The pair stood in the doorway long enough that Oliver almost drew his attention back to the pit in his stomach, and instead decided he was done waiting for his father to speak first.

"Your Grace?" He said, adopting the sweetest voice he could muster. He hated the shrill sound and desperately craved some kind of bass to fill the hole it left in the room.

His father was silent a moment longer and had been staring emotionlessly at him the whole time they had been standing there. Oliver had begun to consider whether or not his father had become a statue when the man spoke.

"Good to see the designers did as I asked." The Duke stepped back, planting his hands behind him, one in the other, as he inspected her outfit once more. Oliver could almost feel his gaze as it trailed across his body and felt a sudden need to straighten his spine, along with a crawling of his skin that made him want to scratch it all off. "The dress suits you."

Prick.

"Thank you, Your Grace." Ophelia smiled, though it was more instinct than anything. He wasn't sure if the Duke meant it as a compliment or a statement. He flicked his eyes upwards for a second, making momentary eye contact with his father. The sharp, icy blue eyes of the toweringly tall man struck a bolt of fear through him and it took all his will to stop his limbs from shaking.

The Duke was tall.

Scarily so.

He had a whole two feet on Oliver, who was not far below average height. It cast a deathly shadow below the Duke's brow, and yet Oliver could almost see his harsh eyes glow. The heir was far too afraid of the father to even look him in the eyes on an average day.

The Duke had a well-trained poker face and any sign of emotion was considered a rarity, which made for a rocky foundation in a father-"daughter" relationship. As best a daughter and her mother's husband could be, honestly. Considering she was born out of wedlock and was not blood-related to her father, it was a miracle she inherited a pair of blue eyes. To the public, it was one of two things she shared with her father in terms of appearance, even if the blues were entirely different shades and he had no sign of those distinct flecks of gold that had captivated so many of Ophelia's suitors. The other was a set of pointed ears she got from supposedly, her real father.

The man was unnaturally tall and muscular, and unlike his pale and thin wife and daughter, had shimmering blonde hair that complimented his sunkissed skin he got from his years at sea, and from his sun-elf heritage that allowed him to absorb the light as if it were energy. At a glance, anybody would have deemed them strangers at best.

Even so, Oli held his head high. The "daughter" of a Duke was not to hang her head.

The Duke raised his in turn. With a nod, he began a lecture.

"Ophelia." The mere mention of the name was like an icy venom to his ears, a dripping poison from the hulking man's tongue. "You know this is quite an important occasion, don't you?"

It was a loaded question. Well, it wasn't really a question at all. More of a warning. A threat.

"Ophelia" nodded.

"You know this is your debut as a prospective wife, correct?" Oliver's skin crawled. "It is important to remember that your greatest chance is with His Highness, so while it is good to scope out powerful alternatives if he takes his time with his proposal, don't seduce anybody too hard and scare him away, hm?"

His blood boiled.

Alistair Guerriero had walked in on "Ophelia" on a date with a commoner in her mid-teens and had never let her live it down. If his respect - or tolerance - of her existence was already pretty thin before, after that it was a hair's width away from snapping entirely.

He hoped the red of his rage wasn't showing on his cheeks, and if it was, he hoped his father took it as bashful, hopeful evidence of Opehlia’s relationship with the prince.

The two were set up as "playmates" as children, which was basically an informal way for families to arrange marriages before their children's coming-of-age ceremonies. Beyond being set up with his highness, the two were best friends. If "Oliver" were ever to see the light of day Prince Aurelio would be the first to know.

In her amicable silence, the Duke continued. "It is also important to note that a powerful family's influence could greatly help improve life for the lesser duchies, so also consider any Viscounts and Lords and the like."

Even through his distaste, his smile remained firmly in place and he nodded sweetly as if the duke had said the best advice he'd ever heard.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

"Of course, your Grace." He never addressed the man as father, unless in public. He tried once but... never again.

There was some more silence between them, as her father cast an inspecting look over her once more, as she hung her head ever so slightly. After a second, he took half a step back, straightening his spine and raising his chin.

"Meet your mother at the head of the staircase. I will introduce myself to the party first, then you two may enter." He leaned forward, slowly. So that they were at eye level. However, Oliver knew it did not give him permission for eye contact and kept his eyes turned to their feet, flinching as his father's inched closer.

The Duke tilted to the side of Ophelia, eyes staring unfeelingly into hers, watching as she avoided his gaze. Then, he leaned back, seemingly satisfied, and turned away, walking down the hall with booming heavy footsteps.

Oliver did not raise his head until the thundering steps no longer echoed through the house, and only existed in the halls of his mind. It wasn't until a more delicate, quiet set of steps began to click down the halls that Oliver snapped out of his daze, raising his head to meet the gently wrinkled eyes of his mother. A small smile tugged at his lips and his mother returned the gesture.

There was nothing particularly happy, or bright, about their smiles, but there was a warmth shared between them, simply conjured by the fact that they shared the smile. They shared the space. They shared the warmth.

His mother said nothing, and simply offered out her arm for "Ophelia" to grab hold of. Oliver stared for a moment, frozen with indecision. It was as if the gesture of taking hold of the strong supporting arm were the last choice he would ever make for himself. That the moment he took hold and approached the wide stairs and grand doors, the moment his mother led his movements through the halls of this lavish prison, was the last time he would make a choice for himself.

He considered not taking her arm at all.

He considered walking into the hall alone, an act of defiance, his last act as himself.

He considered turning into his room, smashing his so-called priceless jewellery and grand furniture, throwing his mirror to the ground and using its fresh shards to slice off the long soft hair his family had lovingly cultivated for him for 18 years before walking into the bright hall. As himself.

But the distant pain in his mother's eye broke him from his hopeful delusion, the spark of love he occasionally saw when she looked at him flared brilliantly. He drew his attention to her arm once more. "Ophelia" tidied her hair before placing her arm in her mother's.

As they began to walk, Oliver ran a hidden glance over his mother and wondered once more about his origins. She was once considered the beauty of the season, many seasons even past her debut year, and now, she still was considered the most beautiful among her age group. When rumours of infidelity first spread about Ophelia's birth, younger noblemen would joke about her promiscuity, even going so far as to vulgarly claim a certain... desire for the Duchess. Their lands were seized and titles revoked soon after, once the Duke squashed the rumours out of existence... even though they were true.

She was taller than the average woman... often leading one to ponderjust how Ophelia managed to acquire a short gene from two tall individuals. Her parents claimed it was simply poor luck, and that Ophelia had inherited her grandmother's short genetics.

Nevertheless, the height of the Duchess was considered the only "ugly" attribute about her. Aside from being almost 6'0 tall, the woman was dainty, thin, gentle, kind and quiet. The perfect accessory for a war hero gifted with a noble title. She had glowing pale skin, much like Ophelia did, and flowing black hair, littered with silver strands, though the Duchess' was devoid of that blue undertone that left Ophelia's hair feeling so otherwordly. The soft curls were snugly pulled into a neat braided bun at the back of her head.

In her youth, the Duchess left rumours in her wake, of a cold rage and a frigid glare, of flowing dark hair like the cloak of Diomor himself, of wildness left untamed. And how Oliver wished he could see exactly that, but whatever strict and powerful strength that she had had in her younger years, all that was left was a soft woman who seldom said a word.

Their silent walk was not uncomfortable, it was one of the things Oliver liked about his mother's silence. He was not obligated to be anyone in her presence. When not speaking, he could almost cease to exist, he could be anybody he wanted, and his mother would not mind. It was the closest he ever came to truly, really being Oliver.

The walk soon ended as the pair arrived at the intricate, thick marble doors, engravings filled with gold. His mother almost seemed to freeze, and Oliver could have sworn he felt the warmth depart for a moment. His mother rested her other hand atop Oliver's linked arm, still. She smiled and her hand tightened around him slightly... almost... protectively? No. Couldn't be. He was simply being hopeful.

"Lia..." Her quiet, petite voice croaked as she crooned her neck down at Ophelia. "I love you."

It wasn't the spark of love in her eyes that he was expecting, nor was it the distant pain he presumed came from her past, and his birth. It was something new, something rumoured, at least a semblance of it.

Her jade eyes rested in Ophelia's gold-ringed pupils, a strange, unfamiliar coldness in hers that seemed to dive deep into Oliver's heart. He almost began to shake, the freeze shaking him inside out and that empty pit growing two-fold.

He was not afraid of this foreign sight. Of a rage within a woman of peace. He was afraid of the defiance the sight had stirred up within his soul, of what that rage had meant in the first place. Of what it meant his mother was hiding. Of what it meant about her silence.

Settling the shake in his limbs, he drew a breath, resting a hand on his mother's. The warmth had returned again, as Oliver knew – he just knew – that his mother was not lying. He raised his head high, stepping onto tippy toes to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead. "I love you too, Mama." He hadn't said such a thing since he was a child , but he knew now that the shards of his family were broken into pieces by his father and nobody else. That even if his mother was as much a prisoner as he was, they had each other at least.

The coldness in the Duchess' eyes had dissipated, left only by what had once been a simple spark of love, now a bright flame that left Oliver wondering how much of his mother's heart had been hidden from him.

Their smiles lingered, now transformed into masks, as they turned to the doors together. Truly, truly, together.