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Just then, Evelyn came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
"Dinner's ready," she said plainly, in that calm, emotionless tone of hers.
Ethen turned his head slowly, looking like a ghost disturbed from meditation.
"Do I look like I'm in the mood to eat right now?"
Evelyn raised a brow. "You never look in the mood for anything. Honestly, you always look... dead."
His head snapped toward her instantly. "What did you just say?"
She smirked faintly. "Nothing. Eat if you want. Or don't. The food won't miss you."
He clenched his jaw, trying to keep his temper. "We can't do this wedding."
She stopped, turned halfway, and shrugged. "Perfect. That makes two of us. Finally, we agree on something."
"I'm serious," he said, his voice low and tense. "This can't happen."
"Wonderful," she said dryly. "I was getting tired of smiling for no reason anyway..."
"Wait!" Ethen snapped, taking a step forward. "Don't you even want to know why?"
She turned, staring blankly at him. "No. Because whatever comes out of your mouth next will be either stupid or dramatic-and I'm too tired for both."
Ethen stared at her in disbelief. "You are the most impossible woman I've ever met."
"And yet," she replied sweetly, "you keep trying."
He sighed in defeat, waving a hand. "Fine. Go. Do whatever you want."
"Gladly." Evelyn turned and left, leaving him standing there in silence.
A long pause followed. Then, Ethen exhaled
slowly-and glanced at the invitation cards again.
A small, sinister smile crept over his lips.
"Well then," he murmured, picking one up. "Let's make this official."
"Lady Marcelline... farewell," he murmured mockingly, flicking another card into the fire. "Lord Dunval... you were never invited anyway."
He smirked to himself, the glow of the fire reflecting in his eyes.
"And this one-oh, dearest one Helena-may your nose forever twitch at someone else's wedding, not mine."
He walked to the small indoor fire pit near the corner. One by one, he started tossing the cards in.
"Mr. Harold... no soup for you," he said mockingly, dropping a card in the flame.
"Verona... oh, you'd have worn something hideous anyway."
Another flicker of fire. Another smirk.
He leaned closer, whispering to the burning stack, "And you, dear roseline... will have a surprise waiting in the morning."
"Dinner's ready," she said plainly, in that calm, emotionless tone of hers.
Ethen turned his head slowly, looking like a ghost disturbed from meditation.
"Do I look like I'm in the mood to eat right now?"
Evelyn raised a brow. "You never look in the mood for anything. Honestly, you always look... dead."
His head snapped toward her instantly. "What did you just say?"
She smirked faintly. "Nothing. Eat if you want. Or don't. The food won't miss you."
He clenched his jaw, trying to keep his temper. "We can't do this wedding."
She stopped, turned halfway, and shrugged. "Perfect. That makes two of us. Finally, we agree on something."
"I'm serious," he said, his voice low and tense. "This can't happen."
"Wonderful," she said dryly. "I was getting tired of smiling for no reason anyway..."
"Wait!" Ethen snapped, taking a step forward. "Don't you even want to know why?"
She turned, staring blankly at him. "No. Because whatever comes out of your mouth next will be either stupid or dramatic-and I'm too tired for both."
Ethen stared at her in disbelief. "You are the most impossible woman I've ever met."
"And yet," she replied sweetly, "you keep trying."
He sighed in defeat, waving a hand. "Fine. Go. Do whatever you want."
"Gladly." Evelyn turned and left, leaving him standing there in silence.
A long pause followed. Then, Ethen exhaled
slowly-and glanced at the invitation cards again.
A small, sinister smile crept over his lips.
"Well then," he murmured, picking one up. "Let's make this official."
"Lady Marcelline... farewell," he murmured mockingly, flicking another card into the fire. "Lord Dunval... you were never invited anyway."
He smirked to himself, the glow of the fire reflecting in his eyes.
"And this one-oh, dearest one Helena-may your nose forever twitch at someone else's wedding, not mine."
He walked to the small indoor fire pit near the corner. One by one, he started tossing the cards in.
"Mr. Harold... no soup for you," he said mockingly, dropping a card in the flame.
"Verona... oh, you'd have worn something hideous anyway."
Another flicker of fire. Another smirk.
He leaned closer, whispering to the burning stack, "And you, dear roseline... will have a surprise waiting in the morning."
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