"I, Grand Duke Izek Viremont, hereby extend a formal proposal for the hand of Lady Seraphina Ravelle in marriage.
To express my sincerity, I have enclosed a selection of gifts, which I hope shall be to your liking.
Should the Ravelle household accept this proposal, kindly send a single rose as confirmation.
--Grand Duke Izek Viremont"
How is this possible...? Did I hear the name wrong? It was supposed to be Liora Ravelle, so why did Father say my name...? Why?
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(A few months before)
The golden afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the Ravelle estate, casting long patterns across the marble floor of the dressing hall. Velvet curtains swayed gently with the spring breeze, carrying the faint scent of roses from the garden outside. Maids stood frozen near the walls, eyes wide, uncertain whether to flee or stay.
"Why are you wearing those clothes!?" Isadora Ravelle's sharp voice cut through the quiet room like a blade.
She stood at the entrance, fury in every line of her poised figure. A jeweled fan trembled slightly in her hand, and her fitted gown rich violet silk embroidered with gold clung to her like armor, accentuating her elegant form. Her makeup was flawless, her hair swept up into an ornate bun adorned with glittering pins, yet her expression was twisted with rage as she stormed forward and grabbed Liora by the wrist.
Liora stood in the center of the room, wearing a stunning red gown, one that had once belonged to the late Marchioness, her mother. The fabric shimmered slightly in the light, embroidered with tiny rose motifs at the hem. Her eyes, already glistening with tears, widened as she struggled to speak.
"I just... missed my mother. So I wanted to wear her dress..." Liora's voice cracked as she looked down, her fingers clenching the skirt.
Isadora's eyes narrowed. Her voice dripped with venom.
"Your mother is dead. Are you scheming to make the Marquess remember her by dressing yourself in her ghost's image?" Without waiting for an answer, she slapped Liora hard across the face. The sound echoed in the hall, drawing soft gasps from the maids. One instinctively took a step forward, then quickly bowed her head and retreated.
"Mother, wait!" Seraphina burst into the room, her silk shoes barely making a sound on the floor as she stepped between them, blocking Liora with her body.
Her long hair fluttered behind her from the rush, her face composed but her eyes sharp.
"I took the dress out. I wanted to wear it. I opened her wardrobe and found it there. It was beautiful... so I laid it on the bed. I didn't know she'd wear it before I could." She turned and glared coldly at Liora, her expression unreadable.
Isadora blinked. Her tone softened immediately, a twisted smile forming on her lips. "You wanted to wear it?"
Seraphina nodded. "Yes. Since she stole my dress… I'll punish her accordingly. No need for you to waste your energy on her, it'll only wear on your beauty."
Isadora laughed softly, lifting her fan to hide her amusement.
"Ah, my sweet daughter. Always so thoughtful. You're right. I'll go enjoy the garden instead, with roses and a warm cup of tea. The weather is far too lovely to spend it on trash like her." With a final smug glance, she swept out of the room, her heels clicking gracefully against the floor.
The air fell still.
Seraphina turned to Liora, reaching out gently. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice quiet now, almost kind.
But Liora slapped her hand away, her eyes blazing.
"Your dress? It's my mother's dress. Don't you dare steal it." Her voice trembled with both fear and fury, and she turned, bolting out of the room, her skirts fluttering behind her like a wounded bird's wings.
The room fell silent once more.
Seraphina stood alone as the maids quickly exited behind Liora, murmuring quietly among themselves. She let out a soft sigh, her eyes lingering on the dress, then at the empty doorway.
Seraphina Ravelle, daughter of Isadora, wasn't born into luxury. No maids, no silk sheets, no golden spoons. She used to live in the slums, muddy streets, leaking roofs, and the constant sound of people arguing or crying in the night. She and her mother struggled to eat even once a day. Back then, survival was a victory. A piece of bread shared between the two of them was a feast.
But now? She was dressed in gowns embroidered with gold thread, sipping tea in glass-walled parlors, and sleeping on mattresses so soft they felt like clouds. All thanks to Edric Ravelle, the Marquess, who suddenly claimed her as his daughter.
But the story of how she got there wasn't pretty.
Her mother, Isadora, was once the daughter of a Count. A real noble lady. She grew up with books and lace, music lessons, balls, and stories of fairytale love. And at her coming-of-age ceremony, she thought she found exactly that. A knight in shining armor, literally. Tall, charming, with words that made her heart skip. She swore it was fate.
They ran away together. Isadora left behind her entire life for that man.
But fantasy doesn't last. It shattered the moment they were married.
Turns out, that "knight" only chased her for her dowry, he thought she'd bring bags of gold with her. But she didn't. She chose love over money, and her family didn't take it lightly. The Count, humiliated, stripped the man of his knighthood, labeling him a disgrace for stealing away his daughter and dragging her name through the mud. With no title, no job, and nowhere to go, he ended up in a dingy rented house with peeling walls and broken windows.
And that's when the real man showed up.
He was bitter. Angry. A drunk. He hated Isadora for everything, blaming her for ruining his life, for making him lose his knighthood, his pride. The sweet-talking knight became a cruel, raging drunk who barely even looked at her like a person anymore. He made her work nonstop, cleaning, cooking, begging, whatever she could do to scrape together coins. And when even that wasn't enough, he forced her into something worse.
He made her sell herself.