Chapter 32
The door had barely closed behind her when Vidalia was immediately struck by a heady wave of perfume—a lush blend of white flowers and musk, the kind of fragrance only Angela knew how to choose. It perfectly matched the image she wished to project: precious, refined, irresistible.
The bedroom was bathed in golden light. Ivory lace curtains drifted softly, caressed by the morning breeze. And, as always, Angela was already awake.
She lay sprawled across her immense silk bed, gazing at her reflection in the large three-panel mirror positioned opposite her, arms folded behind her head in a carefully practiced pose. Her pale blue nightgown had slipped halfway off one shoulder, revealing flawless porcelain skin. Her long, light-blue hair cascaded in gentle waves down to her lower back, like a tranquil sea.
She was beautiful.
Objectively so.
Her vivid light-blue eyes were framed by long, curled lashes. Her full lips—always faintly glossy with balm—were ready to smile or lie as needed. Her delicate nose, refined jawline, and naturally regal posture… she was the very image of the heroine described in the original novel. Angela Sullivan—the gentle, kind, courageous young woman with a pure heart, destined to become a princess through her sincere love for Prince Edgar.
Vidalia approached silently with the cart. She laid out the embroidered tablecloth, the plates, the cups, the honey spoon—without a sound.
But she knew.
She knew that this Angela—this angelic beauty—possessed nothing resembling a pure heart.
She had seen her reduce servants to tears over a poorly arranged lock of hair. She had heard her speak ill of Camélia the moment a door closed, only to greet her with radiant smiles in public. She had caught her stealing praise meant for others, poisoning conversations to twist them to her own advantage—and above all… she had heard the way she spoke of Edgar, with a blend of cruelty and desire that would have made anyone shudder.
"Ah… I've slimmed down again," Angela remarked smugly as she slowly sat up, studying her flat stomach in the mirror. "This corset won't even need tightening. I'm perfect."
Vidalia did not reply. She was accustomed to these morning monologues.
"And Camélia insists on wearing those puffed skirts to hide her hips… pathetic, don't you think? Well, I suppose not everyone can afford the elegance of a slender figure."
Angela finally rose, revealing her long, delicate legs. She walked toward the vanity and cast a brief glance at Vidalia.
"You're putting on weight again. Be careful. If this keeps up, people will take you for some tavern wench. And believe me—even a royal glance won't save a soft figure."
Vidalia briefly lifted her eyes to her reflection in the mirror behind Angela. She saw her veil, the dark fabric concealing her face, her slim yet full arms, her waist now shaped by curves. A discreet smile brushed her lips.
She said nothing. Never did.
But she knew her worth.
And she knew that despite her words, Angela often cast sideways glances at her figure—always with that slight tightening at the corner of her mouth that betrayed jealousy.
Angela continued, thoughtfully:
"You know what I'd like?" She picked up a jar of cream, opening it with deliberate slowness. "One day, at the Solstice Ball, Edgar won't be able to help himself. He'll take me by the waist, kiss my hand… or my collarbone, who knows… and declare before everyone that I'm the only one he thinks of at night."
She let out a small laugh.
"I wonder what it's like… to have a prince at your feet. I read somewhere they're very… assertive in private. Do you think he's the type to kiss slowly… or to bite?"
Vidalia nearly rolled her eyes—but restrained herself.
Angela's salacious fantasies were nothing new. She loved imagining herself at the center of princely desire, queen of a stage where she alone held the spotlight, crushing others in the wings if needed.
And yet, despite her bravado, something was off.
Since that day—the prince Edgar's first and only visit to Sullivan Manor—he had never returned. He replied to Angela's letters politely but coldly, sometimes not at all. He appeared occasionally beside Camélia at public receptions and seemed to carefully avoid any compromising situations.
Angela pretended not to notice.
Vidalia, however, observed.
She noticed the irritation in her sister's voice whenever Edgar's name came up. The tension in her shoulders. The crease between her perfectly drawn brows.
And most of all… she had seen it.
Sometimes—in a corridor, at a ball—Edgar's gaze resting on her.
Not on Angela.
On her.
As if he were trying to understand. As if he remembered.
She dismissed the thought. Too risky. Too vague. Too dangerous.
She simply poured Angela's tea with practiced grace, said nothing, and offered her a pastry.
Angela grimaced.
"Too fatty. I won't eat that. You can finish everything, Vida. As usual."
And Vidalia smiled.
Yes.
As usual.
"I want a dress that flatters me," Angela declared as she stepped out of her bath, wet hair clinging to her neck, water still trailing down her bare arms beneath her ivory satin robe.
Without a word, Vidalia headed straight for the immense wardrobe. She didn't need to ask. She heard that sentence every morning with near-ritual regularity.
She already knew what she would choose.
The night before, she had placed one dress at the front of the rack, certain Angela would claim it at first glance. As always, she was right.
The gown—a masterpiece of tulle and silk—was a radiant golden yellow edged in black satin. The delicately fitted bodice was adorned with black draping that shimmered like ink, opening onto bare shoulders framed by airy ruffles and a thin ribbon tied at the base of the neck. But the true enchantment lay in the embroidered butterflies scattered across the wide skirt, as if drawn to the dress's very light. Some seemed ready to take flight, their wings finely worked with gold thread and tiny pearls.
Angela slipped into it gracefully, accustomed to being admired.
Vidalia then styled her hair with care: a twisted half-up arrangement secured with a golden butterfly ornament, a few deliberately loose strands framing her face. Angela studied herself at length in the mirror, turning to make the skirt swirl, then left the room with elegant steps.
Vidalia stayed behind to tidy the room, fold the robe, erase the traces of the bath. At last, she sat on the edge of the bed with a quiet sigh, took a plate, and bit into a croissant, her thoughts already wandering.
Angela was due to meet her parents, then attend an afternoon tea with young ladies of good society. If Vidalia's memory of the original novel still held true—though that was increasingly uncertain—it was around this time that the second main character was supposed to appear.
Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
She scratched her cheek, slightly sheepish. The dates were no longer clear. And besides… she had altered so many things already.
In the master bedroom, softly lit through lace curtains, Countess Elysia leaned over her jewelry box, selecting with refined slowness a pair of sapphire earrings to match her pale blue eyes. Her cerulean-blue hair, gathered in a low bun, shimmered faintly in the morning light.
She looked up as her daughter entered and offered her a tender smile.
"My dear."
Edwin stood at the center of the room, two servants adjusting his charcoal frock coat. His sand-blond hair, carefully slicked back, gleamed under the light. His steel-blue eyes turned toward Angela—scrutinizing, methodical.
"Angela. You are radiant, as always."
"Thank you, Father," she replied with a luminous smile, entering like a queen into her court.
Elysia gently tapped the velvet cushion where her gloves rested.
"That dress… isn't it from the latest Almaris collection? Perfect for you, my dove."
"Vida chose it," Angela said with a modest shrug. "But I suppose everything suits me, so…"
Edwin raised an eyebrow while fastening his cufflinks.
"And how stand your relations with His Highness, Prince Edgar? It would be good to have more… encouraging news to share."
Angela's smile stiffened. She looked away slightly.
"He… he hardly replies anymore. His letters are shorter. Sometimes he has a squire write them. He's not as attentive as he was at first."
Silence.
Then, suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. She lowered her head, hands clenched in the silk of her dress.
"Am I… am I not beautiful enough for him?" she whispered, voice breaking. "Did I say something that offended him? Maybe my hair isn't shiny enough… or my teeth aren't straight…"
"My dear, nonsense!" Elysia exclaimed, rising at once to embrace her. "Never say such absurd things! You are lovely. Truly lovely. And that prince—he likely has no idea what he's letting slip away. Men are often blind when it comes to recognizing worth."
She shot Edwin a sharp look.
"Isn't that right, dear?"
"Hm. This is not a matter of aesthetics," the count replied coolly. "He is the king's son. He must consider his political future. Angela, you are charming, yes—but it takes more than charm to hold an heir's attention."
Angela sniffed, eyes still wet.
"Then what should I do?"
"Make yourself indispensable," he said. "Shine in social circles. Surround yourself with influential young ladies. Weave alliances. And above all… avoid pointless whims. Men do not favor fragile flowers. They want rare jewels."
Elysia gently caressed her daughter's cheek.
"Let your father talk—his heart is an administrative ledger. What he means is that you must remain elegant, confident, and… visible. Don't hide. And choose your friends wisely, my heart. The Devenshire girls will be at the tea, won't they?"
Angela nodded, calmer now.
"Yes. And Miss Laureline Belmont as well. She wrote to me yesterday."
"Perfect. Claim your ground. Show them you're far more than a pretty face. You are the future princess, whether they like it or not."
Angela lifted her chin, her eyes still damp but pride rekindled.
"Yes, Mother. I'll show them."
The carriage waited before the manor steps, gleaming beneath the golden morning light. The cream-white horses, meticulously groomed, exhaled softly into the warm air. The Sullivan crest, finely painted on the doors, reflected the sun's glow. A coachman in midnight-blue livery held the reins, impassive.
Angela descended the steps slowly, almost choreographed. She knew she was being watched. Vidalia forced herself not to roll her eyes.
The servants lined up, heads bowed, as the count and countess bid their daughter farewell. Vidalia followed a few steps behind, veiled as always, carrying the small handbag matching her sister's dress.
"Be brilliant, my dear," Elysia said softly, adjusting an invisible fold in the butterfly gown.
"I will be, Mother. I always am."
Angela climbed into the carriage, suppressing a sigh to preserve the elegance of her entrance. Vidalia followed silently, closing the door behind them.
The moment the carriage began to move, Angela's voice—soft yet icy—rang out.
"Don't sit so close. You're wrinkling the skirt. Move back."
Vidalia obeyed without a word, hands flat on her knees, fingers resting in the lace of her gloves. Her brown eyes, framed by thick lashes, drifted to the scenery sliding past the window.
"When we arrive at Laureline's, you'll stay in the antechamber. Don't speak to anyone. And don't look at me too long—it's improper for a servant to stare at her mistress. If I call you, you come. If I say nothing, you do nothing. Is that clear?"
As always.
"Yes, my lady," Vidalia replied softly. How irritating.
Her voice was barely a breath, almost drowned by the creak of the carriage wood.
Angela studied her for a moment, chin slightly raised. Her cerulean eyes shone with polished confidence—sharp beneath the courtesy. She adjusted one of the butterflies on her dress.
"You didn't wash my white gloves from last night. I had to take the ones from the day before. There was a stain. Tiny—but still. Unworthy of a Sullivan."
"I'll wash them when we return," Vidalia said.
She did not protest. She never did. Over the years, she had learned that Angela did not seek answers—only assent.
Light filtered through the window, casting soft shadows across Vidalia's veil. She felt the steady jolt of the wheels against the capital's cobblestones, the discreet warmth of leather against her thigh, the scent of jasmine on Angela's skin.
She listened—without truly listening.
"Laureline Belmont, Laureline Belmont…"
The name echoed in her mind without triggering any immediate alarm. A romantic rival? An ally of Prince Edgar? Or merely a minor character from the novel? She couldn't remember. That annoyed her.
But what annoyed her more was the strange sensation of being both inside and outside. Of being a forgotten pawn—and yet seeing everything.
Angela, in her golden dress, looked like a star carefully manufactured. Everything about her was shine, posture, radiance. And she spoke with that manner of giving orders as though she were addressing an object, not a human being.
And yet…
Vidalia would be lying if she said she hated her.
The one she despised with every fiber of her being was her father—the man who no longer knew her, and whom she no longer considered as such.
Perhaps she should have hated Angela too.
But she felt neither anger nor envy. Only a curious blend of quiet weariness and hatred waiting in reserve.
Angela was what she had been shaped to be. A child molded by two ambitious nobles, raised to seduce, to shine, to rule. Vidalia, meanwhile, was only a shadow—placed behind her to hold ribbons, arrange hair, catch the fallout.
And that suited her.
At least—for now.
She lowered her gaze to her gloved hands. The fabric was soft, a little too loose around her slender fingers. The rocking of the carriage was almost lulling. She could have fallen asleep.
"And above all, don't embarrass me," Angela continued, eyes fixed on her reflection in the small mirror mounted inside the carriage door. "Laureline is friends with a marquis's daughter. If she tells her father I'm accompanied by a stammering little slattern, I swear that—"
"I'll be careful," Vidalia said calmly, her tone light and melodic.
Angela sighed, apparently satisfied.
Then she straightened, chin high, and flashed herself a radiant smile.
"Good. I'm ready. It's time to remind the world that I am the future princess of this kingdom."
Vidalia said nothing.
But somewhere in the quiet corner of her mind, a thought drifted past—soft and invisible as a feather carried by the wind:
Things are moving.
But toward what?