Chapter 22: The Unchosen King
The silence in the Ainsley estate had grown heavier these past few days. It was not the hush of peace, nor the quietude of contentment—it was the silence of unanswered questions, of fraying ties. Eva felt it like a slow current beneath her skin. Her father had not spoken to her since the morning he left with a letter clutched in his hand. Her mama, Evelyn, had remained by her side as always, gentle in her love but haunted behind the eyes. And Aunt Vivienne—fierce, stubborn, so sure—hovered like a second shadow, guarding without words.
But this wasn't about Eva—not entirely. This was about the man who had once believed he could rewrite fate.
Reginald sat stiffly in the cold marble chamber beneath the city. The Council was not a myth. They existed, and he now faced them.
The letter he'd received had said only one thing: "If you wish to keep what you believe is yours, come. There is much to learn."
And he came.
There were five of them—old, young, men, women, something in between or beyond. They weren't powerful in the way he had been taught to fear, but in the way that nature itself bent around them. Timeless and unreadable, they looked at Reginald as one might look at a child who wandered too far into grown-up affairs.
He did not bow. He was, after all, a Lioré. The heir of a dying dynasty—but an heir nonetheless.
"You've come," the woman with golden eyes said. "You read the letter."
Reginald remained standing. "I demand an explanation."
"No," replied the one with silver braids, "you do not demand. You ask. And only because we allow it."
His jaw tightened. "The letter claims Evangeline is not mine."
"She never was."
"You never copulate with Evelyn"
He clenched his fists. "Then whose is she? Evelyn's, I know. But how—?"
A pause. Then the youngest of the five, who looked no older than twenty, leaned forward with a slow smile. "A Maxwell secret."
Reginald blinked. "A… what?"
"Why do you think the Maxwell bloodline has never failed to produce an heir?" the elder woman asked. "No matter how small, no matter how thinned, the next child always arrives—flawless, powerful, controlled."
"That's—" He stopped. It wasn't a secret. It was a whisper. A suspicion in court circles, dismissed as luck or manipulation. "You're saying they can make heirs?"
"No," the silver-haired man said. "We're saying they can craft them."
Reginald's mouth went dry.
"You assumed the Lioré lineage was superior," the young one said with a hum. "But Lioré is chance. Sometimes brilliance. Sometimes madness. Maxwell is design. The only reason the Lioré line has survived is because of Vivienne."
Reginald's heart thudded.
"You mean—"
"Vivienne Liore is the only perfect Lioré specimen."
"And Evelyn?" he asked. "How—how could she—?"
"She chose Vivienne," the golden-eyed woman said. "As did we. When she asked for a child, we answered. We watched. We guided. And between the Maxwell legacy and Evelyn's wild brilliance, Evangeline was born."
He sat back in his chair, stunned. "But I—"
"You were never part of it," said the braided one. "You were never meant to be. Evelyn chose you out of compassion. Maybe even hope. But the blood? The bond? That belongs to Evelyn and Vivienne."
Reginald's voice cracked, the words breaking before they fully formed. "I raised her…"
"And she still calls you Papa," the silver-haired man said gently. "But you knew. You always knew something was different."
"She is—" His voice trembled with something between awe and fear. "She's not like anyone."
"No," the Council murmured in unison.
"She's a perfect specimen," one added, as if it were the simplest truth in the world.
"She could create a better world…"
"Or burn it down."
Reginald swallowed. "Which will it be?"
The answer came without hesitation. "That is her choice. It always has been."
He stood suddenly, his hands slamming against the table. "You're telling me I have no say?! That I raised a child for two years and now I'm nothing?"
"Yes," said the woman in gold. "You are nothing—unless you listen."
"You said if I wanted to keep what I believed was mine, I needed to come here. So tell me. What must I do?"
The braided one folded her hands. "Do nothing."
Reginald blinked.
"Support Evelyn," said the elder.
"Do not challenge Vivienne," added the younger.
"Let Evangeline grow," said the golden-eyed one.
"And when the time comes, accept your place," the silver-haired man said softly.
Reginald felt cold. "What if I don't?"
They all smiled.
"What happens if I try to use her?" he demanded.
"You will lose everything."
He sat back slowly. His pride scraped the edges of his dignity, but the terror nestled in his chest was real. Eva… wasn't his. Not by blood. Not by design. But she was his in memory, in shared laughter, in scraped knees and bedtime stories. He could not bear to lose her.
And yet, he already had.
*****
When Reginald returned to the Ainsley estate, he didn't speak to anyone. He passed Evelyn in the hallway and didn't stop. He brushed by Vivienne in the foyer and said nothing. And Eva—Eva looked up from the garden where she sat sketching alone, hope flickering in her eyes.
But he looked away.
Evelyn's gaze followed him as he disappeared.
"He knows," Vivienne said beside her, arms crossed.
"Yes," Evelyn replied. "And now we wait."
*****
Eva felt the shift like a cloud that never cleared. Her papa, who once picked her up without asking, who always asked about her dreams—now he barely looked at her.
"Mama," she asked one afternoon, "did I do something wrong?"
"No, my love."
But the ache lingered.
Aunt Vivienne still sat with her, still read to her, still ruffled her hair, but even she had grown more… careful.
And so, one night, Eva knocked softly on her aunt's door.
"Aunt Vivi?" she whispered.
Vivienne opened the door and immediately knelt. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"
Eva hesitated, then whispered, "Can I talk to you?"
The two sat on the bed. The night was silent but for Eva's soft breathing and the occasional rustle of wind outside.
"I think… I think I broke Papa."
Vivienne froze. "Why would you say that?"
"I don't know. He just… stopped. Looking at me. Talking to me."
"Oh, sweet girl," Vivienne murmured, pulling her into her arms.
"Is it because I'm weird?" Eva asked. "Because I'm different?"
"You are different," Vivienne said softly. "But that's not a bad thing."
"Then why does he look at me like he's scared?"
Vivienne didn't answer at first. Then, with her voice thick and low, she said, "There are things you're too young to understand. But one day, when you're older, we'll explain it all. Everything."
Eva looked down. "I just don't want him to stop loving me."
"He won't," Vivienne promised. "Even if he doesn't know how to show it."
At that moment, the door creaked.
Evelyn, surprised to find the room occupied, started to retreat, but Eva turned, eyes wide.
"Mama! Can you sleep here tonight?"
Evelyn smiled softly. "With you and Aunt Vivi?"
"Yes."
Vivienne scooted back and opened the blankets. "Of course."
Eva nestled between them, warm and safe.
For now, she didn't need answers.
Just arms around her, and the feeling—fleeting but real—that love, even complicated, still held her tightly.