If there was one thing Grand Duke Atticus Ravenswood excelled at, it was cultivating a meticulous list of things that displeased him. Blanche, having inadvertently absorbed a surprising amount of trivia about her fictional husband through Yujin's obsessive rereading, could probably rattle off at least three hundred entries, ranging from the precise angle at which his quills were sharpened to the intolerable sound of birds chirping before noon.
The novel had, after all, dedicated entire paragraphs to his barely suppressed rage at a slightly askew tapestry or the utter indignity of a chipped teacup. But amongst this extensive catalog of aristocratic annoyances, three stood out, elevated to the level of utter detestation. So profound was his aversion that he had systematically purged them from his life, creating a personal sanctuary free from their offensive presence.
And Blanche, with a mischievous glint in her eye that the original Blanche would have likely mistaken for a particularly bright sunbeam, was about to stage a full-scale, floral invasion.
Humming a tuneless melody that would have likely sent the Grand Duke into a fit of silent fury had he been within earshot, Blanche surveyed the vibrant array of blossoms in the local florist's shop. It was a quaint establishment, smelling faintly of damp earth and a thousand budding possibilities, a stark contrast to the sterile grandeur of the Ravenswood estate.
Her gaze landed on a cluster of perfectly formed chrysanthemums, their petals a riot of sunny yellow and warm bronze.
"Oh, these are simply divine!" she exclaimed, her voice a little too bright, a little too enthusiastic, even for someone supposedly as guileless as Blanche.
Rosette, her personal maid and constant shadow, trailed behind her, a study in barely concealed skepticism. Rosette's usual expression hovered somewhere between mild disapproval and the weary resignation of someone who had witnessed one too many questionable fashion choices. Today, however, there was a sharper edge to her usual dourness, a flicker of something akin to envy in her narrowed eyes as she observed Blanche's cheerful transaction.
"Are you certain about those, my Lady?" Rosette inquired, her tone laced with a subtle, almost imperceptible, undertone of… something unpleasant. Perhaps the floral equivalent of a sneer. "They're rather… common, wouldn't you say? And some believe they carry a certain… funereal air."
She then gestured towards a display of deep purple blooms that looked suspiciously like they belonged in a vampire's bouquet. "These 'Black Widow' lilies, on the other hand, possess a certain… dramatic flair."
Blanche tilted her head, feigning a delicate consideration of the morbid suggestion. "Oh, Rosette, how terribly… striking," she said, her smile widening to an almost saccharine degree. "But no, I think the chrysanthemums will do wonderfully. They're so… cheerful, don't you think?"
She beamed at the florist, who, caught in the crossfire of this silent battle of floral aesthetics, offered a nervous, noncommittal smile in return. Blanche paid for her chosen blooms, her heart lighter than the delicate petals she now held.
As Blanche turned to leave, the bouquet held carefully in her arms, Rosette's gaze lingered on the cheerful flowers, a storm brewing behind her usually impassive facade. It's always what Blanche wants, she thought, her resentment simmering like a forgotten pot on the stove. She always listened to me before. I was the one who soothed her anxieties, the only one who truly paid her any mind – even if that attention was fueled by a simmering ambition rather than genuine care.
A bitter thought twisted in Rosette's mind. A frail, sickly creature like her, married to His Grace? Grand Duke Atticus Ravenswood was the epitome of masculine grace, a war hero with a face that could launch a thousand lovesick sighs.
And Blanche?
Blanche was… well, Blanche.
Pale, perpetually under the weather, and possessing a certain air of bewildered innocence that Rosette found infuriatingly pathetic.
I should be the Grand Duchess, Rosette seethed inwardly, her gaze following Blanche's retreating figure. I have the strength, the presence. Not that simpering fool.
But a new, more insidious thought began to snake its way through her resentment.
Perhaps… perhaps there was another way. If she played her cards just right, if she nurtured Blanche's dependence, perhaps… perhaps Rosette could still find a way to step into Blanche's delicate, soon-to-be-vacant shoes. A slow, calculating smile touched her lips.
The position of Grand Duchess would be hers.
***
With a theatrical flourish that would have made even the most seasoned thespian envious, Blanche swept back into her husband's office. "Your Grace," she chirped, her voice sickeningly sweet, a wide, almost manic smile plastered on her face as she presented the bouquet of vibrant chrysanthemums.
The Grand Duke's unfortunate assistant, a young man who seemed to exist in a perpetual state of nervous fluster, stumbled back as if physically struck, his face blooming a rather impressive shade of crimson. He clutched the scattered papers to his chest like a shield against this unexpected floral assault.
Meanwhile, the object of Blanche's flowery affections remained as unyielding as a granite statue, his gaze fixed on the documents before him. He didn't so much as twitch an eyebrow at her dramatic entrance or the sudden appearance of sunshine-yellow blooms in his meticulously ordered, perpetually somber office.
Blanche, undeterred by his lack of reaction, hummed a cheerful little tune and placed the bouquet directly in his line of sight, the bright blossoms a stark contrast to the muted tones of his desk.
"A little gift for you, Your Grace," she announced, her voice dripping with an enthusiasm that felt entirely performative, even to her own ears.
Finally, glacial blue eyes lifted, their gaze settling on her with the warmth of a winter storm. A shiver, sharp and unwelcome, traced its way down Blanche's spine. Good heavens, he's terrifying, she thought, her inner bravado momentarily faltering.
But then she mentally squared her shoulders. This was Atticus Ravenswood, the legendary war hero, a man forged in the crucible of battle. It was hardly surprising he exuded the charm of a particularly grumpy ice elemental.
His reputation, after all, preceded him like a herald of doom. Thrust onto the battlefield at the tender age of thirteen after the sudden, untimely demise of his father, Atticus had spent his formative years amidst the brutal realities of war, facing down monstrous creatures and human adversaries with equal ruthlessness. His teenage years were a blur of blood and steel, devoid of the gentle comforts of home. He hadn't even returned for his own mother's funeral, duty outweighing filial piety in his young, hardened heart.
When he finally returned home at nineteen, it was to a household teetering on the brink of chaos, expertly mismanaged by his devious stepmother. A viper in silken robes, she had been plotting to install her own son as the Grand Duke. Atticus, with the decisive efficiency that characterized his every action, had swiftly put an end to her treachery.
At twenty-eight, he had been bound to twenty-four-year-old Blanche Remington, a transaction born not of affection but of necessity – the sole offering Marquess Remington could provide to settle his staggering debts. A favorite of his uncle, the Emperor, Atticus stood fourth in line for the imperial throne: a man of immense power, a proven savage.
And, curse the cruel whims of fate, breathtakingly handsome. His hair was the color of a moonless night, framing a face of sharp angles and pale, almost ethereal skin. Ice-blue eyes, framed by thin, aristocratic brows, could pierce through the thickest armor, both literal and metaphorical.
Even beneath the rich, dark fabrics of his impeccably tailored attire – a high-collared, intricately embroidered black coat with subtle gold threading that hinted at immense wealth, worn over a crisp white shirt with voluminous sleeves cinched at the wrist, the ensemble cinched by a wide, ornate belt with a heavy buckle, and paired with sleek, dark trousers tucked into polished black boots adorned with subtle gold detailing at the knee – one could sense the coiled strength of his warrior's physique. He was, undeniably, the most devastatingly attractive man Blanche had ever laid eyes on.
And utterly, terrifyingly scary.
A sudden wave of doubt washed over Blanche. Perhaps antagonizing a man who had casually dispatched power-hungry relatives and faced down mythical beasts wasn't the most brilliant strategy she had ever conceived. But the Grand Duke simply inclined his head, his expression still devoid of any discernible emotion.
"Thank you, Grand Duchess," he said, his voice a low, resonant baritone, devoid of warmth.
Blanche blinked, utterly dumbfounded.
That was it?
No explosion of fury?
No icy glare that promised imminent doom?
Just a polite, albeit chillingly indifferent, acknowledgment? Stepping back out into the hallway, Blanche's carefully constructed confidence deflated like a punctured balloon.
Why didn't it work?
***
Inside the Grand Duke's office, Atticus's gaze remained fixed on the vibrant bouquet. The cheerful yellow of the chrysanthemums seemed to mock the perpetual gloom that permeated the room. A flicker of an image, unbidden and unwelcome, surfaced in his mind.
...a woman stood in a dimly lit corridor, the rich black of her mourning dress a stark contrast to the pale blonde of her hair, which was pulled back severely, emphasizing the delicate angles of her face. In her hands, she held a similar bouquet of chrysanthemums, their bright color a stark contrast to the profound sadness in her ice-blue eyes – eyes so similar to the ones that had just stared at him with such… peculiar enthusiasm. Through a slightly ajar door, she watched a tall man with hair as dark as his own press a kiss to the lips of a woman with fiery red hair. Next to her stood a younger Atticus, barely seven years old, his small brow furrowed with childish concern. "What's wrong, Mother?" he had asked, his voice small and uncertain. The blonde woman had simply smiled, a sad, brittle thing. "Let's have a tea party, shall we, Atticus?"...
The present crashed back with the abruptness of a slammed door as his assistant tentatively cleared his throat. "Shall I… dispose of these, Your Grace?" he ventured, gesturing towards the offending flowers with a hesitant hand.
Atticus's gaze snapped back, the glacial blue hardening to a dangerous frost. "No," he clipped, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Place them on my desk."
Theodore blinked, utterly bewildered. "But… but Your Grace… don't you… detest them?" he stammered, unable to reconcile his master's well-known aversion with this sudden, inexplicable instruction.
A low chuckle rumbled in the Grand Duke's chest, a sound that held no amusement, only a cold, detached curiosity.
The first gift she has ever given me.
He recalled the past few months of their marriage, a monotonous stretch of polite indifference. Blanche had been a quiet shadow, trailing after him with hesitant steps, occasionally offering a timid observation that he had mostly ignored.
Now… now she was bursting into his office with floral declarations.
"What has changed?" he murmured to himself, leaning back in his imposing chair, his gaze fixed on the unexpected splash of color in his otherwise monochrome world.
Amusing.
The corner of his lips quirked upwards, a fleeting, unsettlingly predatory smile. He had a feeling his quiet, unassuming wife was finally proving to be… interesting.