Chapter 95: The Price of a Perfect Smile

The silence that followed her final words was thin and sharp, like a sheet of ice waiting to snap.

Beneath her hollowed mask, Florianthum’s stomach turned to lead.

The sudden realization of what she had just done hit her with the force of a physical blow.

She had pushed too far.

In her desperate bid to deflect from Cassius’s echo, she had openly insulted Kerwon: the Lord’s iron fist, a pillar of his military discipline.

Criticising the Governor was a boundary no one crossed and survived.

Her inner pulse thudded erratically, a frantic rhythm she desperately tried to suppress before it could travel along the hot, invisible wire of the contract to the Lord’s notice.

Quiet, she commanded her own blood. Stay stone.

Yet, the irony of the palace was a cruel, unpredictable beast. Lord Vilucious did not rage.

His snowy, smiling face remained entirely unbothered, his eyes crinkling with a terrifyingly gentle indulgence.

He rose from the obsidian throne, his heavy royal-blue velvet robes cascading with a long, soft shhhk against the dark wood.

He didn’t march.

He drifted across the crystal floor with absolute, effortless grace, his leather-wrapped soles making no sound against the polished surface.

Florianthum kept her spine perfectly rigid, her eyes locked straight ahead at the empty space across the grand table.

She didn’t track his movement, but the drop in temperature told her exactly where he was.

The air behind her neck grew instantly freezing, her breath pluming into a thick white mist that hung suspended in the twilight.

He stopped directly behind her seat.

For a second, the only sound was the low, violent hiss of the violet candles near the throne.

Then, the heavy fabric of his sleeve brushed against the high back of her seat as he leaned down, his weight resting heavily on the dark wooden armrest.

Before she could process the shift, Vilucious reached around her frame from behind.

His royal-blue gloved hands slipped beneath her arms, his long, gold-ringed fingers closing tightly around the space just below her chest.

He pulled his grip secure, his hands pressing firmly against her ribs, pinning her back against the stiff velvet of the seat.

He leaned his head completely onto the handle of her chair, his snowy, smiling face mere inches from her ear.

She could smell the scent of dry parchment and old, metallic frost radiating from his skin.

"Whomever my Lordess finds irritating shall surely pay the price," Vilucious murmured, his reedy, hypnotic voice vibrating directly against the wood of her chair and into her spine.

His fingers tightened a fraction more, pressing into her chest until the breath caught in her throat.

"But let us not waste our breath on the help, my dear. We shouldn’t grant them the luxury of our limelight."

The pressure of his blue-gloved hands against her ribs remained steady, a heavy, suffocating reminder of the leash.

Then, with a casual, almost careless motion, Vilucious lifted his right index finger into the freezing air and gave it a sharp, rhythmic flick.

Fwump.

A sudden, violent rush of wind tore through the hall from the far end of the table, cutting the scent of the roses completely.

The massive obsidian throne didn’t slide- it lifted, hovering inches off the crystal floor as it came flying forward in a dark, silent blur.

It stopped with absolute, bone-jarring precision directly beside Florianthum’s royal seat, settling into the stone with a heavy, hollow thud that rattled the glassware on the table.

The space beside her was now occupied by a mountain of expensive stones and elements.

Taking a slow, measured breath, Florianthum finally turned her head.

She tilted her chin upward and looked directly back at Lord Vilucious, her neck straining slightly against the tight velvet collar of her gown.

Her expression transformed in a fraction of a second.

The hollow, defensive stone melted away, replaced by the warm, radiant smile of a perfectly devoted, happy wife.

Her eyes crinkled with soft affection, and a bright, melodic laugh bubbled up from her throat, cutting through the thick, violet gloom of the banquet hall.

To anyone watching, it was a picture of domestic bliss.

But beneath the table, out of his line of sight, her crimson-gloved fingers dug into the fabric of her dress until her knuckles turned white, her nails biting into her own thighs to keep her body from trembling.

Look at me, her frantic mind screamed behind the mask, her inner thoughts a chaotic, roaring storm.

Look at the perfect doll you built. Is this what you want? Drink it in, you monster. Every fake smile, every lie. I will choke you with it before the end.

Vilucious stared down into her upturned, smiling face, his snowy, unblinking mask absorbing her performance with terrifying stillness.

He didn’t smile back; his eyes were giving the vibes of obsession and pure dominance, as he owned her in every part.

With a sudden, sharp movement, his hands tightened one final time, delivering a firm, bruising squeeze right against her chest that forced a tiny, involuntary gasp past her smiling lips.

Before the sound could echo, he released her completely.

Vilucious stood straight, his towering, frail frame casting a long shadow over her as he stepped sideways.

With a slow, fluid adjustment of his heavy blue robes, he lowered himself into the obsidian throne that now sat directly at her elbow, his gold rings catching the royal colour of the candlelight as his hands reclaimed the armrests.

The Lord remained perfectly still for a beat, his profile sharp against the violet glow of the candles.

Then, his right hand shifted on the armrest. With a dry, metallic click, his long fingers flipped back a small, concealed golden cap embedded in the dark stone.

Beneath it lay a small brass buzzer, its surface dull and scratched from years of use. He pressed it down.

Bzzzt.

The sound was low and harsh, vibrating through the wood of the table and cutting through the freezing air like a needle.

Vilucious turned his head toward Florianthum, his snowy face mere inches away now.

The smile on his lips remained perfectly fixed, but his eyes narrowed into two dark slits as he watched her fake, radiant expression.

"Everything you like,"

he murmured, his reedy voice dropping into a rhythmic, intimate purr. He gestured vaguely toward the heavy double doors at the end of the hall.

"The finest delicacies, the sweetest wines... they will all be lined up in front of you in just a few minutes."

He paused, leaning a fraction closer until she could feel the unnatural chill radiating from his skin.

The heavy gold embroidery on his shoulder stiffened against her sleeve.

"But tell me, my sweet..."

He tilted his head, his fingers tapping a slow, agonizing rhythm against the brass buzzer.

"Can you guess who watched the whole process of their making?"

Florianthum’s smile didn’t waver. Instead, it deepened into something soft and generous, a perfect imitation of a touched, adoring wife.

She lifted her crimson-gloved hand, the fine silk rustling softly against her cheek as she partially covered her lips, masking the slight tremor in her jaw.

"I can guess from your love, my beloved Lord," she murmured, her voice carrying a sweet, practiced warmth that sounded entirely natural in the freezing air of the hall.

Beside her, Vilucious let out a low, soft laugh.

It wasn’t a sound of genuine amusement, but a quiet, breathy wheeze that rustled like dry leaves in his throat.

He leaned back into the obsidian throne, his gold rings catching the violet light with a faint, metallic glint as his hands settled firmly onto the armrests, cementing his absolute hold over the space.

"So you got it right, my love," he purred, his reedy voice dripping with smooth, heavy satisfaction.

He tilted his chin down, his dark, narrowed eyes locking onto hers with an unmistakable weight of ownership.

"Who else could possibly do this much for you, if not your Lord?"

The tone he used was smooth and heavy, like oil poured over ice.

The fixed, snowy smile on Vilucious’s face didn’t falter, but his voice shifted from that intimate purr into a low, terrifyingly benevolent drawl.

He leaned back slightly, the heavy velvet of his royal-blue robes shifting with a dry, soft friction against the obsidian seat.

"A devoted heart never keeps a tally, my sweet,"

He murmured, his long, gold-ringed fingers lifting from the armrest with a slow, deliberate wave.

The rings caught the violet candlelight, casting sharp, jagged reflections across the dark table.

He tilted his head, his reedy voice dripping with a soft, paternal warmth that felt utterly suffocating.

"But true gratitude always finds its way to the surface, doesn’t it? A natural return for a Lord who provides... everything."

He didn’t wait for her response.

Before the heavy double doors at the end of the hall could even creak open to signal the arrival of the servants, Vilucious patted his own lap with two slow, soft thuds of his blue-gloved palm.

The sound was flat and demanding against the silence of the freezing air.

"Come," he invited, his eyes narrowing into dark, expectant slits as he looked at her.

"Keep your Lord company before the wine arrives."