The sunlight spilling through the tall glass windows of the east wing turned the polished marble floor into liquid gold.
The Thompson mansion looked every bit the palace it claid to be, with shadows of the chandeliers stretching long like skeletal fingers across the velvet furniture.
On one of those velvet couches, Laila reclined with perfect poise, a porcelain cup of tea balanced delicately in her hand.
The faint fragrance of bergamot and honey curled in the air, softening her sharp presence.
Across from her, Victoria twirled, her silk robe swaying around her knees like the skirt of a ballerina, bare feet whispering against the marble.
"Mother," she sang out, her voice pitched in that spoiled, lilting way that always made Laila’s lips curve with indulgence. "Do you think Roman will be here tonight? At Lisa’s party?"
Laila’s eyes softened at her only daughter—the jewel she had polished and protected since birth. "Of course, darling. He never misses Lisa’s events. Why?"
Victoria gasped dramatically, pressing a hand over her heart, her dark eyes glittering like gemstones under light.
"Then it’s true! I’ll see him tonight!" she squealed, collapsing onto the couch beside her mother and clutching a throw pillow as though it were a lifeline.
Laila chuckled quietly, brushing a strand of Victoria’s long, glossy hair behind her ear.
"You speak as though Roman were a prince from another kingdom. Rember, child—he is your cousin."
Victoria wrinkled her nose, shaking her head with an impatient flick. Her lashes fluttered like raven wings. "Not cousin, Mama. He’s... Roman."
She hugged the pillow closer, her cheeks glowing pink. "He isn’t like anyone else. He’s perfect."
Laila tilted her head, her smirk sharp and knowing. "Perfect, hmm? And what makes him so?"
Victoria’s lips parted, words tumbling out faster than her breath: "His eyes, Mama—so sharp, like they can see through everything."
" The way he walks into a room—people can’t look anywhere else. And when he speaks, it’s deep and steady, like the world belongs to him."
Her mother arched a brow. "Sounds like you’ve been watching far too closely."
"I only watch because everyone else does!" Victoria protested, pouting prettily, though her pout was painted more in playfulness than sha.
"But he makes forget how to breathe." She pressed her hand to her chest, gasping dramatically, drawing another laugh from her mother.
"You’re twenty-four, not fourteen," Laila teased.
"And I’m still your princess," Victoria shot back, grinning. "You’ve spoiled too much, Mama. Now I can’t help it."
She rose suddenly, her robe whispering against the floor. "Speaking of which—has my gown arrived yet?"
Her eyes widened as though the very fate of the evening rested on the fabric.
Without waiting for her mother’s reply, she dashed out of the sitting room.
"Victoria!" Laila called after her, shaking her head, though a smile tugged at her lips.
The faint clicking of slippers echoed as Victoria lifted her robe, nearly tripping on the staircase like a royal in a hurry.
Upstairs, she burst into her bedroom, her heart beating as though Roman himself waited behind the door.
Her chamber was exactly what one would expect of a spoiled princess—rose-gold curtains billowed gently, perfu bottles glistened like jewels across her vanity, and plush cushions were scattered across the white velvet bed.
And there, laid neatly across the bed, was the box.
Her breath hitched. "It’s here."
She hurried forward, fingers trembling as she lifted the lid. Lavender tissue paper crinkled, and beneath it lay the gown: shimring midnight silk, embroidered with delicate crystals that caught the sunlight like stars trapped in fabric.
Victoria pressed her hand to her lips, eyes glittering. "He won’t be able to look away."
She held the dress against her fra and turned to the mirror. Her reflection showed flushed cheeks, lips parted in a girlish smile, eyes wide with longing.
A knock sounded on her door.
"Victoria?" Laila’s voice floated in.
"Yes, Mama! Co look!"
The door opened, and Laila entered, her brows arched at her daughter’s glowing excitent.
"Is this why you ran off like fire was chasing you?"
Victoria twirled, clutching the gown against herself. "Do you think he’ll like it?"
"Who, Roman?" her mother asked smoothly, one brow lifting.
"Yes," Victoria whispered, her gaze darting shyly toward the mirror.
Laila sighed softly and stepped closer, adjusting the gown in her daughter’s hands.
Her tone was affectionate, but carried a quiet warning. "He is not an easy man, my darling. Roman’s heart is not sothing you catch with a dress."
Victoria’s lips pressed together, her shoulders stiffening. "I don’t want to catch his heart."
She hesitated, then added, her voice breaking into honesty, "I just... want him to see . Not as spoiled Victoria. Not as his cousin. As ."
Her mother’s eyes softened briefly, though calculation flickered beneath them. She placed her hands firmly on her daughter’s shoulders.
"You already shine brighter than you realize. But rember—what shines too brightly can burn."
"Then let burn," Victoria said, lifting her chin with determination. "Not if it’s Roman."
Her reflection in the mirror glowed with resolve as she lifted the midnight gown higher.
The crystals shimred, a galaxy spread across her fra.
Behind her, Laila’s lips curved into sothing sharper than pride.
"Yes... tonight he will notice."
It was more than a mother’s promise. It was strategy.
For years, Laila had played her quiet role—bringing young won into Lisa’s orbit, presenting them like offerings.
Lisa delighted in the ritual, in watching Roman turn away every girl, every attempt.
But tonight was different. Tonight, the house would gather under Lisa’s gaze. If Roman didn’t choose now, when would he?
If Victoria could catch his attention—even for a mont—it would end the tireso parade of hopefuls.
And that other girl, the one Roman had shielded in that scandalous video, the one whose presence lingered like an insult, would fade. Thorns were ant to be plucked.
"Do you think Lisa will approve?" Victoria asked suddenly, breaking into her mother’s thoughts.
"Lisa adores you," Laila answered smoothly. "And why shouldn’t she? You’re the only rose in this family of thorns."
Her daughter’s lips curved into a shy, smug smile. "Maybe she’ll ask Roman to choose ."
"Maybe," Laila echoed, though her voice carried no uncertainty. In her heart, she whispered: Not maybe. She must.
Victoria squealed softly, bouncing onto the bed with the gown sparkling across her lap. "Oh, Mama, I feel like a princess in a fairy tale."
Laila leaned down, her voice low and silken, her eyes hard as glass. "Fairy tales end with a crown, my love. And so crowns... are worth stealing."
Author’s Note 🖋️
This Chapter is one of those monts where two hearts beat to entirely different rhythms under the sa roof—one full of innocence, the other heavy with calculation.
On the surface, we see Victoria’s excitent bubbling like champagne, sweet and sparkling, as she runs to check if her gown has arrived.
But underneath that girlish thrill, there is Laila, sitting quietly with thoughts far sharper than her daughter’s laughter.
I wanted to capture that contrast because it says so much about dreams and sches.
Victoria embodies the drear—her world is simple. She is twenty-four, but in her heart, she is still the cherished princess of the house.
Everything about her screams of soone who has never known the bitterness of denial: she is spoiled, adored, and cushioned from the world’s harder truths.
When she imagines Roman, she sees him not as a man burdened with shadows and responsibilities but as the prince every storybook promised her would co.
She believes in fairy tales so much that even a gown feels like a magic wand that can transform her into the heroine he chooses.
But then, there’s Laila. Unlike her daughter, she has lived long enough to understand that fairy tales rarely co true on their own.
Dreams alone cannot move people like Roman, nor sway won like Lisa. Laila knows that beauty fades, but ambition sharpens with ti.
Her conversations, her glances, even her silences carry strategy. She does not look at Roman as a romantic prize; she sees him as a throne waiting to be claid, a crown waiting to be set upon her daughter’s head.
And while Victoria runs upstairs in giddy innocence, Laila is already planning how to close every door around Roman until he has no choice but to look at Victoria.
The gown in this Chapter is important to as a symbol. To Victoria, it is made of starlight, carrying the promise of love, attention, and admiration.
But to Laila, gowns are nothing but temporary armor. Stars, after all, burn out. For her, what matters is permanence—status, power, survival in a world where only the cunning thrive.
This dual aning is at the heart of the tension: a girl chasing beauty, and a woman chasing power.
And of course, there is the shadow neither of them can ignore—the girl Roman protected in the video.
Though unnad here, she lingers like an unspoken rival. To Victoria, she is barely a thought.
To Laila, she is a threat, a thorn, a reminder that Roman’s heart may already be claid. And thorns, in Laila’s mind, are things to be plucked before they draw blood.
This Chapter is, in truth, a study of contrasts: light versus shadow, innocence versus ambition, hope versus calculation.
Victoria wants a fairy tale; Laila is ready to rewrite the storybook by force if she must.
And when such opposing forces live under one roof, readers can expect both sweetness and storms to co.
Because in stories like this, fairy tales don’t simply end with a crown. They end with a choice—between love, power, and the cost of chasing both.
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