AWLITEB Chapter 17

"Do you like it, miss?"

The maids stepped aside, their faces glowing with pride.

Isabella's resplendent figure filled the tall standing mirror. The beige dress Rosalie had ordered—made exactly to specifications—wrapped her body in elegant lines. Her hair tumbled over it in thick waves, lustrous and perfect.

"I've never... worn my hair down like this before."

Isabella touched the strands, slick with fragrant oil that caught the light. The girl in the mirror looked like a stranger. She'd spent so long gaunt and wasted, sickly and small. The woman staring back looked almost whole.

"Now for the necklace, miss."

The maid opened a velvet jewelry box. Before she could lift the piece, the door swung wider and Genos stepped through.

"No. Put the jewelry away."

The maids scattered at his voice like startled birds.

Isabella turned. Genos wore formal dress—coat and shirt with a thick ribbon at the throat, the fabric expensive enough to whisper wealth with every movement.

"Did you prepare different jewelry, Your Grace?"

The maid's eyes sparkled with anticipation. She stepped forward, hands extended, ready to receive whatever precious thing he'd brought.

Up close, Genos's hands were empty.

"No."

The maids exchanged confused glances, their certainty crumbling.

"But if she wears no jewelry at all, she'll look plain, Your Grace. This is an imperial ball. Everyone will come dripping in gemstones."

"Exactly, Your Grace."

They spoke over each other, anxiety bleeding through their professional masks.

Isabella felt it too—the nakedness of her throat, suddenly conspicuous.

"The jewelry will appear on her body naturally once we reach the ballroom. It doesn't matter. Come, Bella."

Genos extended his hand.

'Appear naturally?'

She didn't understand. But she couldn't just stare at his outstretched palm, either. And there he went again with that diminutive, casual and possessive all at once.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Isabella took his hand without hesitation.

The maids watched them leave together, their expressions bright with romantic speculation. Paile waited outside, opening the carriage door with practiced efficiency. Isabella accepted Genos's escort and settled into her seat, the dress pooling around her like spilled cream.

They sat facing each other. Paile closed the door with a soft click. The Grand Duke kept his household small—Paile often served double duty as coachman, guard, and confidant.

"It suits you."

"Pardon?"

Isabella turned from the window, where she'd been watching curtains of evening light.

"The dress."

Genos gestured with his chin, the movement economical.

"Ah... thank you."

Bella's face flushed. She touched the back of her neck, suddenly self-conscious.

The gesture irritated Genos in ways he couldn't quite name.

"Will you do that in front of everyone?"

"Pardon?"

"Being embarrassed, blushing—it's fine. It'll make the transformation more dramatic when you grow into the role of Grand Duchess. The contrast will earn you praise."

His hand shot out, catching her chin and tilting it up.

"But don't shrink too much. When someone compliments you, lift your head. Look them in the eye. If they're older and it might seem arrogant, look at the space between nose and lip instead. Then thank them. Don't rush to speak. Just smile—slightly."

"I'm... not sure I—"

"Try it."

Genos straightened, spine rigid, and arranged his features into a subtle smile. The same artificial expression she'd seen at the tea party in the White mansion—perfectly calibrated insincerity.

"You are quite beautiful, Lady Isabella."

Isabella summoned the memory of his instructions and crafted an equally false smile, natural-looking in its complete dishonesty.

"Thank you."

She met his eyes with practiced softness. The words emerged graceful and poised.

Genos's expression went flat.

Isabella's face fell in response.

"Was it strange?"

"..."

"Your Grace?"

"That won't work."

"What?"

"If the person complimenting you is male, don't say anything at all. Just nod. A brief acknowledgment."

"What?"

"No one will criticize you for being cautious about scandal."

"But why would—"

Genos turned to the window and crossed his arms. His brow furrowed slightly, a crack in his usual composure.

'Did I smile that badly?'

Isabella practiced the expression again, touching the corners of her mouth. Outside, the city blurred past as the carriage carried them toward the palace.

"It's so beautiful!"

Rosalie clasped her hands together, barely containing her delight.

Martha clicked her tongue and jabbed her daughter's ribs. Rosalie composed herself, but only slightly. The imperial ballroom was simply too magnificent for proper restraint.

Crystal chandeliers scattered light like fallen stars. Orchestra music flowed through the space, elegant and intoxicating. And everywhere—everywhere—only the highest nobility, the most powerful families in the empire.

'This is the day,' Rosalie thought.

'The day we silence everyone who called us merchants pretending at nobility. The day the White family proves we belong.'

"Wipe that look off your face. You look like a fool."

Ethan's voice cut through her reverie, sharp with irritation.

"You're embarrassing me."

"Really? I think you're embarrassing because you're wearing the same formal coat from last month's party. You look like a beggar. Walk further away."

Rosalie smiled sweetly and took Martha's hand, sweeping past her brother.

"Be patient today, son."

Martha whispered in Ethan's ear before following Rosalie.

"Frugality, she said. Show restraint, she said. That b*tch—"

Ethan muttered curses at his sister's back. When someone approached, his face transformed instantly into a practiced smile.

"Your Imperial Highness."

Ethan bowed to Crown Prince Ruizac.

Ruizac grinned broadly and extended his hand. Angular jaw, bold features, massive frame inherited from Phyke—he gripped Ethan's hand hard enough to hurt.

Ethan forced his smile wider.

"Been quite a while since the last hunt."

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Ah, I heard the news. We're going to be family soon, aren't we?"

Ruizac's voice dropped to something conspiratorial as he clapped Ethan's shoulder.

Ethan maintained his gentle, respectful expression.

"Yes, Your Imperial Highness. An infinite honor."

"It's been killing me to keep quiet until the official announcement tonight. Just the White family and ours knew, right?"

"'Ours' is too modest a word for your exalted house, Your Highness."

Ethan returned the jest smoothly.

Ruizac laughed, pleased.

"Well, I don't know how secret it really stayed. Women do love to gossip."

Ethan glanced toward the ladies clustering around Rosalie and Martha, their mouths already moving.

The Crown Prince chuckled.

"Being honest about what you want isn't so bad, is it?"

"Of course not, Your Highness."

"What's that on your face? Cosmetics?"

Ruizac pointed to Ethan's cheek—where Rosalie's nails had left marks.

Normally he'd claim a hunting injury. But tonight, even minor blemishes invited scrutiny. The powder had been necessary.

"Yes, Your Highness. Wanted to look a bit more presentable for my sister's sake."

"Ha! Is there someone here you're trying to impress?"

The Crown Prince grabbed Ethan's arm, the touch familiar in a way that made Ethan's skin crawl.

He hated how often Ruizac touched him. But he wasn't stupid enough to show it.

"Your jokes are always so entertaining, Your Imperial Highness."

Across the ballroom, Rosalie smiled at the nobles swarming her like moths to flame. The rumors she'd spread from the salon had taken root exactly as planned, growing wild and unstoppable.

"We heard, Lady Rosalie! You're tonight's star, aren't you? I knew it—you've been glowing."

"That's right. That diamond means you're practically imperial already. The brilliance is incredible."

Young ladies competed to flatter her, their voices bright with envy disguised as admiration.

Violet and Bess pushed through the crowd, establishing their closeness to Rosalie with practiced ease.

"Oh, Rosalie. That diamond really is stunning tonight."

"Perfect with your dress."

Other ladies hunted for additional compliments, desperate to join the game.

"But I've never seen this dress design before—not even at Evelyn's salon. Where did you get it? It's absolutely gorgeous."

Elena pushed forward, eyes wide with what might have been genuine surprise. The design was unusual—more refined than anything she'd seen in the capital.

Rosalie had been waiting for this question. She smiled shyly and looked toward Martha, exactly as they'd rehearsed.

Martha beamed back. The other ladies leaned closer, sensing a story.

"Is there something you'd like to share, Baroness Martha?"

Violet clasped her hands together. The others made identical expressions of desperate curiosity.

Martha laughed, playing reluctant.

"Oh, it's nothing really. You're all making such a fuss..."

"Come on, we can tell there's something. Please. We're lonely women without engagements—give us something interesting to talk about."

Elena grabbed Rosalie's hand, affecting intimate friendship.

Rosalie shrugged as if helpless.

"Well... the Grand Duke actually designed this dress himself."

"What? Really?"

"You can't be serious."

Genuine shock rippled through the crowd.

Men giving gifts to their betrotheds was common—jewelry, gowns, expensive trifles. But personally designing clothing? That had never happened in living memory of the social circle.

The nobility had wealth. Expensive gifts meant nothing anymore. But personal effort—genuine creativity and attention—that was different. That was love.

Rosalie had become not just a Grand Duchess by marriage, but a woman adored by her future husband. The perfect object of envy.

It silenced every whisper that the engagement was merely financial, ordered by the Emperor to secure the White family's resources.

"Evelyn told me secretly when she delivered it."

"Are you serious?"

Bess asked dumbly.

Violet elbowed her sister in warning.

Bess clapped a hand over her mouth, but the words had already escaped.

Rosalie maintained her smile through force of will.

"Of course it's true. You can ask Evelyn yourself next time you visit the salon. She didn't claim ownership of the design, so if you want the same dress, I'm sure she'll make it. She seemed ready to mass-produce them."

"Oh... wow. I'm so jealous, Rosalie."

Bess scrambled to recover.

'I don't like them,' Rosalie thought. 'When I'm Grand Duchess, they won't be invited to a single party.'

A palace guard approached Martha.

"Baroness Martha?"

Martha straightened and smiled professionally at the tall knight.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"Your head butler is requesting an audience."

"Oh? Thank you for letting me know."

Martha gave Rosalie a subtle signal and headed toward the ballroom entrance.

"Right before Rosalie's introduction. Really."

She muttered under her breath, walking quickly. Whatever this was, it had better be urgent—or the butler would regret interrupting.

"What is it?"

Martha's voice was sharp at the entrance.

"I've investigated the Grand Duke's fifth cousin you asked about, madam."

"And?"

"With so many mistresses and illegitimate children in the palace, I assumed information would be scarce, so I—"

"Stop stalling. Rosalie's name will be called any moment."

"That's the problem. Even accounting for sparse records... there's nothing."

"What do you mean?"

"There is no widowed woman who could be introduced as the Grand Duke's fifth cousin."

"None? None at all?"

"Correct."

Dread settled over Martha's features like frost.

"Then who was the woman he introduced to Rosalie?"

A voice boomed from the second-floor landing.

"His Imperial Majesty the Emperor!"

Conversation died. Every head turned toward the stairs.

Rosalie arranged her features into serene piety.

The double doors swung open.

Phyke appeared, smiling.

The assembled nobility placed hands over hearts and bowed.

"I must thank everyone who answered the invitation to attend."

Phyke's voice carried warmth as he gazed down at the glittering crowd.

"Of course, every imperial party celebrates all of you as its stars. But tonight we have someone particularly special. A pair of young lovers I'd like to introduce."

Rosalie looked around frantically.

Genos was nowhere to be seen.

Martha's mind sparked with terrible possibility.

She ran toward her daughter, face bone-white.

The Emperor stepped aside from the doorway and nodded to his attendant.

The doors opened fully.

Phyke's voice rang out.

"May I present Grand Duke Genos Perdian and Lady Isabella White!"

The couple emerged in perfect timing.

The blood drained from Rosalie's face.

They stood at the white railing, arms linked intimately.

Martha's frantic run toward her daughter stuttered to a halt.

Rosalie rubbed her eyes violently, smearing her cosmetics. She didn't care.

The scene didn't change.

The smiling couple was unmistakably Genos and... Isabella.