Sebestain.
The house did not mourn for long.
That was the first thing that struck me.
Vivian Ravenscroft was still missing.
No body.
No proof.
No answers.
Yet Ravenscroft Manor had already begun to change—its grief folding neatly into preparation, its panic dressed up as duty, its fear hidden beneath silk and ceremony.
Juliet stood at the center of the sitting room, trembling from head to toe.
"I can't stay here," she cried, her voice breaking as tears streamed freely down her cheeks. "Not after what you accused me of, Sebastian. Not after you looked at me like I was capable of stealing a life."
Her eyes found mine.
Hurt.
Fear.
And something deeper—humiliation.
"I didn't do anything," she sobbed. "But no one believes me. Not you. Not this house. I feel like a stranger in my own blood."
Mrs. Elara Montclair rushed forward, wrapping her arms tightly around her daughter. "Juliet, please," she begged softly, tears glistening in her eyes. "Stay. Don't leave like this. This is your home too. You are loved."
Juliet shook her head violently. "No," she cried. "This place hates me. Vivian was always the one everyone protected. Everyone chose. Even when I came back, I was invisible."
She turned to my father, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I don't belong here."
The words settled heavily in the room.
Silence pressed in—thick, suffocating.
Outside, engines roared faintly.
The Winter Ascension had already begun.
Through the tall glass windows, I could see it clearly—black luxury vehicles lining the long estate drive, their polished bodies reflecting snow and torchlight. Guards stood at attention in ceremonial uniforms stitched with silver thread, their posture rigid, their faces expressionless.
The heirs had begun to arrive.
The daughters.
The sons.
The chosen.
Valenridge did not pause for grief.
Valenridge demanded spectacle.
"The rite cannot be delayed," one of the council aides murmured to my father. "The families have aligned. The procession is already underway."
Vivian was still missing.
Yet the world was moving on.
My father remained standing, his face carved from stone. Since the airport officials left, he had barely spoken. His grief had driven him inward, locking him behind silence and pride.
Then Mrs. Helena Ravenscroft broke it.
"Staying indoors will not move things forward," she said calmly. Too calmly. "The rite has begun."
She turned slowly, her sharp gaze sweeping the room. "We cannot allow Valenridge to think the Ravenscrofts are weak. Or disorganized."
My blood ran cold.
"We need to let Valenridge know," she continued smoothly, "that Vivian Ravenscroft is… unavailable."
The word landed like poison.
"And use this opportunity," she added, "to present Juliet. The true daughter of this house."
I stepped forward sharply, my chest burning. "I know that has been your plan," I snapped. "And I know you're happy now."
Mrs. Ravenscroft didn't even flinch.
Juliet broke.
She collapsed to her knees, sobbing openly as she crawled toward my father. "Father," she cried. "Please… don't worry about me. I will go back to Montclair. Let me return to where I feel loved."
Her shoulders shook violently. "I can't keep begging for a place I don't have."
For a single heartbeat, the room held its breath.
Then both women moved.
Mrs. Elara Montclair wiped Juliet's tears tenderly, her hands gentle, motherly. Mrs. Ravenscroft joined her, smoothing Juliet's hair, whispering reassurances in a soothing tone.
"No, my love," Mrs. Ravenscroft said softly. "You won't leave."
Mrs. Elara nodded quickly. "You should go for the Ascension."
I stiffened.
"What?" I breathed.
"You are still a Ravenscroft by blood," Mrs. Elara said. "And Valenridge is watching."
Within moments, servants flooded the room.
Dress boxes were opened. Jewelry cases unlocked. The very preparations meant for Vivian—every single one—were redirected.
To Juliet.
Makeup artists arrived. Stylists followed. Seamstresses adjusted silk, velvet, and crystal with swift, practiced hands.
I watched in disbelief.
The crying stopped.
The house transformed.
Music filled the corridors—soft, ceremonial strings. Perfume replaced the scent of panic. The women laughed quietly as they worked, praising Juliet's beauty, her posture, her elegance.
Mrs. Ravenscroft stood behind Juliet before the mirror, lifting a diamond necklace and clasping it gently around her neck.
Vivian's necklace.
"No," I said sharply. "That belongs to Vivian."
Mrs. Ravenscroft met my eyes through the mirror's reflection. Her smile was thin. "It belongs to the Ravenscrofts."
Juliet barely reacted.
She was changing.
Her tears dried. Her posture straightened. Her eyes hardened. The girl who had begged to leave was replaced by someone regal—breathtaking, composed, powerful.
A queen.
I sat beside my father, my chest tight, my thoughts screaming.
If Vivian were truly missing…
How could they laugh?
How could anyone speak of Ascension?
No one mentioned her name anymore.
It was as if she had already been erased.
The rite had swallowed the room whole.
Outside, ceremonial horns sounded.
Guards lined up in perfect formation, their uniforms gleaming beneath the winter sun. Royal cars idled, engines humming with quiet authority.
My father finally stood.
Slowly, almost mechanically, he allowed himself to be dressed.
I adjusted my coat in silence, my heart pounding violently. The Winter Ascension was unlike any ceremony Valenridge had ever known.
It was ancient. Ruthless. Lavish.
Each year, elite families presented their first daughters—adorned in ceremonial whites, silvers, and deep winter blues—while heirs arrived in tailored black and steel. There were ritual dances beneath crystal chandeliers, movements symbolic and rehearsed, offering not just beauty but allegiance.
The daughters danced.
The sons watched.
The powerful chose.
Marriage disguised as destiny.
Power disguised as tradition.
Vivian Ravenscroft was supposed to stand there.
Instead—
Juliet stepped into the waiting car.
She looked every inch the chosen one.
As the doors closed, I caught her eyes through the tinted glass. They were no longer wet with tears.
They were dry.
Focused.
Determined.
The convoy began to move.
I followed, my heart pounding as dread settled deep within me.
As we drove toward the Ascension grounds, one thought burned through me—sharp, unforgiving, impossible to ignore:
If Vivian is truly missing…
Then this ceremony is not tradition.
It is theft.
And Valenridge is celebrating it.