Chapter 2
Scandal by Design: Gilded Light, Velvet Lies
In Marchioness Devon's salon
Lady Ophelia: Marchioness Devon, today I visited the Imperial Library and met Lady Chaeri there. She told me that the emperor has been favoring the Fifth Prince and he is displeased with the Crown Prince. Should I plan something?
Marchioness Devon: We can't trust her. I haven't noticed any shift in favor but the Emperor might be upset with the Crown Prince, as he doesn't ask about the Emperor's wellbeing. His Majesty is ill and might feel offended, so we have to make sure high society is unaware of this. We need an effective distraction.
Marchioness Elara Lysandra Devon
Ophelia's Closest Ally. The Salon's Queen.
With an effortless grace and a voice like velvet, Marchioness Devon is the sanctuary of the noble elite. Her renowned salon is where whispered secrets bloom over delicate teas and silk gowns brush beneath crystal chandeliers. Nobles come to her not just for beauty, but for comfort, counsel, and carefully crafted words.
She is gentle, warm, and endlessly loyal to Lady Ophelia—an unwavering friend in a court full of shadows. Her smile is a balm, her presence a shield.
But beneath that calm exterior lies a mind as sharp and twisting as a serpent's coil. Cunning and deceptively soft-spoken, she watches and weaves from behind the scenes, a master of subtle manipulation.
She is Ophelia's lady-in-waiting.
Some ladies in the salon chatting
Lady A: Lady B, do you know Lady Juliette is getting married to Sir Evan, the Crown Prince's close friend and knight.
Lady B: Yes! I heard they were recently betrothed.
Lady C: Wasn't Lord Evan the most eligible bachelor last year.
Lady A: Yes, what a pity, there were many lovely ladies after him but after he got knighted the number decreased. But there were still a lot of ladies who swooned after him.
I wonder why he chose Lady Juliette.
Lady C: Don't you know? Sir Evan chose Lady Juliette because of her humble and virtuous self.
Lady B: That is true, I have never seen her around men. That's why I wonder, how did she get a guy like that.
Lady C: Who knows?
Marchioness Devon: Did you hear those ladies?The daughter of Count Rowen, Lady Juliette, is betrothed now!
Lady Ophelia: Really? Well I have an idea. I'll ask Adrien for help.
A few days later
Ladies in the salon chatting
Lady A: Did you hear the latest news, apparently Lady Juliette had intimate affairs before marriage!
Lady B: I never knew she was such a temptress!
Lady C: I always thought she was a honourable and virtuous woman.
Lady B: How dare she seduce the Crown Prince's knight!
Lady A: It is a lady's duty to remain chaste before marriage even if she is betrothed.
Lady C: Shame on her!
Lady B: The temple should prosecute her!
Lady A: For sure!
Lady C: She is such a succubus!
Marchioness Devon: Your plan worked like a charm! Everyone is now busy badmouthing Lady Juliette and no one has a clue whether the Emperor is upset with His Highness, the Crown Prince.
Lady Ophelia: Oh Marchioness, you flatter me! It wasn't the most outstanding plan I ever made but if it worked it was good enough.
A week later
Maid: Milady, you have a letter from Lady Chaeri Rose of the Rudolf Dukedom.
Lady Ophelia: Tell Kate to set it aside with the rest of the letters I will read.
Maid: I shall do as you say.
Kate Chevalier was the most trusted maid and assistant of Ophelia.
Kate: Miss, aren't you going to read Lady Chaeri's letter.
Lady Ophelia: Hand it to me.
''To Lady Ophelia Skye Celestine Seraphina,
Lady Ophelia,
Greetings to the Swan of Seraphim,
May this letter find you basking in grace as always.
It would bring me great delight to host Your Ladyship for tea at the Rudolf estate this coming Saturday, under the soft golden light of the afternoon sun.
I trust the blooms will pale beside your presence, and the conversation will be as sweet as the pastries.
Your ever-devoted companion in high society,
Lady Chaeri Rose Rudolf. ''
Lady Ophelia: How outrageous! She dared to send me an invite to a tea party!
It is a societal rule for only higher ranking ladies to invite lower or same ranking ladies to tea. Does she not have basic social sense!
Even though we are both daughters of dukes, legally I'm the crown princess even though a formal coronation hasn't taken place. I still have rights to the Imperial jewels and treasury and am considered a part of the Imperial family, even though I have yet to live in the palace.
I was the one who chose not to hold a formal coronation until Asriel came back, yet she shows such impudence!
I shall show her where she really belongs! Kate! I shall wear the most luxurious dress to her tea party, embroidered with the Imperial jewels!
Kate: I shall prepare suitable dresses immediately!
Two days later
Kate: Miss, how about this dress?
Lady Ophelia: Too simple.
Kate: This one?
Lady Ophelia: Too soft.
A while later
Kate: Miss, I'm afraid we don't have a suitable dress. We shall get one tailored. Which designer should we select?
Lady Ophelia: Baroness Cher.
Kate: Baroness Cher?! She only makes dresses for the Imperial family and her costs are absurd! She also demands to decorate the dresses only with the most expensive jewels!
Lady Ophelia: Don't worry about it.
The day of the tea party
She arrived not as a guest—but as the living embodiment of the Empire's divine right to rule.
Her gown, titled The Imperial Swan, designed by the one and only Baroness Cher, was crafted by the royal atelier and blessed under the first full moon of the spring season. Woven from imperial moonweave and celestial silk, the fabric was so light it floated like mist, yet so richly layered it swept across the floor like an avalanche of light. The skirt trailed endlessly behind her, a long, flowing masterpiece embroidered with hand-beaded constellations, suns, and phoenix feathers in pure gold thread. With every step, it shimmered—a moving galaxy of white and gold.
The bodice was sculpted to divine perfection, corseted with threads of enchanted crystal, and adorned with floral sunbursts, delicate feathered wing motifs, and celestial vines trailing down her waist. From her shoulders flowed gold-laced veils like ethereal wings—diaphanous and heavenly—rippling in the wind like the banners of a goddess descending to Earth.
And then, the jewels—a declaration of both opulence and dominance.
More than five necklaces adorned her throat: a diamond sunburst choker, a chain of moonstones, a canary diamond centerpiece, a lotus blossom sapphire matinée, a pearl princess necklace, two trailing white opal lariats that sparkled like stardust. Her arms were circled in gold and gemmed cuffs and bangles, her gloved fingers bore ten ornate rings—each a different rare gemstone. Her earrings, long and radiant, mirrored miniature chandeliers of fire and frost, dripping with rubies and diamonds.
But the true crown was her halo tiara—crafted in the shape of sun rays, forged from molten gold and set with a massive opal at its heart, glowing with a rainbow of light. It sat upon her head not as a piece of jewelry, but as a celestial proclamation: this is your future Empress.
Lady Ophelia: She has got to be kidding me!
Empty. The garden was silent, save for the soft rustle of blossoms and the faint hum of distant birdsong. No one else was present—only Chaeri, poised like a dark queen in the sculpted marble gazebo, its intricate columns framing her like a throne.
She waved with a slow, deliberate grace, eyes glinting with a mocking edge as she regarded Lady Ophelia's resplendent entrance.
"Dressing like she owns the very sun itself," Chaeri's gaze seemed to say, equal parts admiration and challenge.
She did not arrive to compete—she arrived to conquer, silently.
Title–Serpent's Grace. Draped in a gown of raven-black silk and deep imperial violet, Lady Chaeri was a vision of restrained power. The dress was deceptively simple: sleeveless, with a high, lace-embroidered neckline that curled like smoke up her throat. The bodice fit like a whispered threat—structured, unforgiving, perfect. Her floor-length skirt spilled behind her like liquid shadow, lined subtly with black lace in the shape of coiling serpents and thorned roses. It made no sound when she walked—only silence followed.
No glitter. No gems. Just obsidian drop earrings, a thin black diamond choker, and one statement amethyst ring, shaped like a dragon curled around her finger. Her gloves were sheer lace, long and fingerless. Her only adornment was intent.
Her hair was swept into a sharp, twisted crown braid, held in place by onyx pins shaped like thorns and crescent moons. A dark netted veil fell just over her eyes, adding mystery to the quiet curve of her lips.
She looked like temptation given form—a dark angel cloaked in elegance, the queen of whispers.
And when she smiled?
It felt like velvet-wrapped poison.
The garden, drenched in golden light, seemed to hold its breath.
At one end stood Lady Ophelia, bathed in the radiance of the sun itself. Her gown shimmered like divine light incarnate—white and gold, embroidered with constellations and phoenixes, trailing behind her like the train of a goddess. Jewels sparkled from every finger, neck, and ear, her tiara gleaming like a sunburst halo. She did not walk; she descended.
At the other end sat Lady Chaeri, draped in velvet-black silence and imperial violet, her figure sharp in a gown that whispered danger. No shimmer, no shine—only lace like serpents, a crown braid like coiled steel, and the glint of obsidian and amethyst that spoke of secrets too old to name. She rose slowly, like a shadow unfolding.
Two extremes.
Light and dark.
Opulence and restraint.
The swan and the serpent.
Their eyes met.
And in that instant, the air between them crackled—not with spoken words, but with a deeper, older tension. Power sparked silently, unseen but undeniably felt. The garden bloomed and withered all at once beneath their gazes.
One smiled like dawn breaking.
The other like twilight devouring the sky.
Their curtsies were flawless.
Their hatred, divine.