Madeline stood before the tall mirror of the bridal atelier, the morning light dancing across the delicate silver embroidery of her gown.
She looked perfect.
Hair twisted in soft waves.
Neck adorned with sapphires from the royal vault.
Lips tinted a deep crimson, the kind that made whispers follow her wherever she walked.
She looked like a queen.
But her heart… felt like glass about to crack.
The door behind her opened with a soft creak. She didn't turn.
"Did you choose your final suit?" she asked calmly.
Caveen stepped inside the fitting room, dressed in his usual black-on-black. Regal. Imposing. Cold.
"Not yet," he replied, voice low, unreadable.
Madeline turned then, her gaze meeting his in the mirror. "It's only three months away."
"I know."
A silence stretched between them, thick and taut.
Caveen's gaze drifted—not to her face, but to her shoulder, her collarbone, the place where he would soon place the wedding crest.
But his eyes were far away. Too far.
Madeline's lips tightened. She stepped closer, lifting her chin.
"Do you love me?"
He blinked, surprised. She'd never asked him directly before.
"I am marrying you," he said instead.
"That's not an answer," she whispered.
She moved forward again, placing her hand on his chest. She could feel his heartbeat—steady but distant, like a drum echoing from another world.
"Your scent…" she said quietly, almost afraid of her own words. "You smell of wild roses and fever moss. That's not your cologne. It's… someone else."
Caveen didn't flinch.
Didn't lie.
Didn't speak.
Madeline's heart sank.
"I knew it," she said, her voice barely audible. "There's someone else."
A beat passed.
Then another.
Finally, Caveen whispered, "There was."
Madeline stepped back like his words had physically struck her.
"Was?" she echoed.
"She's nothing to worry about," he said coldly, closing the space again, towering over her. "She won't stand in the way of the wedding."
Madeline laughed, brittle and sharp. "It's not I'm afraid of, Caveen. It's the ghost in your eyes. There is still someone, you never touch or kissed me."
That silenced him.Truth.
He tried for years but he only longs on Lysandra's lips and body.
Madeline stood for a long time in silence, then whispered, "You better decide what you really want, Caveen. Because I won't stand at the altar beside a man whose soul belongs to another."
She turned on her heels and walked out, her gown trailing like a silken storm behind her.
And Caveen?
He stood still.
Watching the light shift on the floor.
As if searching for a path that no longer existed.
The soft rustle of leaves and the scent of rosemary danced gently in the breeze as Lysandra knelt in her small garden, tending to her herbs. Her hands were dirt-stained but graceful, her fingers moving with care as she trimmed a basil stem.
She smiled to herself. It was quiet here. Peaceful.
But that calm shattered in an instant.
A familiar aura brushed against her senses—elegant, ancient, and powerful.
She turned her head slowly, her heart tightening before it bloomed in hesitant surprise.
"Lady Maika," she whispered.
The regal vampire stood at the gate, wrapped in a flowing silk cloak, her raven hair pinned neatly with silver thorns. She offered Lysandra a warm smile that reached her eyes.
"How are you doing, Lysandra?" she asked gently.
Lysandra stood, wiping her hands on her apron as she smiled back. "I'm doing fine, Lady Maika."
She wasn't lying—but she wasn't entirely telling the truth either.
Maika stepped forward and without hesitation embraced her. But as her hand settled on Lysandra's back, her eyes sharpened.
There, beneath the collar of her blouse, she saw it.
The mark.
A vampire's claim.
Caveen's mark.
Maika's brows twitched, but she said nothing yet.
"You've made a lovely home," she said instead. "Shall we go inside? I'd love a cup of coffee."
Inside, the small space smelled of cinnamon and herbs. Lysandra poured coffee and spoke lightly of her new work at the clinic—how she enjoyed treating the townspeople, how planting her garden gave her a sense of normalcy.
"I feel peace here," she said with a small smile.
Maika watched her with quiet intensity.
She saw it now—how Lysandra's smile never reached her eyes, how her fingers trembled just slightly as she lifted her cup, how she paused mid-sentence as if searching for words she couldn't say aloud.
After a while, Maika finally spoke.
Her tone was light, but her eyes were unwavering. "Caveen marked you."
Lysandra's breath caught in her throat.
Maika continued, softer but sharper, "Since when did the two of you see each other again?"
The smile Lysandra had been forcing melted.
She lowered her gaze, her voice small. "I only wanted a quiet life. A simple one. I tried to forget him. I tried to move on. I was even starting to open my heart again…"
Her voice cracked, and she inhaled shakily.
"But then I saw him at his engagement party. Just one look… and everything shattered. He saw me, and it was like I'd committed a sin. Like I had no right to exist without him. After that—he punished me."
Her hands clenched in her lap.
"He tormented me. Not with blades or bruises—but with memories, with kisses that meant nothing, with nights that stole my strength and days that left me hollow."
Maika's heart ached.
This wasn't the strong, vibrant girl she once knew in Landon Mansion. This was a woman carrying a storm in silence.
Without hesitation, she stood and crossed the room, gently pulling Lysandra into her arms.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, stroking her hair. "If I had known… I would've scolded him until his ears bled."
Lysandra let go.
Like a child clinging to a mother's warmth, she buried her face in Maika's shoulder and cried.
All the pain.
All the longing.
All the things she could never say to Caveen poured out in tears that Maika silently caught with gentle hands.
And as she held her, Maika's heart stirred with both pity—and a deep, rising fury.
She would speak to her son.
And this time, he would listen.