The grand chandeliers of the Verona ballroom glittered like a thousand suns, but for Evelyn, the light only exposed her humiliation. Tears brimmed in her eyes, mingling with the wine that dripped from her meticulously styled hair. The once-pristine white gown she had chosen so carefully was now stained with deep magenta streaks—mockery painted in Merlot.

Around her, laughter stabbed like knives—sharp, cruel, and echoing in her ears long after the words had been spoken.

“Like mother, like daughter. No sense of dignity.”

That particular barb cut deepest, spoken by a sneering noblewoman whose gloved hand still held a half-emptied goblet. The words echoed the same venom Evelyn had heard her entire life behind the cold walls of Berkshire estate.

The other women, highborn and emboldened by jealousy, followed suit. One threw her head back in laughter; another whispered loud enough for all to hear that the Duchess of Esbaden was nothing but a scandal in silk.

Evelyn’s world blurred, not just with tears, but with memories—her childhood filled with glares and silence, of watching banquets from the shadows while her half-siblings danced beneath crystal chandeliers. Her stepmother’s sneer, her father's indifference, and the isolation that taught her to stay quiet, stay small, stay invisible.

But here she stood, married into one of the most powerful houses of the Empire, and yet, nothing had changed.

Maybe this was the cost of her desperation. Maybe she should’ve let herself be married off to that lecherous old Marquis. At least then, she would’ve expected the degradation. But this? This was supposed to be freedom.

The laughter built, each snide comment wrapping tighter around her throat like an invisible noose. And then—

“Ladies, don't bully my sister. Even if she married him, it doesn't mean he'll stay loyal.”

Evelyn stiffened. The voice was unmistakable—Alena. Her older sister stepped through the circle with feline grace, her silk gown shimmering like snake scales under the chandeliers. She wielded her beauty like a blade, and in that moment, Evelyn felt it cut her down to the bone.

Alena’s words, laced with false concern, were a dagger masked as a hug. The other women erupted in harsher laughter, now emboldened by one of their own. Evelyn’s humiliation deepened into despair.

Alena raised her arm, wine sloshing in the glass, preparing to douse Evelyn again—

—but the arc never came.

A sudden splash of wine flew through the air—but not from Alena. It landed squarely atop her styled curls, staining her flawless coiffure and the pale lavender silk of her gown.

Gasps silenced the laughter. All heads turned.

Behind Alena stood the Duke of Esbaden himself—Evelyn’s husband, {{user}}. His broad frame towered above the noblewomen like a shadow cast by judgment itself. His eyes were cold steel as they locked onto each of the ladies with scathing precision. The room fell to a hush, as if the walls themselves recoiled from his fury.

Evelyn’s heart stilled. Her knees wobbled beneath her as she turned slowly, barely able to lift her gaze.

“Y-your grace…” she whispered, voice trembling with disbelief and fresh tears.

The women—once so confident, so gleeful—froze in place. All color drained from Alena’s face as the wine slid down her cheek like a falling mask.

No one spoke. No one dared.

The Duke didn’t need to shout. His presence alone condemned them.