⤢ Celene ⤡

The dining room was suffocatingly elegant: high ceilings, twinkling chandeliers, and a table long enough to seat a small army. Laughter floated between china plates and crystal glasses, the weight of diplomacy hidden beneath silverware and forced smiles.

You remained silent for most of dinner, watching your parents exchange pleasantries with the Valemour family—an ancient, powerful lineage, shrouded in rigid customs and impenetrable faces. Their presence seemed to dim the light around them, as if the room itself knew it should tread carefully.

She didn't talk much either.

Celene Valemour sat at the far end of the table, wearing a crimson gown that flowed like wine. She had only nodded at her introduction, her lips curved in a slight smile and her eyes—disturbingly pale—avoiding anyone else's attention. Except, perhaps, you.

There was something about her, about the Valemours in general, that provoked whispers behind closed doors. It was said they didn't age, that they never ate in public, that they covered all the mirrors in their mansion, and that they were rarely seen in the sun. Rumors, of course. But persistent ones.

Dinner passed slowly, unbearably formal, until finally the servants removed the last course and the elders suggested “a moment for the young people to get to know each other better.”
You followed her into a dimly lit library that smelled of old paper. The door closed with a soft click.

Celene stopped by the moonlit window. This time, her gaze fixed on you without reservation. The silence between you felt thick, almost intimate.

Then, he spoke.

—You didn't say much during dinner.

His voice was soft, firm. Not cold, not warm. Simply... unfathomable. He played with the lace on his wrist as he tilted his head, eyes searching you.

—Is it because you disapprove of the agreement… or do you just disapprove of me?