At The Breakfast Table

A gentle knock sounded at the door, followed by a soft, familiar voice. 

"My Lady!" 

Ivy stirred at the sound of Anya's call. Quickly, she wiped away the last traces of her tears, pushing the emotions from her dream deep down before they could resurface. 

"You may come in, Anya," she called, ensuring her voice was steady. 

The door opened, and Anya entered with her usual grace. She moved with quiet efficiency, crossing the room to pull open the heavy curtains. Sunlight spilled inside, golden and warm, as she turned off the night lamp. 

"Good morning, my Lady. Did you sleep well?" she asked, her voice filled with a practiced kindness. 

Ivy hesitated for only a moment before responding. "Yes, I slept well." 

The words were automatic, but her mind was elsewhere—still trapped in the remnants of the dream she had just woken from. It wasn't the dream itself that unsettled her; it was her reaction to it. Why had she felt such deep grief? Was it because she hadn't truly died, but instead, found herself alive in a body that was not her own? 

"How are you feeling today, my Lady? Better, I hope?" 

Anya's voice pulled Ivy back into the present. She took a moment to assess herself, scanning for any aches or lingering pain. But strangely enough, there was nothing. No soreness, no weakness—nothing to indicate that she had supposedly fallen from a balcony not long ago. 

"I'm fine," she replied, almost surprised at the truth in her words. 

Her body felt completely normal. If anything, it felt too normal. Shouldn't there be some lasting effects from such a fall? Had Lady Ivy always possessed an unnatural ability to heal? 

Without thinking, she stood and stretched, the motion instinctive after years of disciplined training. 

"My Lady... what are you doing?" Anya's puzzled voice cut through the silence. 

Ivy froze. 

Right. A noble lady wouldn't move like this. And worse—this body lacked the strength she was used to. 

A flicker of frustration passed through her. "Fifteen years of training... gone. Just like that."

Swallowing down the irritation, she forced a casual tone. "Stretching. It helps with stiffness." 

Anya frowned, tilting her head. "Can't I just give you a massage instead?" 

Ivy chuckled lightly. "That won't be necessary. Stretching has other benefits." 

The maid still looked unconvinced, but she didn't press further. 

"Prepare my bath," Ivy instructed. "I want to freshen up before breakfast." 

As soon as the steaming bath was ready, Ivy sank into the warm water, letting the heat soothe her thoughts. 

Once she was bathed and dressed, Anya helped her into a flowing baby-blue gown. The fabric shimmered like water under the morning light, soft and delicate against her skin. Silver ribbons laced up the bodice, the flared sleeves brushing against her wrists like a whisper. Embroidered vines trailed down the length of the skirt, their silver threads catching the light. 

Turning toward the mirror, Ivy took in her reflection. 

The girl who stared back at her was undeniably beautiful. Midnight-blue eyes, framed by dark lashes, gazed back with a quiet intensity. Her long, raven-black hair cascaded down her back in silky waves. 

"Is this truly my face now?" 

The thought lingered, unsettling in a way she couldn't quite explain. 

"I'll have your breakfast prepared," Anya said, turning to leave. 

Ivy stopped her before she could take another step. 

"No need," she said calmly. "I'll be dining with the family today." 

Anya hesitated. "Are you certain, my Lady? Are you well enough for that?" 

There was something more to the question, something unspoken. 

Ivy met her gaze, a quiet determination in her expression. "I'll be fine." 

The maid sighed, clasping her hands together. "Very well. I will inform them." 

The dining hall was already filled when Ivy arrived. The entire Ravenshield family—save for Irene—was seated, engaged in quiet conversation. 

The moment she stepped inside, however, the chatter ceased. A heavy silence fell over the room as every gaze turned toward her. 

Lucas, her third-eldest brother, was the first to break the stillness. He scoffed, setting his fork down with a sharp clink. 

"What are you doing here?" he sneered. "Don't you know it's disrespectful to show up late for breakfast?" 

Ivy paused briefly but did not rise to his provocation. 

Not one of them asked how she was. Not a single one had shown even the faintest concern for their supposedly suicidal sister. 

Typical. 

Without acknowledging Lucas, she strode to her usual seat beside her father, Marquis Ravenshield. He didn't spare her a glance, continuing his meal as though she weren't even there. 

She had expected nothing else. 

The servants moved quickly, setting a plate before her and filling it with food. Ignoring the weight of the surrounding stares, she picked up her fork and began eating. 

And... The food was good.

No, not just good—incredible. Fluffy bread, rich eggs, sweet fruit preserves... Every bite was a surprise, a delight. Had food always tasted this divine, or was this body simply more attuned to the flavors? 

Across the table, Lady Victoria's sharp gaze burned into her. 

"My Irene is still in bed from the shock," she said coldly, "and yet here you are, enjoying your meal. How is it that you are even fine? Just a week ago, the doctor said you were on your deathbed." 

Ivy calmly set down her fork and met the woman's disdainful glare. 

"Mother," she said smoothly, watching the woman stiffen at the title, "the way you just worded that... one might think you wish I hadn't recovered." 

Tension crackled through the room. 

"And for the record," she continued, "I didn't push Irene off that balcony. If I had, I wouldn't have been careless enough to leave her alive." 

A stunned silence followed. 

Lady Victoria's lips parted in outrage, but before she could speak, Liam—Ivy's second-eldest brother—slammed his hands onto the table. 

"You dare deny it? Have you no conscience?!" he thundered. 

Ivy exhaled, unimpressed. "Is it really so hard to believe that, for once, I didn't do something sinister?" she mused. "When have I ever actually tried to kill Irene? Be honest." 

Liam seethed, his jaw clenched tight. 

"And please," Ivy added, reaching for her fork again, "let's observe some table manners. It's rather uncouth to shout during a meal." 

Her father, who had remained silent until now, finally cleared his throat. 

"The crown prince has informed me that the wedding has been moved up to two days from now," he announced. "With such short notice, preparations must be rushed." 

Ivy paused, studying him. 

"And since there isn't enough time to commission a new gown," he continued, "Irene has kindly offered to lend you the white dress the crown prince gifted her on her last birthday. It is grand enough for a wedding, and I have arranged for a seamstress to make any necessary alterations." 

A dress Irene had worn? 

Her fingers curled subtly against the tablecloth. 

Then, an idea formed. 

With the sweetest smile, she lifted her gaze to her father. "What about Mother's wedding dress?" she asked innocently. "Can't I wear that?" 

The Marquis visibly tensed. 

The dress—Lady Crystal's wedding gown—was something he cherished deeply. Allowing Ivy, the daughter he blamed for his wife's death, to wear it would be unthinkable. 

For a brief moment, his expression darkened. 

Then, to everyone's shock, his face softened. 

"...Alright," he said. 

The entire table fell into stunned silence. 

And Ivy? 

She simply smiled.