Chapter Four: A Greenhouse, a Tea Party, and Glass Lies

The perfect fairytale scene got ruined.

After all, even fairytales had cruel people.

The three of them had been playing like children — which, in truth, they still were. The moment had felt magical, like something out of a storybook, with sunlight streaming through the greenhouse roof and laughter echoing between the glass walls.

But the magic shattered the moment she arrived.

The Baroness came like a ghost.

Kirien froze, his small fingers still wrapped around Veralyn's hand. His body stiffened as if caught in a storm he'd weathered too many times before. He had been taught to lower his head, avert his eyes, and remain silent in their presence. He was to address the Baron and Baroness as Sir and Madam — never Mother or Father.

To them, he was never a son. He was something to display, like the greenhouse in the front garden — beautiful, delicate, and locked behind glass. Maintained for admiration. Never truly embraced.

"Why is he out here?" the Baroness demanded, stepping toward Kirien.

Veralyn quickly moved in front of him, shielding him with quiet confidence.

"It was me, Ma'am," she said smoothly. "I just thought Grandmother would like to see Kirien… it's been so long."

The Baroness's eyebrow arched, her voice sharpening with rage.

"You thought so—?"

"Oh! She really did think kindly," came a warm, composed voice.

"It has been far too long since I saw our youngest," said Veralyn's grandmother, stepping into view.

At seventy, she looked no older than her fifties — graceful in a soft floral gown, elegance in every movement. Her hair, the same rich hue as the Baroness's, framed her face gently, while her eyes — clear and familiar — mirrored Veralyn's own.

Veralyn's expression brightened. She stepped forward and embraced her grandmother with a genuine smile.

"How are you? And how is the Viscount?"

Veralyn's grandmother gently cradled her head in a warm embrace.

"The old man is doing just fine," she said with a soft chuckle.

Then, pulling back slightly, her expression grew curious.

"But tell me — why were you calling Margrete Ma'am instead of Mother? Did something happen? Did you two argue?"

"That's…" Veralyn hesitated, eyes flickering with unease.

"Oh, Mother!" the Baroness suddenly cut in, her voice laced with false concern. She reached out to take Veralyn's hands with exaggerated affection.

"Now you see for yourself how sensitive our Veralyn is? Please tell her I'm not upset anymore about that silly vase she broke."

From the side, Alena stood silently — watching the exchange, her hands folded neatly, her expression unreadable.

But inside, her thoughts burned.

Oh please. That wench doesn't deserve the title of a mother, she thought bitterly, her eyes narrowing as the Baroness pretended to be caring.

"What?" the grandmother's eyes widened, immediately scanning Veralyn's face.

"How did the vase break? And are you alright, my child? Tell me you're not hurt — did you get cut or bruised anywhere?" she asked anxiously, gently tilting Veralyn's chin to examine her.

Veralyn gently held her grandmother's hand.

"I'm alright," she said softly, then added with a small smile, "And you should pay some attention to Kirien now. I'm not a child anymore — I don't need all your affection."

She was clearly trying to change the subject.

Kirien stood quietly at the side, his body still stiff.

He gave a small, formal bow. "Good afternoon, Grandmother."

The older woman tilted her head. "It seems our youngest is still too shy?"

"You know how delicate his health is, Mother," the Baroness interjected with a dramatic sigh. "He walks on feathers, my poor child."

As she spoke, she gave Kirien a rough pat on the back — completely missing the way he flinched under her touch.

She didn't know how to be gentle.

A mother without motherhood.

"Be gentle, Margrete!" her mother snapped, her voice firm but calm. "He is the only one of your children who carries the Aurenhart blood visibly. It's a pity none of the others inherited its grace."

The Aurenharts were a bloodline known not only for their wisdom and wealth, but for their unmistakable beauty — hair like crimson silk, and eyes the color of spring leaves.

To be born an Aurenhart was to carry beauty as a legacy… and expectation as a weight.

Margrete flinched, as if struck by something invisible.

"Y-Yes, Mother," she murmured, her voice small.

Veralyn's chest tightened. She could see how tense Kirien had become, how his shoulders had drawn in, how his eyes kept darting around. It was the last thing she wanted him to feel — discomfort, fear, or shame.

Clapping her hands lightly, Veralyn forced a cheerful tone.

"Well then! Let's have tea!"

She turned to Kirien with a bright smile.

"Shall we continue our tea party, little prince? I hope you don't mind Grandmother joining us?"

Kirien's face lit up, his earlier unease melting away.

"Yes! Grandmother can be our fairy guest!" he beamed.

The Viscountess chuckled softly, placing a hand over her heart as she gracefully took her seat.

"I'm so honored to be your guest, Sir Kirien," she said with a twinkle in her eyes.

Alena, standing just behind Veralyn's chair, smiled politely — but her thoughts were far from kind.

Well… a non-invited witch seems to have snuck into the party too, she thought, her eyes flicking coldly toward the Baroness.