A Fierce Refusal

The corridor was dim, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across the stone walls. Elyse stormed toward Emma, her silk gown hissing with every furious step. Her sapphire eyes burned, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, not from the wine or the dance, but from the sting of humiliation.

Leroy had left her stranded in the dance floor, his golden hair disappearing into the crowd as noblewomen smirked behind their fans. She could still hear their whispers, sharp as needles, pricking at her pride. Where was he? She'd searched every corner, and still, he eluded her.

The frustration churned in her gut, a wildfire seeking a target, and Emma, Lorraine's meek little maid, stood before her like prey.

"Where is she?" Elyse's voice sliced through the air, sharp and accusing. "Where's your mistress, that deaf, mute mongrel?"

Emma kept her gaze lowered, her hands clasped tightly in front of her dress. "I don't know, my lady," she replied, her tone polite but steady, a practiced shield against Elyse's temper.

Elyse's lips twisted into a sneer. "Don't lie to me," she snapped, stepping closer until her shadow loomed over the maid. "You're always trailing her like a loyal dog. Tell me where she is!"

"I truly don't know, Lady Elyse," Emma said again, her voice unwavering despite the tremor in her fingers. She didn't dare to raise her head. "She left the ballroom alone."

A bitter laugh escaped Elyse's throat, her patience fraying like a worn thread. "Alone? You think you can shield her?" she hissed, her hand twitching upward. "Tell me… she sneaked away with that effeminate prince, didn't she? Or was it with that uncouth steward?"

Emma couldn't bear Elyse badmouthing her princess. She raised her head and looked Elyse in the eyes. "Her Highness went alone," she said, stressing 'alone'.

Emma's defiance sure set off Elyse. "You're nothing! A lowly servant daring to defy me?" Her anger surged, fueled by Leroy's betrayal and the mocking eyes of the court. If she couldn't find him, she'd vent her fury here.

Her palm rose, poised to strike Emma's cheek, when a figure emerged from the shadows.

Lorraine stepped forward, grabbing Elyse's wrist, her icy-blue eyes blazing like twin flames in the dim light. They locked onto Elyse, unyielding, daring her to move.

Emma exhaled a quiet breath of relief and slipped behind her mistress, her small frame finding refuge in Lorraine's shadow. Elyse's fury doubled, her chest tightening as she glared at the woman before her. This nobody, this deaf, mute half-sister who'd always cowered, dared to intervene?

The audacity ignited something primal in Elyse, her humiliation twisting into rage.

She lunged, seizing Lorraine's wrist with a snarl. "Let go!" she spat, yanking to free her hand, desperate to slap her and purge the boiling anger within. But Lorraine's grip was iron, her fingers unyielding as stone. Elyse tugged harder, her breath hitching, her nails digging into Lorraine's skin.

For the first time, Elyse looked, really looked, into those icy-blue eyes. They weren't the timid pools she'd scorned for years; they were a frozen abyss, a hellfire chilled to ice, threatening to swallow her whole. Her heart stuttered. Before, Lorraine had bowed her head, taking every blow, every insult, especially for her maids, like some noble fool. Elyse had reveled in that weakness, that submission. What had changed?

Her gaze darted downward, catching a glimpse beneath the layers of powder on Lorraine's neck. Faint marks—love bites—glowed against her pale skin, a silent testament to intimacy.

Elyse's stomach lurched, her rage spiking with a bitter edge. Leroy had chosen her? Were they tangled in a blissful marriage while she, widowed and abandoned, drowned in loneliness? Her half-sister, this mongrel, basking in her husband's affection while Elyse suffered? It was unbearable.

Lorraine's hold loosened slightly, her own eyes tracing Elyse in the torchlight. Beautiful beyond measure. Sapphire eyes like cut gems, blonde hair cascading in perfect waves, a figure still enviable despite two childbirths. She was perfection incarnate, the golden daughter who won without effort.

Jealousy stabbed at Lorraine's heart, sharp and relentless. Who wouldn't fall for such beauty? Could she even blame Leroy if he had?

And yet, the thought squeezed her chest, a painful knot of doubt and resentment.

Elyse, panting with fury, wrenched her hand free at last. Her eyes landed on the glittering ring adorning Lorraine's finger—an aquamarine stone, its diamonds winking like stars, a perfect match to those icy eyes. It was new, unfamiliar, and the implication struck like a blow. A gift from Leroy? Was this mongrel flaunting her husband's love, rubbing salt in her wounds when her own husband lay cold in the grave? That couldn't be allowed. Not when she was alive.

"I like that ring," Elyse said, her voice low and dangerous. She lunged again, fingers clawing for the prize.

Lorraine's heart skipped, a jolt of recognition flashing through her. When Leroy had slipped the ring onto her finger, she'd suspected this moment might come. Elyse always took what she wanted.

But something new stirred in her chest, a fierce refusal. Why should she surrender what was hers?

The ring gleamed, heavy with worth, a symbol of something she could claim. She yanked her hand back, her lips twitching with a flicker of defiance.

Elyse's face contorted, her movements growing frantic, almost comical in their desperation. To Lorraine, she looked like a starving dog, leaping and scratching for a scrap of bread.

Elyse's frustration erupted. "Enough!" she snarled, raising her hand to slap Lorraine, to punish this insolence. She wouldn't let a nobody mock her, not today, not after everything. But Lorraine was done being the victim. Years of Elyse's cruelty, her thefts, and her taunts flashed through her mind.

She was leaving in a month, but first, she'd have closure.

With a surge of strength, she shoved Elyse back. Elyse staggered, her back slamming against the stone wall, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. Lorraine didn't stop. She was no longer the naive girl, the punching bag for others' rage. She raised her hand, channeling every ounce of pain and defiance into the motion, ready to repay Elyse for every torment she'd endured.

Elyse stared, wide-eyed and unsteady, still reeling from the push, unable to react.

Just as Lorraine's hand arced toward Elyse's face, a gloved hand seized her wrist, halting her mid-strike. The grip was firm, unyielding, a sudden shock in the charged air. Lorraine tried to get out of the grip, to have one good slap before the end of the night. She deserved this closure. She wanted this.

But she couldn't get out of the hold. Her icy-blue eyes, defiant and filled with vengeance, turned to the side.

Who had stopped her?