation was finally about to begin.
For the first time since we arrived, the dining room felt cold.
Nothing had changed—not the chandelier's warm glow, not the lavish spread still half-eaten on our plates, not the gentle hum of classical music drifting from a far speaker.
But I had changed.
Inside me, something tight and instinctive snapped awake.
Eva's voice—thin, amused, wickedly casual—still echoed in my skull.
"…I can use this opportunity to see just how bad her allergy is…"
"…If her allergy really is that severe…"
"…I can just blame my chef…"
HEHEHE.
There was no mistaking it.
No possible way to misinterpret her tone.
That woman wanted to test a lethal allergy on someone.
Whether out of spite, boredom, curiosity, or something darker—it didn't matter. It was cold-blooded calculation masked under a housewife's cheerful tone.
My hands tightened in my lap beneath the table.
The golden dinnerware suddenly looked sinister, like props in a stage play where someone wouldn't make it to the final act.
Why peaches?
Why an allergy?
And why would she think I have one?
I had no peach allergy. None.
Someone else did.
Someone she believed was sitting here.
"…something you know nothing about."
Eiser's earlier warning lashed sharply through my mind.
I shot a side glance at him—subtle, quick, but full of meaning.
He remained perfectly calm, posture straight, one hand holding his wine glass in a relaxed, aristocratic grip. His expression was untroubled, his breathing steady. As if he wasn't aware of the threat quietly brewing behind the door.
Or worse—
As if he was aware…
and expected it.
The President, blissfully unaware, continued describing a lighthearted story from his youth.
"…and then your grandmother told me the peaches tasted sour because I didn't wash my hands properly after shaking hands with the orchard workers—HAH!"
His laughter boomed across the table.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Peaches.
That word now echoed differently.
Not sweet, nostalgic, or innocent.
A threat.
My mind raced.
Why would Eva think I had an allergy?
Was someone feeding her false information?
Or… was there someone at this table who did have one?
And if the dessert was pre-plated—if the chef was simply following Eva's instructions—
Someone could die tonight.
Was that the "business" Eiser was here for?
A political trap?
A test?
A warning?
Or did he drag me here knowing the danger—knowing something was set in motion he wasn't allowed to explain to me?
I didn't know which possibility terrified me more.
As President Harold continued speaking, I noticed something subtle but chilling:
He wasn't eating.
His plate was hardly touched.
His fork moved, yes—occasionally—but the food never reached his lips.
Had he been warned?
Did he know someone planned to poison dessert?
Was that why he kept steering the conversation away from Eiser's real subject?
A dozen threads of tension were weaving around us and tightening by the second.
And then—
A polite KNOCK.
My breath hitched.
A staff member entered, wheeling a dessert cart adorned with a covered silver platter. The scent of something sweet—something unmistakably peach—wafted into the dining room.
My blood ran cold.
"Dessert is ready to be served," the staff member announced.
I watched his hands.
His expression.
His posture.
He looked nervous.
Too nervous for a normal dinner service.
As he lifted the lid, a soft, fragrant steam escaped: peach compote with warm spice, drizzled over delicate custard.
President Harold smiled faintly. "Ah, peaches. Eva always insists on serving them when we have distinguished guests."
Eiser set down his wine glass.
Finally.
The moment he had waited for.
He turned his head slightly toward the President—not enough to break politeness, but enough to shift the air.
"Indeed," he said quietly.
"But peaches often come at… a particular price."
The President's smile froze.
My breath stopped.
This was it.
The real conversation.
The real business.
The real danger.
And I was sitting in the middle of it with no idea who the target was—or whether this dessert was poisoned.
The staff member placed the first dessert in front of me.
A warm bowl.
A soft peach slice resting on top.
A hint of cinnamon.
And something else—
A quiet threat.
My pulse hammered.
I didn't reach for the spoon.
I didn't breathe.
I waited—for Eiser's next move.
For the President's reaction.
For whatever truth would finally tear the politeness apart.
But as the seconds stretched painfully long, one thing became crystal clear:
This was no run-of-the-mill dinner.
This was a trap.
And someone at this table already knew exactly who it was meant for.
For a moment, the room didn't breathe.
My confession—soft, trembling, barely more than a thread of sound—seemed to hit the polished wood floors with the weight of thunder.
"I… can't eat peaches."
My words slipped out like a secret I had never meant to reveal, a truth that shattered the delicate scene the older gentleman had crafted with so much sincerity.
I wished I could snatch them back.
Undo them.
Rewind the last five seconds of my life.
But the damage was already done.
The lord of the estate blinked, his smile faltering—but only for a heartbeat. His expression recovered with practiced grace, the kind older-mentor warmth returning to his features. "Oh? You cannot?" he asked gently, as if I had simply told him I disliked raisins in bread.
But his eyes—his wise, aging eyes—tightened around the edges.
He was hurt. Even if he wouldn't admit it.
My heart squeezed painfully, guilt flooding me despite the unfairness of it all.
Across the table, the handsome young man stiffened. His fork, poised elegantly above his plate, lowered slowly. His gaze sharpened, flickering between me and the peaches as though analyzing a hidden puzzle.
"You didn't mention that."
His voice was low, clipped—careful.
Too careful.
"I—It must have been a misunderstanding," I managed, hands curling into my lap. "A rumor, maybe… I never said that peaches were—"
My favorite.
That lie wasn't mine.
No one at this table knew the truth of what had happened outside this room.
The overheard whispers.
The smirk.
The plan to "see how severe it is."
And I couldn't show them—not without unraveling everything.
The older gentleman made a soft, thoughtful hum. "My dear Princess Ribbon… If I had known, I would never have troubled myself." His voice was full of gentle apology, but beneath it I heard something else—concern. "You should have told me sooner."
I swallowed hard.
My voice felt fragile, thin.
"I didn't realize… they were for me."
Not like this.
Not in this way.
Not with danger laced through the sweetness.
A pause—long, fragile, stretching like a wire pulled too tight.
Then the young man suddenly pushed back his chair.
The sound—SCRAPE—echoed sharply through the elegant room.
His expression had altered completely. The mild politeness of a well-trained guest was gone. In its place was sharp vigilance, every line of his posture alert.
"Sir," he said to the older man, voice restrained but tense. "May I ask who informed you that she likes peaches?"
The question sliced through the silence.
The older man blinked, surprised. "Why… your wife did, of course."
My stomach dropped.
The young man's jaw clenched.
A muscle in his cheek twitched.
And slowly—very slowly—he reached out and pulled my plate, the one with the peach slices, toward himself.
"That," he said quietly, "is interesting."
His fork hovered over the fruit.
The older gentlem