Chapter Fifteen

The Floating Hall of Vandamore shimmered like a dream suspended in twilight. Golden lanterns drifted above like stars plucked from the heavens, and beneath the transparent floor, the kingdom stretched wide and regal, cloaked in soft clouds and glinting towers. The meeting table was grand—long, carved from ancient moon-oak, lined with goblets of fine crystal and jeweled plates, each fit for royalty.

At the head of the table, Queen Alessandra sat tall, her purple gown spilling elegantly around her like a royal sea. Her golden crown gleamed in the candlelight, and her smile held steady—practiced, poised, and perfect. Too perfect.

The evening had gone mostly according to plan—cordial greetings, polished toasts, charming laughter. But something still lingered under the surface. A presence of unease. And Prince Lucas hadn't said a word.

He sat beside Rosella, expression unreadable, shoulders tense. He toyed with the rim of his goblet, avoiding everyone's gaze, especially Rosella's.

Queen Sally leaned forward gently, breaking the silence with a warm but expectant tone. "Lucas, dear, you've hardly spoken. Would you like to say something? Perhaps about your future with Rosella?"

Samantha's heart paused. She could feel the weight of the moment. Lucas had been quiet, yes—but not unaware. And now, the spotlight was on him.

Lucas looked up slowly. First at his mother, then at Rosella, who smiled at him with so much joy, so much trust. Then his eyes drifted to Samantha, and for a second, they shared a wordless conversation.

Then he stood.

The sound of his chair scraping against the marble silenced the room.

"If I said what's truly on my mind…" he began, voice low and clear, "you would all hate me."

A stunned hush fell over the hall. Guests turned. Forks were lowered. Breath was held.

Rosella blinked, confused. "Lucas…?"

But he said no more.

He bowed stiffly to the table, turned, and walked out.

Gasps and whispers erupted almost immediately.

Samantha stood without hesitation, her movements graceful but determined. Without uttering a word, she followed Lucas out of the floating hall, her blue gown swaying behind her like a ripple on water.

Rosella sat frozen, her smile fading into a hollow question. "Why did he—? What did he mean?"

Queen Alessandra reached out slowly, placing her hand over Rosella's as if to comfort her. Her expression was full of soft concern, but her eyes—sharp, cunning—told another story.

Perfect, she thought. Let the seeds of doubt take root. The more uncertain Rosella becomes, the easier it'll be to steer her away.

King George's face turned a shade redder with every heartbeat. The silence around him was unbearable. Murmurs floated through the hall—curious, judgmental, nervous.

Queen Sally rose from her seat, her composure visibly shaken. "Excuse me," she said calmly but firmly. "I need to speak with my son."

She exited quickly, not sparing Alessandra a glance.

The Queen of Vandamore remained seated, her fingers lightly tapping the stem of her goblet. She took a delicate sip of her drink, concealing the pleasure she felt from watching the cracks appear in what had once been a flawless arrangement.

King George cleared his throat and stood with forced dignity. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, raising his glass once more, "young hearts can be impulsive, but tonight is still a celebration of unity. Let us not forget why we are gathered here."

But no one truly cheered.

The warmth in the room had dulled.

And as Rosella sat there, trying to smile through the ache blooming in her chest, Queen Alessandra knew one thing for sure:

Her plan had just begun to work.