The Virell Estate glittered differently by evening.
Lanterns floated above the garden ballroom like low stars, casting a soft golden sheen over polished marble and manicured blooms. A string quartet, now accompanied by a vocalist, had shifted from formal hymns to something slower, something older—melodies meant for closeness.
Guests gathered in an elegant circle around the polished dance floor, where the new bride and groom now stood at its center.
Dahlia, resplendent in a second, more flowing gown of pearl white and lilac hues, extended her gloved hand to Frederick. He bowed, gently pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and the music began.
Their steps were graceful—Frederick's tall, composed figure leading Dahlia's softer, more fluid movements in perfect rhythm. They swayed in silence as all eyes fell upon them, and then—
A voice called out from the MC's stand.
"As tradition bids, let the first dance of the newlyweds be blessed by the presence of wedded couples. Will the honored guests join the floor?"
Couples began stepping forward slowly—some with laughter, some with practiced grace. But before Seraphine could even consider joining, she felt it—Callum's hand brushing gently over hers.
She turned to look at him. His face bore no command, only quiet certainty.
"Dance with me?" he asked.
His voice was low, almost uncertain. As though he hadn't the right to ask her, and yet, needed to anyway.
Seraphine blinked. She hadn't danced since the military ball two years ago. And certainly never here, in this kind of crowd. But there was no reason to refuse.
No reason, except the ache still raw beneath her ribs.
Still—she gave him her hand.
They were the first to step onto the dance floor.
The quartet didn't pause, and neither did the murmurs of surprise that rippled through the crowd.
Callum Virell, whose name had long been entangled with Dahlia's in gossip and history, now danced with the woman who held his surname—Seraphine Elion Virell.
He placed a hand at the small of her back with quiet respect, his other hand cradling hers. She followed his lead instinctively, the fabric of her gown brushing against his tailored slacks. They moved slowly, a quiet rhythm between them—elegant, rehearsed yet deeply personal.
Seraphine's eyes stayed low at first, then slowly rose to meet his. He wasn't looking at Dahlia. Not once.
Other couples followed—generals with their wives, business heirs with elegant spouses. The floor filled, but all she felt was the silence between her and Callum. A silence neither heavy nor light, but peaceful.
Then came the traditional shift—the moment in the dance where couples exchanged partners, symbolizing unity among families.
A soft voice from a steward approached Callum's shoulder, "Sir, it's time."
Callum looked at the steward, then across the floor—where Dahlia was already moving toward him, her eyes meeting his gently.
Seraphine felt her hand about to be guided away.
But Callum turned to the steward and, without hesitation, said, "No. I'll stay with my wife."
The words were clear.
Audible enough for several guests nearby to hear, yet not boastful. His tone was final, without apology.
Instead, he stepped away from the steward, crossed the slight divide, and took Seraphine's hand once more before anyone could guide her away. Without ceremony, he pulled her back into the dance.
And this time, it was different.
There was something deliberate in the way his hand settled at her waist again. His hold was not tight, but anchored. His eyes—still lined with quiet pain—held hers for longer.
Seraphine didn't say a word.
But something inside her shifted.
It wasn't forgiveness.
It wasn't love.
But it was warmth. Admiration. The kind that started not from grand gestures—but from restraint. From choosing not to chase ghosts.
They danced until the music faded.
No more switching. No more spectacle.
Just Callum and Seraphine, standing at the end of a song that belonged to someone else—but somehow became theirs for a fleeting moment.
---
The carriage ride home was quiet.
Stars scattered overhead, hidden behind the soft tint of the windows. The cityscape blurred past in streaks of gold and blue. Callum hadn't let go of her hand since they left the estate, his palm warm around hers.
She didn't ask why.
She just held it back.
At the final turn toward their estate, just as the driver slowed by the last security gate, Callum broke the silence.
"I wish them well," he said softly, almost like a benediction.
Seraphine turned her head, brows furrowing faintly.
"I really do," he added. "May they find joy… and stay better to each other than we ever were."
His thumb brushed over her knuckles once, absently.
She looked at his profile—his words were steady, but the shadows in his eyes told another story.
And then, as they passed the last of the lanterns and the estate walls glided behind them, she noticed it.
Dahlia.
She had stepped out briefly from the ballroom doors, standing under a lighted trellis as guests began returning to the banquet.
Her head was tilted slightly.
Her eyes, unmistakably, followed their car.
Followed him.
And Seraphine—composed, unreadable, a soldier to the last—felt it like a quiet blow.
That look in Dahlia's eyes wasn't nostalgia.
It was longing.
It was love. Still.
And maybe even regret.
Callum didn't see it.
He had turned his head, eyes closed, leaning against the window like the exhaustion of the day had finally reached him.
But Seraphine did.
She saw it all.
And for the first time, she didn't feel victorious.
She felt… tethered.
As if she were now the keeper of a fragile thing neither of them had fully claimed.
His grief. Dahlia's love. Her own growing ache.
And yet, as the car pulled into the private courtyard, as Callum gently squeezed her hand before letting go, Seraphine did not pull away.
She walked beside him, shoulder to shoulder, into the house they shared.
And though neither said a word, something between them had changed.
Not fully healed.
Not yet whole.
But no longer broken in silence.