Royal and Ruined

The Anniversary

Sunday mornings at the Wonton estate never arrived quietly.

They came with footsteps, commands, pressed uniforms, and the constant pressure of time moving faster than anyone could comfortably follow.

Dahlia stood in the servant quarters already dressed in her work uniform.

A long black gown that brushed her ankles. A sharply starched white collar. A white apron tied tightly at her waist. A white cap that tucked her curly afro neatly underneath.

She adjusted the collar once.

Then smoothed the apron again.

Not because it was wrong.

But because control, even over fabric, made the world feel less unpredictable.

“Move quickly!” Mama Betty’s voice cut through the corridor. “Church does not wait for slow hands!”

Thomas and Deborah were already moving toward the main house. Dahlia followed, her steps steady, her expression calm. Today was not just any Sunday.

Today was St. Aurelia Cathedral’s 110-year anniversary.

St. Aurelia Cathedral stood in the capital like a living monument carved from centuries of belief and power.

One hundred and ten years of history.

Kings crowned within its walls. Queens blessed beneath its domes. Wars quietly forgiven in its confessionals. Alliances disguised as prayers.

Today, it was full to overflowing.

Outside, luxury cars lined the streets. Guards stood in sharp formation. The air smelled of perfume, polished leather, and carefully hidden ambition.

The elite had gathered.

And servants arrived separately.

Always behind.

Always after.

Dahlia stepped down from the carriage with the others, black gown brushing against the stone pavement.

Above them, the cathedral’s towers stretched into the sky, stained glass catching the morning light like fragments of color trapped in stone.

“Servants remain outside until summoned,” a supervisor instructed.

Dahlia nodded once.

She already knew.

Inside the cathedral, the atmosphere was entirely different.

Velvet seats filled every row. The front section held ministers, governors, wealthy families, and influential names that carried weight in silence.

And at the very front—

The Royal Family.

The King entered first.

The Queen followed.

Then their two sons.

The Crown Prince, Florian, walked slightly ahead. His expression was calm, distant, unreadable. Like someone present in body but not fully in spirit.

The Second Prince followed just behind him, his gaze already moving across the room, observing more than acknowledging.

The crowd stood instantly.

Heads bowed.

Smiles appeared.

Voices softened.

This was not just a church service.

It was a performance everyone had rehearsed their entire lives.

The Wonton family entered shortly after.

Mr. Wonton adjusted his jacket as they approached the royal section. His wife followed gracefully. Then came Agnes, Penelope, and Brandon.

They were dressed perfectly.

But Agnes, especially, had taken extra time that morning.

More than usual.

Dahlia had been the one to prepare them.

Earlier that morning, before the cathedral journey, Dahlia stood in the Wonton dressing wing.

Her work was simple but precise.

She helped Brandon first.

“Stand still,” she said calmly.

Brandon groaned but obeyed as she straightened his collar and adjusted his jacket cuffs.

“Why do I even have to go to church?” he muttered.

“Because your father is going,” Dahlia replied without looking up.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is for your household.”

He sighed but didn’t argue further.

Dahlia moved to Penelope next.

Penelope was already seated, tapping her fingers impatiently.

“Hurry up,” Penelope said. “I don’t want to be late.”

Dahlia knelt slightly, adjusting the hem of her dress so it fell evenly.

Penelope rolled her eyes but stayed still as Dahlia fixed the last detail of her outfit. A ribbon straightened. A fold corrected. A sleeve aligned.

Then came Agnes.

Agnes had not spoken much since morning.

That alone was unusual.

Dahlia entered her room and immediately noticed something different.

Agnes was standing in front of the mirror longer than necessary.

“Your hairpin is slightly tilted,” Dahlia said.

“I know,” Agnes replied softly.

But she didn’t fix it.

Not immediately.

Dahlia stepped closer and adjusted it for her.

Agnes did not move away.

Instead, she asked quietly, “Do I look… appropriate?”

Dahlia paused.

“You always look appropriate,” she answered.

Agnes’s fingers tightened slightly at her side.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Dahlia met her reflection in the mirror.

Then understood.

The Crown Prince.

Florian.

Agnes had heard he would attend.

And now every detail mattered.

Dahlia adjusted Agnes’s gown carefully. The fabric was already expensive, already flawless—but Agnes wanted more than perfection.

She wanted attention.

Not from everyone.

From him.

Dahlia tied the final ribbon at the waist.

“It is fine,” she said simply.

Agnes still looked at the mirror.

Then asked, softer, “Do you think he notices details?”

Dahlia did not answer immediately.

Then: “People like him notice everything. Just not everything matters to them.”

Agnes’s expression tightened slightly.

“That’s not comforting.”

“It is honest.”

That ended the conversation.

But Agnes continued looking at herself long after Dahlia left the room.

Now, at the cathedral, that effort followed her.

Agnes stood straighter than usual.

Smiled softer.

Spoke less.

But watched everything.

Especially the royal section.

Especially Florian.

Mr. Wonton stepped forward for introductions.

“Your Majesties,” he said with practiced respect. “It is an honor to attend this sacred anniversary with you.”

The King nodded.

The Queen smiled politely.

Florian barely acknowledged them.

The Second Prince, however, observed quietly.

Then the introductions began.

“Might I present my daughter—Agnes Wonton.”

Agnes stepped forward.

She bowed slightly.

Perfect posture.

Perfect timing.

Perfect smile.

But Florian did not look at her long.

Just a glance.

Then away.

Agnes held her expression steady, but her fingers tightened slightly at her sides.

The Second Prince, however, looked a little longer.

Not openly.

Not obviously.

But long enough for Agnes to notice.

And hope.

Outside the main hall, Dahlia stood with the servants.

Waiting.

Invisible.

Dressed in black and white like all the others.

The cathedral bell rang again, deep and steady, signaling the continuation of the 110-year anniversary service.

Inside, prayers rose.

Introductions continued.

Mothers pushed daughters forward.

Fathers straightened ties.

Everyone tried to be seen.

Dahlia remained outside.

And yet—

She had already been seen once.

Even if she did not know it yet.