Christiana's lashes fluttered open as her eyes slowly adjusted to the light. Her gaze swept across the room, and with dawning horror, she realized she was still in the clutches of her captor. Then the memories came rushing back—Anthony, and the woman she had come to believe was a witch, as every sign pointed to it.
The way the woman's head had been snapped replayed in her mind over and over again as she pushed herself upright. She was still wearing the cream dress. Seeing that the sun was already up, she couldn't tell whether it was still the same day or the next.
Her blue eyes shifted to the door, where she noticed a tray of food left untouched. Confusion tightened in her chest. She didn't understand why her blood had been drawn.
Do they know what I am?
The question lingered uneasily in her mind. Why else would her blood be taken… and why had the vampire drunk it with such delight?
Slowly, she raised her wrist to her face and examined it. The cut there had already begun to heal. Just beside it were two small puncture marks—the unmistakable sign of where the vampire had bitten her.
She pressed her lips tightly together as tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision. A sharp ache settled in her chest as thoughts of her family flooded her mind. How long had she been gone? Hours? A full day? Longer? The uncertainty gnawed at her relentlessly.
Her mother… her father…
Were they looking for her?
Fear twisted painfully in her stomach as guilt followed close behind. She regretted it—every bit of it. Leaving the house that day. Letting curiosity guide her steps. Even attending the ball in the first place. If she hadn't gone… if she hadn't been so drawn to the whispers of vampires and mystery, none of this would have happened.
Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her dress as her breathing grew uneven.
That single decision had changed everything.
And now, she didn't even know if she would make it back home.
A day before the ball
Venetia had sent their butler, Bishop, to fetch her daughters and have them join her in the drawing room, where a tailor stood proudly displaying an array of exquisite dresses.
The room itself was warm and elegant, bathed in soft afternoon light that filtered through the tall windows. Rich drapes framed the walls, and the faint scent of tea leaves lingered in the air.
Mrs. Denton sat gracefully on one end of a plush couch, a delicate teacup poised between her fingers. A tray of neatly arranged biscuits rested on the table before her. Beside her, Lambert sat with a newspaper spread open in his hands, his attention entirely absorbed in its contents.
"Lambert, dear, what do you think of this gown?" Venetia asked, her tone expectant as she gestured toward the tailor.
Without so much as sparing a glance, Lambert replied flatly, "Too colourful."
Venetia's eyes snapped toward him instantly, irritation flashing across her face. The gown the tailor held up was a deep, elegant shade of purple—rich and refined, not the least bit gaudy.
"Too colourful?" she repeated, her voice tightening.
Before Lambert could react, she reached over and snatched the newspaper clean out of his hands, pulling him out of his quiet refuge.
A frown immediately formed on his face. "Wom—" he began, but the moment he caught sight of her expression—sharp, unimpressed, and clearly not to be challenged—his tone shifted.
His features softened into a quick, placating smile as he leaned forward to properly examine the gown.
"I don't think the dress would suit Tiana's skin tone," he said thoughtfully, as though redeeming himself.
"So help me God," Venetia snapped, glaring at him, "the dress is for Melody!"
Lambert blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before offering an apologetic smile, his earlier confidence dissolving completely.
Just as Mrs. Denton was about to sever her husband's head from his body with nothing but her glare, the door opened, and their daughters stepped in.
"Woah! That dress is pretty—is it mine?" Melody's eyes instantly lit up as they landed on a red, sparkling gown displayed by the tailor.
"No, dear, it's for Tiana," Venetia replied, rising gracefully to her feet as she moved forward to embrace her daughters.
"Hello, Mother," Christiana greeted, a soft smile resting on her lips as she stepped into the warmth of her mother's arms.
"Hello, my love," Venetia responded fondly, holding her for a brief moment before pulling away.
As she did, her gaze instinctively shifted to where she expected her husband to be—standing beside her, present, involved.
But no.
Lambert was still seated, already buried once again behind his newspaper, as though nothing had happened.
Venetia's expression darkened instantly.
"Lambert!" she called sharply, her heels striking the floor as she marched toward him.
Before he could react—before he could even lower the paper—she snatched it cleanly from his hands and, without hesitation, tossed it straight into the fireplace.
Lambert could only stare in stunned horror as the edges of the paper caught fire, curling and blackening as the flames consumed it.
"Venetia…" he muttered weakly, watching his precious reading material turn to ash.
"Daddy!" Melody chimed brightly, completely unfazed by the tension, as she rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him.
Lambert let out a small sigh before returning the embrace, patting her gently as if seeking comfort in her presence.
The tension in the room eased slightly as the family gathered together once more, their attention gradually shifting back to the tailor, who continued presenting more dresses—each more elaborate than the last.
Silks shimmered under the light, lace caught the air delicately, and jewels glinted with quiet elegance, filling the room with a sense of occasion.
Later that night, as the couple prepared for bed, Venetia rose from the mattress and made her way to her dressing table. The room was dim, illuminated only by the soft flicker of candlelight that cast dancing shadows along the walls. Sitting before the mirror, she reached for one of the drawers and pulled it open, retrieving a small velvet-lined wooden box.
She held it for a moment, almost thoughtfully, before lifting the lid.
Inside, a pearl necklace lay gracefully against the dark fabric, its surface smooth and luminous. Beneath the gentle candlelight, it shimmered with a quiet elegance, each pearl reflecting a soft, almost ethereal glow.
"I think she should wear this tomorrow," Venetia said, her voice calm but resolute.
Lambert, who had come to stand behind her, studied both the necklace and her reflection in the mirror. Concern flickered across his face, his brows drawing together slightly.
"Are you sure?" he asked, his tone laced with unease.
"Yes," Venetia replied without hesitation, her gaze still fixed on the necklace. "We won't always be there to protect her." Her voice softened, though the determination within it remained firm. "She needs a husband who will. And to secure such a match… she must stand out. She must be the belle of the ball."
There was a brief silence.
Lambert exhaled quietly, the weight of her words settling over him. "Okay," he murmured at last.
He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his arms wrapping around her from behind in a protective embrace.
Venetia relaxed into him instantly, her body softening as she allowed herself that brief moment of comfort. Her fingers closed lightly over the box as she leaned back against his chest.
"Just as you protected me," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.