I was still on the floor, wig askew and soul shattered, when the knock came again. Thud. Thud. THUD. Like a war drum.
"Mademoiselle Veyron!" A voice sharp enough to slice caviar. "Grandma Drevane demands your fattening!"
Fattening.
I scrambled up, heart hammering. Not fittings. FATTENING. Last night's sleepy mixup had become a nightmare. Are they going to stuff me like a holiday goose? Is this how Drevanes prepare brides? I yanked the wig straight, smoothed Selene's robe, and flung open the door.
Grandma Drevane stood there—a tiny hurricane in a pearl-gray suit, monocle glinting like a sniper's scope. Behind her, two butlers carried a silver cart groaning under things that should never be near a human:
• A tower of caviar blinis dripping with crème fraîche
• Foie gras sculpted into actual swans (RIP, little guys)
• Truffle-dusted steak tartare in a gold-leaf bowl
• A decanter of liquid so red it looked like blood
• And a single, terrifying syringe labeled "Drevane Vitality Elixir"
"Come, chérie," Grandma chirped, snapping her fingers like I was a stray terrier. "We haven't got all day. The grandchildren won't fertilize themselves!"
Grandchildren? I nearly choked. We haven't even had our first kiss!
The "fattening chamber" was the breakfast room—a sun-drenched hell where sunlight glinted off enough silverware to arm a small nation. Clarisse sat quietly at the table, sipping tea with the resignation of a woman who'd been force-fed before. Poor thing, I thought. Her ink-stained pinky trembled as she stirred honey into her cup. She's probably counting calories in her head.
Grandma didn't sit. She circled.
"Stand up, stand up!" she barked, poking my ribs like a butcher inspecting meat. "Goodness, child—you're all bone! How will you carry strong Drevane heirs if you're thinner than a librarian's patience?"
Ouch. She had no idea how accurate that was.
"Grandma," I said in Selene's airy tone, "I'm perfectly healthy!"
"Pfft." She waved a dismissive hand. "Selene Veyron, you are alarmingly underweight. The pre-wedding photos show collarbones. Collarbones! Do you know what collarbones say to the world?" She leaned in, monocle magnifying her fury. "WEAK GENES!"
Clarisse choked on her tea.
The Fattening Protocol (As Dictated by Grandma Drevane):
1. "The Blini Blitz"
Grandma shoved a caviar blini into my hand. "Eat! Caviar is brain food for future heirs. Think of the IQ points!"
Me, internally: This costs more than my mother's entire library. Also, I'm allergic to fish eggs.
Me, externally: Gagging while Selene's vacant smile beams. "Mmm! Tastes like… tiny ocean dreams!"
2. "The Foie Gras Fiasco"
She impaled a swan-shaped foie gras with a fork. "This builds uterine lining, darling. Vital for conception!"
Me, internally: That swan just looked at me with judgmental liver eyes.
Me, externally: Forcing it down while Clarisse slides her untouched blini onto my plate. Bless you, ghost-wife.
3. "The Vitality Vial"
Grandma uncorked the syringe. "This is Drevane Vitality Elixir—century-old brandy, gold flakes, and powdered rhino horn."
Me, internally: POACHED RHINO HORN?!
Me, externally: Spitting tea everywhere. "I prefer… uh… sparkling water?"
Grandma: "Nonsense! It's for the babies!" She jams the syringe toward my mouth like a mob boss.
Then Clarisse did something miraculous.
She stood up—so quietly Grandma didn't notice—and "accidentally" knocked over the decanter of blood-red wine. It cascaded across the table, dousing the Vitality Elixir in a river of Cabernet.
"Mon Dieu!" Grandma shrieked, lunging for the syringe. "The elixir!"
Clarisse dabbed her lips with a napkin, eyes wide with innocence. "How clumsy of me. But truly, Grandmère—isn't it better for the babies if Mademoiselle Veyron arrives at the altar alive?"
Grandma froze. The monocle slipped down her nose. For the first time, she looked… unsure.
Clarisse just saved me with table manners. I wanted to hug her.
Grandma's Grandkid Logic (As Explained Through Monocle-Trembling Fury):
"In 1892, my great-aunt Edith married a waif," Grandma huffed, mopping wine with a $500 napkin. "Look what happened! Three miscarriages! The Drevane line nearly ended because that girl weighed less than a doormat!" She jabbed a finger at my collarbone. "You, chérie, are this close to being a doormat!"
"But—?" I started.
"No buts!" She brandished the syringe. "Healthy brides = healthy heirs = strong bloodline! It's science!"
Clarisse murmured, "Perhaps… moderate portions?"
Grandma scoffed. "Moderation is for peasants and divorced Drevanes." She turned to me, suddenly earnest. "You want Cassian's children to have strong jaws, don't you? To not inherit weak chins like Julian's wife?" She glared at Clarisse, who suddenly found her teacup fascinating. "Jaw strength starts here." She patted her own formidable chin.
By the end, I'd eaten:
• 7 caviar blinis (now dreaming of fish nightmares)
• 3 foie gras swans (RIP, sweet swans)
• 0 syringes of rhino horn (thanks, Clarisse)
Grandma beamed, patting my cheek like a prized heifer. "There! You're practically plump already. Now this is a Drevane bride!"
As she swept out, monocle restored, Clarisse slid a folded napkin into my hand. Swan-shaped. One wing torn.
Inside, in her precise script:
Next time, pretend to faint.
Works every time.
—C
I bit back a laugh. This woman might be nice. At least, once in her life.
Later, in my suite, I stared at my reflection. Selene's wig sat crookedly on my head. My stomach churned with caviar and existential dread. Healthy grandkids? I pressed a hand to my non-existent baby bump. Mama's voice whispered: "Real power isn't in palaces, ma chérie. It's in knowing who you are when no one's watching."
I kicked off Selene's heels and padded to the balcony. Below, the Orada Sea roared—untamed, unmeasurable, free.
Grandma wants a baby machine.
Cassian wants a mannequin.
Marcella wants a library sold for scrap.
But out here, with salt on my skin and Clarisse's napkin in my pocket?
I am Amara Veyron.
Five years old, building blanket forts.
Fifteen years old, tracing scars in library dust.
Twenty years old, surviving caviar blinis and rhino horns.
And I will not be fattened into silence.