You Should Call Me Aunt

Talia frowned, stepping squarely between the vanity and the arrogant servant. "The Duchess just woke up. Why rush her over so urgently?"

The matron let out a sharp snort. "Of course. The Duchess hails from a military household, noble and honored, handpicked by His Majesty. No wonder she looks down on a widowed matron like Lady Beatrix."

Talia froze, her eyes widening in disbelief. "When did I ever say that?"

"If you lack the ability to explain what you mean, then you had better not speak at all."

With just those few sharp words, the older woman shut Talia down. She turned her piercing gaze toward the vanity. "Your Grace, what do you say?"

Beatrix had sent a woman with a tongue like a blade, determined to put the newlywed Duchess in her place on the first morning of her marriage. Oriana understood the tactic. Meeting the woman's judging stare, she offered a pleasant smile.

"I should indeed go pay my respects to Lady Beatrix."

Her tone sounded gentle and agreeable, but the phrase 'pay my respects' carried a calculated edge.

The matron lowered her chin a fraction. "Your Grace misunderstands. It is not a formal courtesy visit, just a meeting between family."

Oriana acted as if she had not heard the correction. She kept her posture relaxed but authoritative. "General Desmond gave his life to save the Duke on the battlefield. His widow deserves the utmost respect from everyone in this household. I admire Lady Beatrix as well. Going to pay my respects to her today is only proper."

Seeing the matron look pleased, her posture reeking of smugness at the thought of bending the new Duchess to her will, Oriana curved her lips just a bit more. She sprang her trap with flawless execution. "So, please trouble yourself to make a quick trip to the royal palace before I depart."

The matron blinked, her smug expression turning into plain confusion. "To the palace?"

Oriana smiled serenely and nodded. "Yes. You need to formally report to the King. Instruct him that since Lady Beatrix, as a war widow, apparently holds higher precedence, the new Duchess must naturally pay her respects to Beatrix first before going to see His Majesty and Her Majesty. It is a matter of royal protocol, after all."

The matron went dead still. Panic flickered wildly in her chest as the treasonous implication crashed over her. Suggesting that a Duke’s relative should be placed above the King and Queen would be enough to cost a person their head. How could she dare harbor such blatant disrespect toward the crown?

Her arrogance melted into a terrified, forced smile as she frantically backpedaled. "Your Grace is joking. Naturally, the King and Queen come first."

Oriana kept smiling, her voice smooth and unbothered. "Since you understand the rules of precedence, go back and tell Lady Beatrix that I will graciously visit her only after I have thoroughly finished my own royal duties."

The matron stood rooted to the floor for a long moment. She could not find a single word to fight back. This orphaned daughter of a general looked soft and delicate, yet she possessed a spine of steel. She was not easy to bully.

The servant murmured a weak acknowledgment, turned on her heel, and retreated from the bedchamber. Oriana turned back to her vanity and resumed getting ready.

Talia hovered near the mirror, her voice dropping to a low whisper. "Your Grace, are you really going to see Lady Beatrix?"

Oriana picked through the array of hairpins scattered across the tabletop, choosing her pieces with care. "She is my aunt by marriage, and she is the widow of a fallen hero. I will see her. But when I go, that decision will be made by me, not by her."

It boiled down to a matter of who held the upper hand. Remembering the ruthless, cutthroat household survival tactics painstakingly taught to her by her late sister-in-law, Oriana knew deep in her bones that she could never surrender dominance on her very first day. If she lowered her head the moment she stepped through the door, her future days in this manor would be nothing but endless misery.

Her sister-in-law had hailed from a centuries-old noble family, a sprawling estate packed with wives, concubines, and scheming children. In her own words, she had witnessed every flavor of manipulator and every brand of trickery. The battles fought behind closed doors within those grand households were often just as bloody and unforgiving as the battlefields the Thorne men faced. Once her sister-in-law married Oriana's brother, the family stopped playing those exhausting games. Finding herself with free time, the older woman had taken to instructing Oriana in the art of domestic warfare.

Oriana was the only daughter. Her sister-in-law had passed down a treasure trove of harsh realities and defensive strategies. In her previous life, Oriana never had a chance to wield those lessons. Now, the battlefield lay right beneath her feet.

After completing her morning preparations, she requested the carriage to be readied. Oriana headed out, accompanied by Talia and another maid from the manor named Lina.

"I am not drunk. I am not drunk! I can still put away three more barrels!"

Just as Oriana stepped out into the crisp morning air, a loud, obnoxious commotion near the estate gates abruptly interrupted her departure.

Following the raucous noise, she spotted an unfamiliar carriage halted near the entrance. Two men dressed in the rough tunics of tavern workers were struggling to help a young man step down. The young man wore garments woven from fine, luxurious silk. The greenstone circlet resting on his head sat crookedly against his messy hair, and dark wine stains ruined the edges of his expensive sleeves.

He staggered clumsily onto the cobblestones, barely managing to keep his balance. With a sudden burst of aggressive energy, he slapped at one of the tavern workers trying to support his arm.

"Do you know who I am?" he cursed loudly, his voice echoing across the courtyard. "The Duke is my cousin! The Dowager watched me grow up with her own two eyes. I have even seen His Majesty in person. Untouchable, do you hear me?"

The struck worker cradled his stinging face, not daring to argue with a noble. The other hands murmured soft, coaxing words, desperately trying to calm the aggressive drunk.

Oriana paused her steps, a frown creasing her forehead. She glanced at the maid beside her. "That is the Duke's cousin?"

Lina nodded quickly. "Yes, Your Grace."

Oriana searched her memory and recalled the name. Silas Alden. He was a notoriously debauched playboy known throughout the capital for his endless appetite for wine and women. He practically lived at the Crimson Lantern. Yesterday, while she stood at the altar marrying Gideon, this cousin had deliberately skipped the grand wedding so he could sleep with a courtesan.

What a deplorable state of relatives Gideon had graciously brought into his household.

Sighing silently at the sheer mess surrounding her new life, Oriana ignored the drunkard and stepped straight into her awaiting carriage.

Because of her swift, unbothered movement, she did not notice that a pair of eyes had locked onto her. Through a narrow gap in the blooming flowering trees lining the courtyard, Silas caught sight of her profile.

That exceptionally fair, delicate face struck him with the sudden force of a heavy stone thrown into still water. The visual impact instantly cleared his drunken haze. His blurry vision sharpened into wide-eyed amazement. He stopped his aggressive thrashing, swatting away the hands of the tavern workers as he stood mesmerized.

Silas rubbed his flushed face with the back of his hand, trying to ensure he was not hallucinating the stunning beauty. He aggressively grabbed the collar of a passing estate servant, yanking the man close. "Who was that girl? Tell me right now. Why have I never seen her before?"

The startled servant stammered, recognizing the royal crest on the retreating vehicle. "That... that was the new Duchess of Grimwood, sir."

"The Duchess?"

Silas frowned, his alcohol-soaked brain slowly piecing together the events of the previous day. His formidable cousin had gotten married yesterday, a grand affair that Silas had completely skipped in favor of a warm bed at the Crimson Lantern. He stood silently in the driveway, watching the ornate carriage roll away toward the royal palace.

A slow, deeply creeping smile spread across his flushed face. He let go of the servant's collar, dusting off his own wine-stained sleeves as he amusedly muttered to himself.

"Wait. My cousin is still unconscious. He lies in that bed like a corpse." Silas chuckled, a dangerous, lustful interest stirring in his chest. "She couldn't possibly have consummated the marriage last night on her own. What a waste of a beautiful bride."

The carriage arrived at the royal palace, and Oriana prepared to formally present herself. By the established customs of the realm, a newly married woman holding Oriana's high rank was expected to present herself at court soon after her wedding ceremony. Since the former King and Dowager Diana had both passed away years ago, her eldest brother now stood in the place of her father. Therefore, Oriana walked the grand corridors of the palace today not as a daughter of the Thorne family, but stepping fully into her new identity as the Duchess of Grimwood, ready to present herself before the King and Queen.

She had timed her arrival to perfection. By this hour, the royal ladies would have already concluded their morning gatherings and retired to their respective quarters, while the final hours of court business were slowly winding down. If fortune favored her, she would have a quiet, undisturbed moment with the Queen before the King arrived to join them.

There was just one unexpected obstacle she had not anticipated.

While waiting in the vast, echoing hallway outside the Queen's grand double doors, she unexpectedly ran into Evander.

He stood near a massive stone pillar, looking remarkably thin. His frame carried the lingering, pale signs of his recent sickness. He was staring aimlessly at a corner wall, looking as if he were lost in a daze, searching for something that did not exist. Yesterday, Percival had mentioned that the Crown Prince was ill, which explained his absence from the morning court.

Oriana felt a brief wave of indifference. Whatever troubled him had nothing to do with her anymore. Still, strictly out of courtesy and protocol, she paused her steps, smoothed her skirts, and offered a polite greeting.

"Your Highness."

Evander looked up at the sound of her voice. His eyes widened, taken aback by the sight of her head.

Among the high nobility of Valdoris, an unmarried maiden might wear her hair cascading loose down her back, but a married woman adhered to strict tradition. Today, Oriana’s hair was intricately braided and firmly bound into a crown-like coil, fastened securely with gleaming silver combs and small jeweled pins. It was the absolute, undeniable mark of a married woman.

The powerful visual image shattered the last of his lingering, desperate dreams of her. The phantom memory of her standing in a royal bridal gown, smiling warmly at him as she had in his deepest fantasies, flickered in his mind and crumbled into dust beneath the harsh reality standing right in front of him.

She was not smiling. Seeing her cold, distant expression as she looked at him like he was nothing more than a stranger, a sudden irritation stirred in his chest. The lingering effects of his sickness only made the anger flare hotter.

His voice came out low, bitter, and edged with a deep resentment as he addressed her by her first name. "Oriana. Marrying my uncle, you must be very pleased with yourself, right?"

Oriana looked at his pale face and simply shook her head. She flatly said, "No."

Evander's intense gaze trembled slightly. A tiny, pathetic flicker of hope rapidly rose in his chest. She said no. Did that mean she wasn't happy with her choice? Did she regret walking away from him?

He opened his mouth to speak, to perhaps ask if she wanted to take it back, but before a single sound could leave his throat, Oriana's expression hardened into strict authority.

She stepped into her new role, adopting the calm, condescendingly lecturing air of a strict elder. She corrected him sharply.

"You should call me your aunt."

Evander froze in his tracks. The tiny flicker of hope inside him was snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a chilling realization. When she said no, she had not been talking about her feelings toward the marriage. She was shutting him down. She was correcting his form of address.

Oriana locked eyes with the Crown Prince, asserting her new hierarchical dominance over him without a single ounce of hesitation. She coldly delivered her final verdict.

"Calling me by my given name just now was extremely improper. You have very poor manners."