"Lady Serena," a voice cut through the quiet hum of my study. I looked up, pen poised mid-air above the heavy parchment, the ink barely dry from my last sentence.
"Lady Serena, shall we start getting ready? It's nearly time for your outing."
An outing? I frowned, the simple action feeling like a great effort. "Huh? Was there something scheduled today?"
My attendant, her expression a careful balance of politeness and concern, stepped closer. She seemed to know the answer before I could even ask. "Don't you remember?" she pressed gently. "You're meeting your friends from Dalincour."
The names floated around in my memory like distant echoes, barely tangible, almost too light to hold. I had been so absorbed in my work lately—the endless correspondence, the mountains of documents—the world outside this room had become a blur, a place I only visited in faint recollections.
"You've always been refusing their invitations," she continued, "but you said a few days ago you'd accept one, so I added it to your schedule..."
Ah. The letters. The endless, cheerful missives, scrawled with looping cursive and scented with faint lavender. I had always found efficient ways to avoid them, letting them pile in neat stacks that I could ignore with an easy conscience. A memory surfaced, sharp and slightly painful—a small, frustrated version of myself, stiff in a cute, fluffy dress, frowning at the impossibility of social pleasantries.
"Lady Serena, more letters arrived from your friends. How about meeting them this time?" my attendant had asked in that memory, looking up at my younger self with a hopeful glimmer in her eyes.
"All right already! I'm busy right now, so go ahead and draft a response yourself," I had snapped, utterly swamped by the weight of my miniature responsibilities.
"Oh, that's not exactly what I'd meant..." my mini-attendant had whimpered, retreating slightly, crestfallen.
Back in the present, I let out a long sigh, running a hand through my dark hair. My real self—the one constantly writing, analyzing, calculating—could hardly believe that I had agreed to a social hour, of all things. Social interaction was a task, a performance, a responsibility I had never truly embraced.
"All right, fine," I muttered, the words tasting faintly bitter. "It would hardly be polite to cancel on the day of." The sharp CLACK of my golden pen hitting the table punctuated my reluctant concession.
Just as I began to mentally brace for the ordeal, another thought intruded, insistent and pressing. I had an important deadline approaching, a professional commitment that could not be postponed.
"And when will the results of the authentication be announced? The day after tomorrow?" I asked, already calculating how to adjust my schedule.
My attendant nodded. "That's correct. It will take place in the meeting room of the De Laurent Gallery... at 10 AM the day after tomorrow."
A significant date. I made a mental note to clear my schedule, mentally prioritizing the duties that truly mattered over the fleeting comfort of social niceties.
✨ The Dalincour Reunion
I dressed for the occasion with detached precision, each choice a calculated measure of elegance and authority. I selected an outfit that was professional, formidable, and effortlessly poised—the armor I had always relied on to navigate the world outside my study. My dark, figure-hugging dress-coat was cinched at the waist with a belt and accented with a decorative bow, while a light pink patterned collar offered just a whisper of softness. White gloves and a small, red purse completed the ensemble, a signature of understated sophistication. Standing before the mirror, I could feel the perfect balance of presence and control; I was polished, prepared, untouchable.
Stepping out onto the sunlit street, the gentle murmur of nearby music reached me, a faint warmth brushing against the practiced composure I maintained.
"SERENA!"
The shout cut through the quiet elegance of the moment. I barely had time to register it before I was moving, drawn toward the venue like an actor to a stage.
My friends were already seated at a table, their faces bright with anticipation. One, clad in a dusky pink dress, waved energetically. Another, in creamy yellow, offered a warm, radiant smile that seemed almost to envelop the space around her.
"Hi, everyone. Long time no see." The words felt foreign, awkward even in my own ears, as though they belonged to someone else—a girl I once had been, not the careful, precise woman now standing before them.
Approaching the table, the old sensation of social strain crept in, subtle but unrelenting. I had been so focused on professional life, on achievements and deadlines, that the casual warmth of friendship now seemed like a language I had almost forgotten how to speak. My mind struggled to reconcile the memories with the present: the laughter, the shared confidences, the playful teasing—it all existed on a plane I could observe but not fully inhabit.
Despite the discomfort, I drew in a deep, steadying breath. They were here for me. I was here for them. I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and allowed the faintest, controlled smile to touch my lips. It was time to perform the art of reunion—the delicate, practiced choreography of grace, attention, and charm. I would be composed, pleasant, and perfectly… human.
---
The moment I reached the table, the three familiar faces of my past—Rowaine, Luna, and Sally—lit up with the warmth of recognition. They were friends I had met at Dalincour when I was fifteen, each one a companion through the awkward, bright, and sometimes ruthless days of adolescence. Even after graduation, we had maintained contact, meeting occasionally to share tea, laughter, or idle gossip.
Until the carriage accident, that is. Five years ago.
Rowaine, with her vibrant reddish-brown hair catching the light as she leaned forward, was the first to speak. Her presence was striking, forceful—a reflection of her upbringing in a family renowned in shipbuilding. I remembered the clashes of our youth, the fierce arguments that ended in laughter or grudging respect.
"Nice to see you again, Princess," she said, the old fire in her voice unmistakable. "How long has it been? Five years?"
She chuckled—a rich, resonant sound that seemed to tug at a corner of my heart I had long left unused. "It's been ages since I last called you by that nickname! I heard how you were doing from time to time through the grapevine. Have you been well?"
I studied her carefully, noting the faint lines near her eyes, the way her posture carried the same confidence she always had. Then my gaze shifted to Luna and Sally. Luna's tall, calm demeanor radiated composure, a reflection of her upbringing as the daughter of the Minister of Education. Sally, in her soft pink dress, radiated effusive energy, the youngest child of a high-ranking military officer, adored and coddled but no less sincere in her warmth.
Sally practically bounced in her chair, her sparkling eyes fixed on me. "Hello, hello! Welcome! We've been really looking forward to seeing you again!"
I nodded, my voice steady and professional despite the sudden flood of memories, the tight knot of grief and absence loosening slightly. "Yes, as you can see. And at the funeral five years ago… I was too overwhelmed to even greet you properly. Thank you all for coming to pay your respects." I softened my expression deliberately, allowing a hint of vulnerability to show. "Have you been well?"
"Of course! Sit down, Serena," Sally said firmly, leaving no room for refusal. "Do you still like grapes and cherries? We went ahead and ordered while waiting!"
I glanced at the beautifully laid table. A tiered tray held delicate cakes and pastries, each piece small and intricate. A small, familiar voice in my mind whispered the details: Sally is a regular here. Grapes and cherries are in season, so she ordered a selection, thinking you'd like them.
I took my seat, letting the memory settle alongside the aroma of tea and fresh pastries. The conversation began—a cascade of chatter, laughter, and updates. Music floated in the background, mingling with the soft clatter of porcelain cups and the occasional tinkle of silverware.
I found myself listening not just out of politeness, but with genuine, if rusty, interest. The hard, icy shell I usually maintained seemed to melt slightly in the warmth of these women who knew me before the trauma, before the weight of responsibility had hardened my every gesture. Their laughter, their stories, their shared recollections of the past—they were a gentle tether to a part of me I had almost forgotten.
Outside the door, my attendant stood with quiet vigilance, checking her discreet timepiece. Lady Serena said she'd only stay for 30 minutes, she noted silently, the faint furrow of her brow betraying concern. But it's already been over an hour…
The surprising thing was that the thought of leaving didn't immediately press forward. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the clock was no longer the master of my every second. I let the moments stretch, letting the conversation carry me, allowing the past and present to mingle in a rare, fleeting ease. For once, I was not Serena the professional, the strategist, the organizer. I was simply Serena—friend, peer, and witness to the years that had shaped us all.
The conversation flowed easily, shifting from light pleasantries to the more intimate, revealing topics I usually kept locked away. Among the chatter, one subject surfaced that I had spent months trying to avoid: my recent break-up.
Rowaine, ever direct and unflinching, leaned forward, her expression earnest. "So you ended the relationship? But… you've been engaged to him since you were sixteen."
I took a slow sip of coffee, the warmth grounding me as I gathered my thoughts. It wasn't a simple, romantic affair as outsiders assumed; the truth was tangled, layered, and dictated more by circumstance than by feeling.
"It was the result of both our families' underhanded machinations," I explained, each word carefully measured, like placing fragile objects on a table.
My gaze drifted to the window, to the sunlight spilling over the street, as memories unfolded in my mind. How it had all started—the calculated maneuvering, the careful orchestration. Kloudi's family and mine were both dominant forces in the shipbuilding world, though our companies specialized in different sectors. The merger had been planned long before either of us had a say, and the marriage was the crowning jewel of the arrangement, scheduled to coincide with the merger itself.
I realized how deep the planning had gone. "It turns out the reason they sent me to Dalincour early, at fifteen, was to ensure I would meet Kloudi." My entire adolescence—my friendships, my education, my routines—had been subtly manipulated, a preamble to a corporate union I hadn't yet understood.
Rowaine's frown deepened, her piercing gaze meeting mine. "But how could you keep your relationship going for that long if the only thing driving it was family pressure?"
That was the difficult truth to voice. The reality was less cynical than the arrangement suggested. Though the circumstances were contrived, the emotions weren't entirely absent.
"Although the circumstances in which we met were rather contrived, I didn't dislike Kloudi," I admitted, letting the words hover in the air. "In fact, there were many things I liked about him…" The thought trailed off, unfinished, lingering like a soft shadow at the edge of memory. The past remained the past, but the faint echoes of what could have been were always there, insistent and quietly persistent.
I leaned back in my chair, the sunlight spilling over my face, and laughed—genuinely, unrestrained—at something Sally had said. "HAHA! NO WAY!" The sound surprised me; it was rare lately for me to laugh so freely, without the calculated restraint I usually maintained.
My dark hair caught the light, glinting softly, framing a face that, for the first time in months, bore no trace of tension or responsibility. The heavy mantle of being CEO, hotel owner, and survivor of a life-altering accident had lifted, at least for a moment. I was simply… me.
From her discreet post nearby, my attendant observed the scene quietly. She took a subtle glance, a careful, almost reverent study of me in this rare moment of unguarded ease. A small smile touched her lips.
"…Lady Serena looks… like any other twenty-two-year-old woman."
How happy Lady Bellatia would have been to see this, my attendant thought—the woman who had cared for me as a mother, who had nurtured the child behind the poised, capable exterior. Not Serena the hotel owner, not the president of a company, but simply Serena—the girl she had cherished and protected.
Encouraged by my visible ease, my attendant decided to extend the brief respite. She's enjoying herself far more than I expected. Perhaps it's best to let this continue a little longer. Lady Serena could use a reprieve.
With a discreet gesture, she summoned a waiter. "Excuse me, could I get another cup of coffee?"
"Right away!" the waiter responded, bowing slightly as he retrieved the cup.
I smiled, sinking deeper into the warmth of the moment, letting the soft hum of the cafe and the laughter of my friends fill the space around me. For once, the relentless demands of the world could wait. For once, I could simply exist, content in the company of those who knew the girl I once was—and perhaps, through fleeting laughter and shared stories, the woman I had become.
I continued my explanation to Rowaine, the casual cafe setting making the confession feel both intimate and strangely liberating. The hum of conversation around us seemed distant, almost irrelevant, as I traced the story of a past I had carried quietly for too long.
"In fact, there were lots of things I liked about him," I reiterated, choosing my words with care. "Because our families were in the same industry, we ran in the same social circles and were raised in similar environments. Not only was it easy to talk to him… he understood me. He comforted me whenever I was struggling."
It was that ease, that shared upbringing, that had woven a comfortable bond—familiar, predictable, and safe. "I kept dating him for all these years because I thought we were… meant to be, in a way." The circumstances aligned neatly: our families, our social standing, the unspoken expectation that our paths would merge. It was not love, at least not the kind that set the heart ablaze. It was a life arranged in tandem, a comfort I had mistaken for something more.
I paused, lowering my gaze to the ornate teacup before me. Steam curled upward, catching the sunlight in fleeting patterns, a small, poetic reminder that time moved forward whether I acknowledged it or not.
"...But about a year ago, Kloudi's family sold their business and started another in a completely different industry."
The foundation of our forced union had vanished in an instant. The business imperative that had sustained the engagement evaporated.
A shadow fell over the memory. "With our careers on different trajectories, we ended up spending less time together, and the things we wanted to talk about were no longer the same."
I could still see it clearly: standing side by side yet feeling the invisible miles between us. The world we had shared, once familiar and comforting, fractured into separate spheres. "...And we split up not long after that."
The separation had been clean, almost clinical in its simplicity. "Kloudi readily accepted the end of our relationship too," I added, almost with a shrug. The ease of it underscored the truth I had been avoiding: it had never been meant to last.
A pang of sadness passed through me as I finished recounting the story. "Of course, I was sad about it for a while. All the time we spent together… it felt utterly meaningless." The years of companionship, the rituals, the expectations—they seemed, in retrospect, like investments that yielded no genuine return.
"But looking back…" I met Rowaine's gaze, letting the weight of the truth settle into the warm air of the cafe, the words finally emerging unfiltered. "...I don't think I actually loved Kloudi."
The realization struck with the sharpness of cold wind—not devastating, but undeniably clarifying. My friends blinked at me, surprised by the candidness, the unexpected clarity in my voice.
Softly, I continued, the last pieces of the puzzle falling into place. "Even though we dated for so long, given how easy the break-up was, I guess we weren't meant to be. I only realized why after it ended."
The love I had mistaken for passion, the connection I had interpreted as destiny—it was nothing more than the byproduct of convenience, of carefully orchestrated circumstances. The engagement had been painful to end, yes, but the truth it revealed was liberating: the space Kloudi had occupied in my life was now empty, open for my own choices, my own path.
For the first time, I felt the strange, exhilarating freedom of a life not dictated by expectation, a life that I could shape entirely on my own terms.
Luna, always the intellectual and measured one, nodded slowly, her gaze thoughtful as she processed my revelation. "It didn't make sense at first. I definitely liked him and trusted him… enough to confuse it with love."
"But in hindsight…" I continued, my voice calm but carrying a profound sense of finality, like a verdict delivered softly but unyieldingly. "Our relationship was simply one born out of necessity."
I let the words linger, heavy in the warm light of the cafe. "Friends, lovers, business partners… our relationship could be described in many ways, but I don't think there was any love at the root of it. If we truly loved each other, I don't think his job changing would have been reason enough for us to end things."
The truth, once faced, was stark and undeniable. "It was only natural that we'd drift apart once there wasn't anything we wanted from each other. That's why it was so easy for us to split up."
I glanced down at my hands, resting quietly in my lap, noting the delicate curve of my fingers, the faint lines of my palm softened by the cafe's gentle light. "Also, I think both of us subconsciously knew… that once the first link holding our relationship together was broken, we'd be finished." The 'first link'—the bond forged between our families, a calculated contract disguised as affection.
"That's why we never said we loved each other…" The admission, spoken aloud, felt like letting out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. It was a sharp, clarifying truth, heavy yet liberating.
As I articulated that final, damning phrase—the part about the absence of love—a sudden, shadowed memory surged forward, unbidden. It was a different relationship entirely, yet the parallels were haunting. Professional detachment, calculated interactions, a personal connection entirely dictated by strategy.
The memory was charged and dangerous, darker than the cozy comfort of the cafe, and far more emotionally volatile. It involved a man named Frederick.
The scene shimmered into view: opulent, shadowed, a space where business and personal lines dangerously blurred. I saw a younger version of myself, clad in a daring dark gown, expression sharp, intense, fiercely competitive—a Serena honed for manipulation and subtle power plays.
Faking our interactions, bending situations to achieve a goal, all while keeping our emotions strictly contained. Frederick's presence in my memory was magnetic and infuriating all at once. I remembered the cold precision of our exchanges. When did I tell you we would need to part? I could hear my own voice, measured, cold, devoid of softness.
The memory shifted, focusing on a fleeting, charged intimacy—a kiss that carried no affection, only strategy. A voice, perhaps Fre