Chapter 11: Shattered Mirrors and the Couture Covenant
1020 Words
On the first day of her leave, Astrid slept until noon in her dilapidated apartment in Plum Blossom Alley.
She didn't rush to get up. Instead, she tapped her terminal to check the GPS coordinates of her vintage sedan—as expected, Julian had dutifully delivered it to the maintenance center. A smirk of derision touched her lips. Today had only one theme: reclaiming the Astrid she had lost.
She pushed aside the flats and conservative long skirts tucked deep in her wardrobe—clothes she had worn solely to cater to Julian. At 166 centimeters, Astrid wasn't short, but Julian wasn't particularly tall by werewolf standards. To avoid bruising his fragile masculine ego, she had once voluntarily clipped her own wings.
Now, she stepped into heels high enough to crush rumors and donned a dark, form-fitting pencil skirt. In the mirror, her lines were sharp and captivating; her golden hair cascaded like a waterfall, and her skin was so pale it was almost translucent—a sign that the vampire blood in her veins was on the cusp of awakening. She looked breathlessly regal.
"No more dimming my light for anyone," she whispered to her reflection.
Before leaving, her gaze fell upon the sofa. It was Killian’s blazer, lingering with the faint scent of silver fir. After a moment's hesitation, she draped it over her arm.
She spent the afternoon splurging in the couture district. Manicure, perm, and finally, she stepped into a top-tier private atelier hidden within a Gothic old building—Eden’s Tailor. The lead tailor’s appointments were booked through next year.
"I’d like to commission a shirt," Astrid said, resting the heavy blazer on the counter.
"My lady, any specific requirements?" The clerk, intimidated by her aura, spoke with profound respect.
"This is my fiancé’s... no, my boss’s jacket. I ruined his shirt and need a replacement tailored to this blazer’s cut. He prefers black, but I want this one in pure white." Astrid thought to herself that she didn't want to owe Killian anything, especially not a debt that made her heart race.
The clerk took the jacket, her eyes sweeping over the dark gold embroidered initials on the inner collar—"KV." Her expression shifted instantly. She lowered her head and whispered, "This involves a top-tier client's patterns. I must consult the Master. Please wait a moment."
Moments later, Astrid was invited into the quietude of the back courtyard. There sat a silver-haired, energetic old man tracing the seams of the blazer with deep, knowing eyes.
"Tailoring for a boyfriend?" The old man adjusted his spectacles, scrutinizing the blonde beauty before him.
"Just a repayment. I destroyed his clothes," Astrid replied, offering no further explanation.
The old man laughed, a sound laden with implication. "Destroyed? Was it ruined during a particularly... fierce 'struggle'?"
Astrid’s face flushed to the roots of her hair—the only remaining crack in her semi-awakened composure.
"Can it be done?" she asked.
"Since it is that Lord’s garment, of course it can. Let us exchange contact information. How shall I address you?"
"Astrid Lowe."
"No deposit required?" she asked, surprised.
"None. I could cut the measurements for this man with my eyes closed. Go home and wait for news, Miss Lowe." The old man waved her off, turning to answer a call that seemed of grave importance. Astrid didn't linger, turning to leave with a crisp stride.
Returning to her apartment at 7:00 PM, her phone was bloated with Julian’s nauseatingly "soulful" greetings. She swiped past them all.
But Isabella’s message pierced the silence with surgical precision: [Next Wednesday, my engagement party. I hope you, my ‘best friend,’ will be there to bear witness.]
Astrid gripped her phone so hard her knuckles turned white, her eyes rimmed with red. These greedy beasts had stolen her heart, and now they wanted her to be the corpse on display at their banquet?
[Congratulations. Who is your fiancé? You’ve never mentioned him.] Astrid replied with a cold sneer.
[You know him. When the time comes, the surprise will be unforgettable.]
Surprise? More like a horror show.
Astrid didn't cry. She calmly opened the live surveillance feed from her car. Since Julian hadn't returned it yet, a farce was currently playing out in real-time.
Julian was frantically demanding that Isabella have an abortion, while the woman shrieked back in a piercing rage. Julian tried to soothe her, saying shamelessly, "That was just a physical thing. My soul still belongs to Astrid. I will never marry you."
"What a pathetic play," Astrid muttered, pushing away her half-soaked instant noodles as a wave of nausea hit her.
Plum Blossom Alley was too cramped. It was time to move out of this territory built on lies.
The next day, Julian drove the car back. The moment he stepped inside, he saw the overbearing male blazer draped across the sofa.
"Astrid, this jacket..." Julian’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His werewolf instincts felt the threat of a much higher-tier predator.
"As you can see, I have a new partner. We’re over." Astrid was packing her luggage, not even looking back. Her voice was as rapid and sharp as a blade cutting through scrap metal.
"Astrid! It’s because of Isabella, isn't it? You’re retaliating against me!" Julian’s eyes instantly turned bloodshot—a sign of a werewolf losing emotional control.
He lunged forward, grabbing her wrist. Astrid turned her head, her eyes—once gentle—now as cold as permafrost.
"Let go. The scent on you makes me feel filthy," she countered frostily. "Since you’ve already chosen the heir to your bloodline, why perform this act of devotion? We are even, Julian."
"So... you knew all along?" Julian stood there, all strength drained from his body.
"Get out. Keep whatever shreds of your aristocratic dignity are left to cover your shame."
Astrid walked into her bedroom and slammed the door. Listening to Julian’s broken growls and retreating footsteps outside, she slowly leaned against the doorframe, letting the last few drops of tears fall.
The old world had collapsed. The new era of the Silver Bloodline was just beginning.
- Writer
