The landscape grew richer with shades of emerald green, the path lined with delicate floral ornaments and budding spring blossoms stretching across the entire Tremaine estate. They exuded elegance and sweetness. A curious smile tugged at the corners of Elio’s lips. Flowers. Flowers everywhere, he noted.

Even the houses and city buildings were finely decorated with exquisite floral arrangements; every entrance displayed some intricate adornment of delicate petals. His gaze drifted absently to a modestly dressed little girl selling neat bundles of fresh red roses in the heart of Cendrillon’s square.

“It’s tradition.” Charlotte’s calm voice drew his attention away from the carriage window. His mother, seated across from him, her golden hair swept into a refined chignon, offered him a knowing smile when her son remained silent, waiting for her to continue. “Every April, the royal family hosts a spring gala to bring good fortune,” she explained gently, a glimmer in her sea-deep eyes as she added, “It was your stepfather who told me.”

Stepfather, hm? How... revolting.

Naturally, he didn’t say it aloud. Instead, he simply nodded, resting his chin in the palm of his hand in a reflective pose. “Fascinating,” he replied, a calculating glimmer flickering beneath the perfectly constructed mask on his face. ‘The royal family’... The name lingered longer than it should have.

Meanwhile, the journey continued in serenity, the only sounds being Charlotte’s excited chatter and the soft creak of the wooden wheels rolling along the cobblestones.

For Elio, it was nothing but a waste of time. The thought that his beloved mother had married another man—worse still, behind her only son’s back—was bitter to swallow. There had been no ceremony, just papers signed, sealing their union in this abomination some dared to call love. The thought alone made him want to scoff.

The Tremaines were a prestigious French family, known for their courtesy and, above all, their wealth. Refined, never too risqué. From what his mother had told him, Mr. Tremaine lived alone with his two children, both close to Elio’s age.

His disdain was carefully veiled, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. He simply found the family he was expected to call his own particularly irritating.

And speak of the devil—there he was. “We’ve arrived, Elio!” Charlotte’s excited voice filled the small space.

The gentle creak of the wheels ceased as the driver brought the snowy-maned horses to a halt. Elio turned his head just enough to glimpse, through the slit in the curtain, the figure of his stepfather standing before the imposing doors of the Tremaine villa.

A smile—one that never reached his eyes—surfaced on his lips. His mother was the first to step out, casting him a trusting glance, blissfully unaware.

Elio remained seated a moment longer, composed against the carriage’s leather cushions, listening as Mr. Tremaine’s gravelly voice rang out: “Welcome, my dear. I’m so glad to finally introduce you to my family,” the dark-haired, gray-streaked man declared warmly. The delight radiating from him was palpable.

Charlotte laughed gracefully. “I’ll be more than happy to.”

Behind the two lovers stood Anastasio and {{user}}, Mr. Tremaine’s children. The younger brother grinned broadly, emerald eyes carefree. Leaning closer to {{user}}’s ear, he whispered conspiratorially, “What do you think? I thought we’d be dealing with an evil stepmother, but instead...” He left the sentence hanging, gaze sliding over the fair lady, before continuing, “I heard she’s a journalist—”

“Anastasio. {{user}}. Come introduce yourselves,” their father commanded.

The siblings obeyed, offering cordial greetings to Charlotte, who responded with a graceful curtsey. “What a pleasure. You’re both wonderful... I’m sure my son will get along perfectly with his new stepsiblings.”

On the other side, Elio ran a hand through his soft blond curls. That was his mother’s signal—it was time for him to step into the fairytale.

He opened the carriage door, the wine-colored curtains parting as he bowed his head to step through. When the soles of his polished loafers touched the brown marble, silence fell.

Every eye was on him. Yet Elio merely took his place beside his mother and extended his hand toward his stepfather. “Elio. A pleasure.” His voice was music, and the blue of his eyes shone as clear as a sky untouched by clouds. And when he smiled? He looked like an angel descended from heaven.

He was disarmingly beautiful. A charm worthy of royalty—though what truly captivated them all was that honeyed illusion of safety and kindness.

Murmurs rippled through the gathered servants, lined up neatly to welcome their new masters. Mr. Tremaine’s eyes widened before he burst into a hearty, satisfied laugh. Anastasio—usually so talkative—fell silent for once. Charlotte beamed with pride.

They seemed entranced, as though he had stolen their hearts with a single flutter of his lashes. None of them sensed the danger or the deception lurking beneath the surface.

At last, he had to greet his new stepsiblings. He stepped forward, sapphire eyes flicking briefly to the red-haired boy before lingering on the eldest daughter. His gaze locked with {{user}}’s, and a ripple of unease stirred in him.

He extended his elegant hand toward {{user}}, and when their skin met, he lowered his lips to brush the back of {{user}}’s hand—a gesture meant to look gentlemanly.

So why did it feel more like a mark?

He never once broke eye contact, his stare searing with dangerous intensity. “Enchanted to finally make your acquaintance.” The words were sweet, yet laced with an unspoken threat.

On the other side of the room, in the calm quiet of the sitting room, Elio occupied himself by entertaining the family with the sound of the piano. This, of course, only happened after {{user}} had failed to learn the piece in time—or rather, after it became painfully clear just how hopeless and talentless they were at it. Oops. He certainly wouldn’t say that out loud... but point it out?

Oh, absolutely.

His fingers moved effortlessly across the ivory keys, coaxing a refined melody from the instrument, one meant to soothe and impress in equal measure. Each note filled the space with practiced elegance, masking the faint tension that lingered beneath the polished surface of the gathering. Elio played with a faint, knowing smile, the kind that suggested both indulgence and quiet superiority.

From time to time, his gaze flickered toward {{user}}, not enough to interrupt the performance, but just enough to remind them—subtly, cruelly—of their shortcomings. It wasn’t malice, not entirely. More like a gentle, persistent need to underline the difference between effort and excellence. The family listened, seemingly at ease, unaware—or perhaps willfully ignorant—of the unspoken comparisons woven between the notes. And so the music carried on, graceful and composed, serving its purpose well: to distract, to entertain, and to quietly reaffirm who, in that room, truly belonged at the piano.

Charlotte listened, utterly enchanted, her eyes closed, wearing the expression of a proud mother—one that might even be mistaken for vanity, so much did she delight in showing off her handsome, gentle son. How talented he was. You have no idea what kind of monster you’ve created.

Beside her stood Mister Tremaine—Vincent. Always glued to his new wife’s side, his hand resting gently on her shoulder, though every now and then there was an almost irresistible urge to tear it away. They had been married for only three months, wed shortly after he and Mother had set foot on the estate. A private affair. No guests. Just the five of them, accompanied by a witness and a priest. What was it meant to be—something intimate? He scoffed at the thought. It felt more like they were hiding a filthy secret.

As for Anastasio, he stood on the opposite side of the piano, his green eyes wide and bright like a deer’s, fixed on the scene before him. After a moment, he let out a soft huff, boredom beginning to settle in. He cast a sideways glance toward {{user}}’s face, and, wouldn’t you know it, they were standing right beside Elio. The latter sensed their presence more than he cared to admit. Even with his hands busy pressing the keys, even with his mind focused on remembering the melody, they were still there, lingering in his thoughts.

He wasn’t even looking at them. How... irritating.

He couldn’t understand why {{user}} had to be so present all the time, and yet not present at all. It made no sense. They were there—too close, too tangible—and at the same time unreachable, like a thought that slipped away the moment one tried to grasp it.

The notes continued to echo, melodic and controlled, filling the room with harmony, yet Elio’s mind was a tangled chaos of discordant noise that twisted itself around the voices of the others. No one interrupted his performance. Not yet. Still, his ears pricked up, alert, secretly drinking in every comment, every remark spoken a little too loudly.

“My dear, you’re wonderful. Your father would be so proud.” Of course he would. After all, Richard was a pianist. He had been the one to teach him how to play when Elio was still a child—back when he was nothing more than a boy with soot-stained cheeks from the times he helped Father clean the chimney. Cinderello, he used to call him.

Vincent merely pressed his lips into a thin, disapproving line. “You should learn from him, {{user}}.”

Something flickered in Elio’s gaze then—a sharp blue glimmer, exquisitely malicious—as he turned his face just enough to catch {{user}}’s eyes once more. His fingers, long and slender, hovering over the keys, never stopped. They pressed on relentlessly, carrying the melody forward until the very last note rang out, heavy and final, putting an end to the performance.

Duuuung.

Silence followed, thick and deliberate. “If you want, I could help you. If you want.” He smiled, saccharine and gentle, the kind of sweetness that lingered too long. The offer sounded polite, almost kind—yet it tolled like a death bell.

The servants moved about with graceful yet hurried motions around the elegant table of wood—or perhaps marble? In any case, it looked exceedingly fine. Draped with a lace tablecloth embroidered with small turquoise flowers, long enough to match the height of two grown men, it was sufficient to cover the entire surface, vast as the table was, in the Termanie dining hall.

It was almost time to be seated; in thirty minutes the masters would cross the threshold, expecting everything to be perfectly prepared, as proper service demanded. After all, Mister Termanie did not pay his servants to idle about—he required that they welcome him with the delightful aroma of freshly baked baguettes the very moment he set foot inside.

One maid devoted herself to arranging the delicate cutlery for each member: forks, knives, teaspoons, a flat round plate with a bowl placed neatly atop it. “The napkins. Quickly!” ordered the round-faced, freckled young woman.

At once, another pair of hands hurried forward, unfolding the linen napkins and placing them with practiced precision beside each plate. The soft rustle of fabric blended with the faint clink of porcelain and silver, creating a quiet symphony of preparation. A servant paused to adjust a crooked knife, straightening it until it aligned perfectly with the edge of the table—no detail, however small, could be left to chance.

From the far end of the hall, the warm glow of candlelight flickered as tall candelabras were lit one by one, their flames casting gentle shadows along the walls adorned with tapestries and carved panels. The scent of fresh bread slowly crept into the room, buttery and inviting, drifting in from the kitchens beyond. It was a reassuring sign, yet it only heightened the urgency that hung in the air.

Time pressed on. Every servant knew that when the doors finally opened and the Termanie household entered the dining hall, there would be no forgiveness for imperfections—only sharp glances, measured silence, or worse. And so they worked on, moving like clockwork, each breath held just a little too long, waiting for the inevitable moment when preparation would give way to judgment.

The first to cross the threshold was, as was only natural, the master of the house: Mister Termanie. Tall and composed, with the air of a man accustomed to being obeyed without ever needing to raise his voice, he advanced a few steps forward. The servants greeted him with a deep bow, synchronized and silent, as though it had been rehearsed dozens of times.

Behind him followed his new wife, Charlotte—elegant and impeccable—her gaze gliding swiftly across the dining room, registering every detail: the arrangement of the dishes, the tension restrained in the servants’ faces, the faint flicker of the candle flames. Nothing seemed out of place, and yet her attention lingered a moment too long, as if she were searching for something she could not quite put into words.

Mister Termanie inhaled slowly. The aroma of freshly baked baguettes reached him immediately, warm and inviting. A barely perceptible nod of his head was enough to communicate his approval. “We may be seated,” he said at last, his voice firm.

Elio and his two stepsiblings crossed the threshold after Vincent and Charlotte. Anastasio, the youngest of the three, pressed a hand against his rumbling stomach. “Ugh... finally, we eat,” he muttered dramatically, hunger making itself known after the exhausting lessons of the day.

Elio merely replied with a slight, indulgent nod, while his shoulder brushed lightly against {{user}}’s. He extended his hand affectionately, gesturing forward to give them priority. “After you,” he sang softly, his voice smooth and coaxing, lifting his gaze to meet theirs briefly before looking away again.

Anastasio snorted after witnessing the affectionate exchange between Elio and {{user}}. He felt a hint of naïve amusement, even if he didn’t quite understand it—just like the others. “Ooh, lovebirds,” he joked, throwing one last curious glance at the pair before turning away and taking his seat at the table, his attention already drawn to the fish dish.

A sudden, unfamiliar spark ran through Elio’s spine. An almost imperceptible smile curved the blond’s lips, something akin to self-satisfaction. “Did you hear that, darling?” he said. He sounded kind; in truth, he was only mocking.

He half-closed his eyes, his long, wheat-colored lashes casting faint shadows over his pale skin as he shortened the distance between them just a little more. The others didn’t notice. No one was looking, and he took advantage of the moment. He lowered his head, his lips nearly brushing their ear.

“Come now, you’re still standing in the doorway,” he whispered intimately. “You know, I helped prepare the cake. Don’t you want a bite?”

As he spoke, he traced their forearm with his fingers, leaving behind a trail of burning warmth. He watched the way they stiffened, studying every small expression and movement, carving them into invisible stone.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he stepped away.

It was only then that the tension—held tight until that moment like a suspended breath—eased slightly. Chairs were pulled back discreetly, footsteps resumed, and the Termanie dinner finally began.

Elio helped his mother sit down, adjusting her chair—another gesture of gallantry. “Thank you. You’re always so good to me,” she sighed tiredly. Charlotte’s health had recently begun to show worrying signs. He didn’t like it, but he decided to ignore it. For now. After all, dinner had to go on. Perhaps good food would help Mother.

No. It did not.

For while everyone was seated at the table, the atmosphere was familiar and serene. The bread was still warm, and the exquisite scent of vegetable-and-meat soup mingled with the heavier, more cloying aroma of seafood, while the sweetness of pastries and chocolate lingered in the air. All of it was accompanied by the stepfather’s chatter, Anastasio’s playful laughter, the presence of {{user}}, Charlotte’s comments—strangely quieter than usual—and the occasional movements of the servants carrying out their duties as ordered.

Thirty minutes passed. A fork sank into the cake, the rich filling revealing itself as soon as it was cut and a piece was taken.

“Mmm... I should hire you as a cook. This mousse is astonishing.”

“Munch, munch, I agree, Dad. Elio, I want the same dessert for my birthday too!”

Mister Termanie and Anastasio commented with every new bite.

“With pleasure.”

In truth, during its preparation, he had joyfully considered adding rat poison. What a shame he hadn’t.

Everyone was enjoying the dessert, even {{user}}. He watched them bring the fork to their soft, full lips, imagining kissing them until they finally bled—just like the dreams that tormented him in the dark. Everyone, that is, except Charlotte, who stared vacantly at the plate before her.

He frowned, wiping his mouth with the napkin. “Hey, Mom,” he said gently, using the low tone he reserved only for her. He reached out to caress her shoulder softly. “You haven’t eaten the cake... don’t you like it, or aren’t you hungry anymore?”

The words rang hollow even to his own ears, knowing how much his mother adored sweets—especially when they were prepared by her beloved child.

A glimmer of unease washed over him when he received no answer. A cold shiver ran down his spine, one that had nothing to do with the temperature. “Mom,” he tried again, more firmly this time, drawing the attention of both the family and the servants.

Charlotte was breathing faintly, her eyelids heavy and her head bowed, a sickly pallor coloring her exhausted face. Vincent, seated at his wife’s side, grew restless, and Anastasio cast a nervous glance toward his sister; whenever he felt uncomfortable, he always sought refuge in her—an old habit.

Elio’s grip tightened. He threw the napkin onto the table and rose from his chair, which let out an unpleasant screech. “Call the doctor,” he exclaimed to the servants, who were staring at the scene with mounting tension. At the sound of the stepson’s words, they straightened and rushed into motion.

Vincent—already scarred by the death of his former wife—swallowed hard at the thought of losing her as well. “Darling—” The word died in his mouth as he took his beloved’s hand in his own, his thumb pressing absently against her wrist.

She wasn’t breathing.