The Flower bud

**Chapter 3—Blood in the Snow**

The slap cracked through the grand hall like a gunshot, sharp and satisfying. The sting burned across my palm, hot and righteous.

Vince didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't lift a hand to defend himself. He just stood there, as if the violence had been expected—deserved, even.

He reached up slowly, fingers brushing the reddening mark on his cheek. A faint, unreadable smile touched his lips.

"There she is," he said, voice low and intimate.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The real you," he murmured, eyes locked on mine. "The girl who once said she'd rather burn a city to the ground than be silenced by it."

The memory struck like a slap of its own—vivid, unwelcome. We'd been thirteen, hidden in the clock tower, sharing stolen sweets and revolutionary dreams. I'd spat those words after my father dismissed my opinion in a meeting. Vince had laughed—not at me, but with admiration.

"That's my Lassie," he'd said. "Never change."

I hated that he remembered. I hated that I did too.

"That girl is dead," I said, voice like ice. "You killed her."

I turned to leave, needing distance, needing air.

But fate wasn't finished with me. The hem of my dress caught on the sharp edge of a console table. There was a sickening rip—fabric torn up the thigh. I stumbled, humiliated, clutching the ruined silk.

Behind me, I heard a low chuckle.

"Seems you've outgrown more than just your temper, Lassie," Vince said, voice smug. "Getting a little too comfortable living abroad?"

The implication landed like a slap of its own. Crude. Calculated. Meant to wound.

Rage boiled over. I turned to fire back—but the kitchen door swung open.

Tessa entered, balancing a tray with chips, dips, and two glasses of iced tea. She froze at the scene: my torn dress, my clenched fists, Vince's amused smirk.

"Oh, miss!" she gasped, hurrying to my side. "Your dress! Come—quickly—we must get you changed."

She ushered me upstairs like a bodyguard, shielding me from Vince's gaze. I let her. I didn't look back.

---

Tessa worked in silence, fingers nimble as she eased me out of the ruined gown.

"A shame," she murmured. "Such a beautiful piece."

I stood there, stiff and seething, fury pulsing under my skin.

"What would you like to wear, miss?"

"Something he can't comment on," I snapped. "Something utterly forgettable."

I chose a plain white button-down and worn dark jeans. Armor. Neutral. Mine.

Tessa gathered the torn dress and slipped away.

Alone, I forced steady breaths. I had to return. Hiding would be surrender.

---

He was exactly where I'd left him—reclined on a velvet divan, munching on chips.

He looked up as I entered, eyes sweeping my outfit. Something flickered there—disappointment, maybe. He said nothing.

"Tessa's torture devices are excellent," he quipped, holding up a chip loaded with guac. "Join me?"

I sat across from him, far away in a high-backed chair. I picked up a chip but didn't eat it.

"I asked for orange juice," he said, eyeing the glass. "But now I don't want it. Some habits die hard, I guess."

A clumsy olive branch. I ignored it.

He tried again. "So—Japan. Ryan says you mastered the naginata. That's impressive."

Silence.

"I heard the cherry blossoms were especially vibrant this year. Did you see them?"

Still nothing.

He sighed. "Lassiter, I know you won't believe me, but I am sorry. For a lot of things. What happened... it got away from me. It wasn't supposed to go that far."

My eyes snapped to his. "What was the plan, Vince? A little light humiliation? A clever rumor? What was the acceptable limit for betraying someone who trusted you completely?"

He looked down, jaw tight. "It wasn't like that. It was complicated. My father—Elara—"

"Don't." My voice was a whip. "Don't say her name."

Princess Elara of Lyra. Beautiful, calculating, vicious. She'd wanted everything I had—and she'd used Vince to get it.

"She whispered the right things, didn't she?" I hissed. "Told you a future king shouldn't be tied to the wild, unpredictable Luminaria girl. A false scandal would free you, clear the path for her."

He said nothing. He didn't need to.

Then his eyes dropped—to the open top button of my shirt. He stared.

The shift was sudden. Disgusting.

Whatever apology he'd offered had just morphed into something leering.

I stood so fast the bowl of chips rattled. "I'm done with this performance."

I didn't run. I walked. Each step a blade.

He called after me. "Lassiter—wait—"

I reached my door. Slammed it. Locked it.

He followed. I felt him there—a presence through the wood.

"Lassie..." His voice was small, raw. "Just open the door."

I slid to the floor, arms around my knees, forehead to them.

Eventually, I heard his retreating steps. A car engine. Silence.

---

I must have fallen asleep. I woke stiff and cold. The mansion felt hollow.

Downstairs, I found Ryan in his study, bent over maps and documents. He looked up, expression hard.

"They're gone," he said flatly.

"Who?"

"Vince. Jackline. He took her home. Said she wasn't feeling well." His eyes cut into me. "What did you do?"

"What did I do? He's the one—"

"I don't care!" Ryan exploded. "I don't care what he did when he was seventeen! I care about now! About this family. About the continent!"

He stepped around the desk, voice dropping. "There are seven kingdoms. Seven thrones. But only one Primordial Throne. And it belongs to a queen. It would belong to you soon."

The room chilled.

He let the weight of that title crush the air in the room. "The Conclave of Heirs in two days isn't a party, Lassiter. It is the single most important gathering outside of the sovereigns' own council. All eleven of us—every crown prince and princess from every nation—will be there. And every single eye will be on you. They will be measuring you. Testing you. Looking for any crack, any weakness, any hint that the Primordial Heir is not in control. That she is ruled by childish emotion."

He leaned in, his face inches from mine. "Your conflict with Vince Krueger isn't a private spat. He is the Crown Prince of Artemis, the second strongest nation on the continent. If the Primordial and the Artemesian heir are at each other's throats, it doesn't signal a 'lovers' quarrel.' It signals a continental civil war. It tells every other heir that the central power structure is fragile. It invites challengers. It invites chaos."

My breath caught.

"For once in your life," he whispered, deadly quiet, "can you stop being so selfishly right—and just be the queen we need?"

The words cut.

He didn't see betrayal. He saw inconvenience.

Political liability.

And something inside me didn't break. It settled.

I straightened. Coldness settled in my bones like armor.

"You're right," I said. "Forgive the outburst. It was beneath the Primordial Heir."

His expression shifted—confused, then pleased.

He thought he'd won.

He didn't see it: the girl he was lecturing had retreated. And in her place, the queen had arrived.

I gave a perfect, bloodless nod. "If harmony with Prince Krueger is what the continent needs, then harmony it shall have. You have my word."

I left him there, his triumph echoing in the silence.

---

Back in my room, I lay in the dark.

The slap. The torn dress. His laugh. His stare.

A heat bloomed in my chest. Not rage. Something older.

No. I shook my head. It's hatred. It's fury. It's—

But the image that clung to me wasn't of betrayal.

It was his shoulders in that black turtleneck. The way he'd said *"There she is."*

Damn it.

I buried my face in the pillow.

A soft knock at the door—three precise, deliberate taps. Not Ryan's impatient thud.

My blood ran cold. I knew that knock.

"Enter," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

The door opened without a sound. She stood there, a silhouette against the hallway's dim light. My mother. She wore a simple silk robe, her obsidian hair flowing freely, but her presence filled the doorway, commanding and absolute.

She stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her. She didn't need to lock it; her aura sealed the room.

"Lassiter," she said. Her voice was quiet, yet it seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards.

I sat up, pulling the covers to my chin like a child. "Mother."

She glided to the foot of my bed, her eyes—the same topaz as Ryan's, but infinitely more ancient—scanning me. She could see everything. The lingering anger, the shame, the unwanted flicker of heat. She always could.

"Your father and I have returned," she began, as if announcing a decree. "The Kruegers send their... regards. They found their departure rather abrupt."

I said nothing. There was no point.

"Ryan informed me of your... interaction with the Artemis prince." She let the title hang in the air, emphasizing his station, and therefore, my transgression. "A public display of temper is beneath you. A private one is a luxury you cannot afford."

She took a step closer. The air grew thinner.

"You believe your pain is unique. That your grievance gives you the right to fracture the fragile peace we have spent centuries maintaining." Her voice dropped to a whisper that felt like a blade against my throat. "You are wrong."

She leaned down, placing her hands on the footboard. The wood groaned under her grip.

"The Conclave will proceed. You will stand beside Prince Krueger. You will smile. You will be the picture of unity. You will make them believe the Primordial and Artemis are one unwavering front. Or you will answer to me."

She didn't need to raise her voice. The threat was in the stillness of her hands, the unblinking focus of her gaze. The kind of threat that wasn't carried out in shouts, but in devastating, irreversible silence.

She straightened up, her message delivered. She turned to leave, pausing only at the door.

"The girl who slaps princes is dead, daughter. See that she stays buried."

She left, closing the door with a soft, final click.

I was alone again. But the room no longer felt like a sanctuary. It felt like a cage.

My mother's visit had made Ryan's lecture sound like a gentle suggestion. Her words were law. Her disappointment was a sentence.

I buried my face in the pillow.

I would be a queen. I would be ice. I would be control. But first, I had to survive the look in my mother's eyes.