After Duke Kael Varyn stormed off, everything fell quiet.
Too quiet.
The garden, moments ago so full of tension, now felt like it was holding its breath.
The grass he had trampled still smelled sharp. Crushed green leaves. Damp earth. A scent that clung in the morning air like a bruise.
Lyra just stood there, staring at the rosebush. Her silver pruning shears hung loosely in her hand. The blades caught a flash of sunlight. They shimmered like cold glass. Her face reflected back at her. Expressionless. Still. Like a statue carved in marble.
Then, slowly, she lifted her hand and clipped another rose.
Snip.
Another perfect bloom fell into her palm.
She placed it beside the others on the stone table. Each petal is flawless. Soft white against gray rock. Calm. Controlled. Like her.
But the stillness didn't last.
Footsteps came. Light ones. Soft. Hesitant.
Then a voice—quiet, almost afraid.
"Your Highness," a maid called gently. "There's a young woman outside the gate. She says her name is Selena. She's asking to see you."
Lyra didn't speak. She didn't look up.
But her hand paused mid-snip.
A long second passed.
Then she spoke.
"Let her in."
The maid bowed and scurried away.
Lyra didn't turn around. She didn't need to.
She already knew what was coming.
Minutes later, the soft creak of the moon gate sounded.
A figure stepped into the garden.
Selena.
She wore a flowing white dress. Or at least, it had once been white. Now, the hem was smudged with dust. The fabric clung to her as if it had fought the wind all the way here. Her hair was half-fallen from its pins. Her cheeks were blotchy. Her eyes are red. She looked like she'd been crying for hours.
She looked like something fragile. Something cracked. A porcelain doll with fractures across her heart.
But Lyra didn't turn.
She clipped another rose.
And another.
And another.
The shears made soft, clean sounds.
Selena stood there, shaking.
"Your Highness…" she finally said, her voice breaking as it left her lips. "Please…"
Lyra didn't answer.
Selena stepped forward. Just a little. Her hands trembled at her sides. Her voice wavered between pleading and despair.
"Kael and I… We didn't plan this. We didn't mean for it to happen. It just did. We tried to stop it, truly, but…"
She couldn't finish.
She looked down.
Then—without speaking—her hand moved to her stomach.
That said enough.
Lyra finally looked up.
Her eyes didn't soften.
They narrowed, just slightly.
Selena bit her lip hard. A tear rolled down her cheek.
"I know I could never replace you," she whispered. "I know what you are. What you mean to House Varyn. I don't want anything. I swear."
She took another trembling step forward.
"I just want to stay. Quietly. I won't cause trouble."
Her hand pressed lightly to her belly.
"The child is innocent," she said. "You can take him. Raise him. He can be yours. The heir."
More tears.
"I'll leave after. I'll disappear. No one will ever hear from me again. Just… please, let him live."
Silence.
Not even the birds chirped anymore.
Then, a sound.
A soft laugh.
It came from Lyra.
She turned at last. Slowly.
Her eyes met Selena's.
Her smile was faint. Thin. But not kind.
"Touching," she said. Her voice was smooth. Almost gentle. But every syllable carried a sharp edge.
She looked Selena over from head to toe.
So this was her.
The girl Kael had risked everything for.
Lyra could almost hear his voice in her head. He would have rushed over by now. He would have wrapped her in his arms. Called her brave. Said she was strong.
Lyra's eyes stayed cold.
"I see," she said.
Her gaze dropped to Selena's hand, still resting protectively on her stomach.
"You're not here to beg. You're here to negotiate."
Selena flinched.
"You want the heir of House Varyn," Lyra continued. "That's what this is really about, isn't it?"
Selena shook her head quickly. "No, that's not—"
Lyra cut her off.
"You think I'm blind? As long as Kael and I are married and childless, your child becomes the next duke. That's your angle. That's the play."
"I didn't mean—" Selena began.
"You meant every tear," Lyra snapped.
Her voice wasn't raised. But it hit harder than a scream.
"You meant every breath. You rehearsed this. Every word. Every sob."
Lyra took a step closer. Her eyes never left the younger woman.
"You even brought the bump."
Selena's shoulders shook.
She tried to speak again, but no words came.
She reached forward. Just a little.
Her fingers brushed the edge of Lyra's sleeve.
"Please, your highness—just listen—"
Lyra pulled her arm back.
Barely moved.
But it was enough.
Selena stumbled. Her foot caught in the grass. She fell hard. Her knees hit the ground. Then her side. A gasp tore from her throat.
"Ah! My stomach! My baby!"
Her maid screamed.
"Help! Someone help! The Duchess pushed her! She might lose the baby!"
The cry rang out across the garden.
But no one moved.
The servants stood still. Far back. Watching. Silent.
Their faces were unreadable.
Selena writhed in the grass. Her cries grew louder.
But something wasn't right.
Lyra watched her. Closely.
The fall had looked... off.
Too controlled.
Too deliberate.
Selena's eyes flicked up. She scanned the garden. Checked the faces. Measured the reaction.
No one looked shocked.
Then her gaze met her maid's.
A nod.
A silent cue.
"We'll get the doctor ourselves!" the maid cried. "If no one else will!"
She helped Selena up. Slowly. Carefully. But too carefully.
Everything felt like a stage.
They limped toward the gate.
No one stopped them.
Not the guards. Not the staff.
No one.
Just before they reached the exit, Maria—Lyra's personal maid—finally broke.
"Your Highness! You can't let her leave like this! She'll twist the truth! People will say you hurt her!"
Lyra didn't even flinch.
She raised one hand.
"Let her go."
Her voice was quiet. Unshaken.
Her eyes stayed on Selena's retreating figure.
Then, she spoke again.
"Maria," she said. Her tone had changed. Low. Cold.
"The truth doesn't matter."
She turned slightly. Her gaze drifted beyond the garden. Past the palace walls. Toward the city.
"What matters," she said, "is what people are willing to believe."
Maria stood frozen.
Lyra's voice dropped even lower.
"And you can never wake someone who pretends to be asleep."
Silence again.
Only the wind moved now.
Maria said nothing.
Lyra turned back to her roses.
She picked up the shears again.
Snip.
The game, she knew, had only just begun.
What if the real trap wasn't the fall—but the performance?