Chapter 7
800 Words
Three days before the wedding, everything at the Ravencourt estate appeared perfectly in place.
The floral team arrived at dawn. A three-tiered champagne tower was wheeled into the reception hall. A trial makeup chart was pinned neatly beside the vanity mirror—every stroke handwritten with care.
But Celia knew: not a single arrangement had been made with her in mind. She was simply the quietest part of the set design.
At 8 a.m., she woke to find the hem of her wedding gown slit open—deliberately, though not dramatically.
The seam had been picked through, the edges curled back. It was as if a sharp blade had been drawn from underneath, then shoved crudely back into place.
She didn’t call for anyone.
Instead, she sat down, lifted the torn fabric layer by layer, examined it in silence, then folded it back with a calm, almost ceremonial stillness.
Ten minutes later, a maid knocked with her breakfast tray.
Celia asked her to stay.
“There’s something I’d like to clarify,” she said mildly.
“Miss?” The maid blinked. “Is something wrong?”
“The gown,” Celia replied, laying out the corner that had been slashed. “Would you like to explain this?”
“I… I’m not sure… Perhaps during cleaning—”
“It wasn’t cleaned.” Celia’s tone stayed even. “It was still hanging last night. And I locked the wardrobe myself.”
Silence descended like a held breath.
The maid shifted uneasily. Then, in a murmur: “The Madam asked me… to keep an eye on your condition.”
Celia looked at her, neither angry nor surprised.
“What time?” she asked softly.
“Last night… around ten thirty. Your light was still on, so I—”
So she had been reporting. Not guarding. Not assisting.
Monitoring.
Celia rose, walked to the door, and opened it.
“Please gather your belongings,” she said. “Then explain to the Madam what exactly you reported last night. You may go now.”
The maid’s face drained of color. Her hands clenched involuntarily, but she said nothing more. Celia didn’t watch her leave. She simply left the door ajar.
Moments later, the sharp echo of heels broke the corridor’s hush.
Margaret Ravencourt stood at the threshold—poised, unsmiling.
“What happened?” Her gaze swept the room, pausing between the gown and the untouched tea tray. “I heard you dismissed one of the staff.”
Celia met her calmly. “I don’t wish to become a line item in someone else’s daily report.”
Margaret’s tone stayed gentle. “It was a basic safety measure.”
“If it’s truly about safety,” Celia said quietly, “why was she reporting when I turned off my lights?”
The older woman didn’t respond right away. She took a seat instead and poured herself half a cup of tea.
“You’re getting sharper,” she observed.
Celia stood motionless, one edge of her shawl looped through her fingers as if to anchor her against the morning chill.
“If there’s no suitable replacement within the house,” she said evenly, “I’d like to suggest someone from my side.”
Margaret raised a brow. “Whom do you have in mind?”
“Camille Riche. A distant cousin. She’s formally trained in etiquette and household operations, has experience as an executive assistant at a boutique hotel. She’s disciplined and discreet. I find it easier to work with her.”
There was no emotion in her tone—just a resume offered with precision.
Margaret watched her a moment longer. Something unreadable flickered across her expression.
Bringing one’s own people into the family’s inner circle was not a move a prospective daughter-in-law was supposed to make.
But it was clear now: this girl was no longer merely a polite placeholder.
“Very well,” she said at last, setting her cup down. “She may arrive tomorrow. You should focus on your wedding, not disciplining staff.”
“Thank you,” Celia replied, tilting her head ever so slightly.
She did not speak further, nor did she see Margaret out. Only when the door closed behind her did she finally move.
Silence returned.
She walked to the mirror, lifted the ruined hem again, and studied it a final time.
Then, with a soft breath, she picked up her phone.
“Tomorrow, 8 a.m.,” she said quietly. “Side entrance, Ravencourt estate. Don’t bring much. Observe first. If needed, I’ll send you a list.”
On the other end, a composed voice answered at once: “Understood.”
She ended the call and looked toward the window.
Dawn had risen fully now, casting long, combed shadows across the stone path below.
- Writer
