The invitation arrived three days later.
Not to me—but because of me.
A formal dinner. Full attendance. No excuses.
When the head butler informed me, his tone was carefully neutral, but his eyes lingered just a fraction too long, as if gauging whether I would explode, sulk, or refuse outright.
"Including," he added after a pause, "the House of Valenridge."
My chest tightened.
Her house.
My parents hadn't done this lightly. They never did anything lightly—not when reputations, alliances, and futures were involved. The fact that both her parents and her older brother were attending meant this wasn't a casual reconciliation attempt.
It was a test.
And a risk.
I nodded. "I understand."
The butler blinked.
That was all. No complaints. No sarcasm. No cutting remark about being ambushed.
"Yes, Young Master," he said after a moment, bowing before withdrawing.
I remained standing where I was for several seconds after the door closed.
Then I exhaled slowly.
This was inevitable.
We hadn't spoken since the argument.
Not the engagement-breaking argument—that nightmare still lay ahead in the original timeline—but a smaller one. Smaller, yet poisonous enough to rot everything if left unattended.
I had accused her of looking down on me.
She had accused me of projecting my insecurities onto her.
Both accusations had been true.
In the original timeline, I never apologized.
I let pride fester. Let silence grow. Let resentment turn into spectacle.
This time…
I closed my eyes.
This time, I'll face it.
The dining hall felt colder than usual that evening.
Candles burned in carefully measured symmetry, their flames steady, reflecting off polished silver and crystal. The long table had been extended—neutral ground, meant to accommodate equals.
My father sat at the head, posture impeccable. My mother beside him, expression calm but watchful.
Across the table, the guests were announced.
The Duke and Duchess of Valenridge entered first.
Her father—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that commanded a room without effort. Her mother followed, elegant and composed, eyes sharp enough to miss nothing.
Then her brother.
He was older than us by several years, already a rising figure in both martial and political circles. His gaze swept the room, then landed on me.
It hardened.
And finally—
She entered.
My fiancée.
She wore a pale blue dress tonight, simple by noble standards but tailored perfectly. Silver hair fell down her back in a smooth cascade, catching the candlelight like frost.
She did not look at me.
Not even once.
The air shifted subtly, tension threading through the room like a drawn bowstring.
We all took our seats.
Polite greetings were exchanged. Formalities observed. Compliments offered and received like ritual sacrifices to civility.
Food was served.
Conversation began—carefully neutral topics at first. Trade. Weather. Academy rumors.
No one mentioned the argument.
No one mentioned the engagement.
But everyone was aware of it, like a blade laid bare on the table between us.
I ate slowly, appetite subdued, senses attuned to every flicker of expression.
Her brother watched me openly now, arms crossed loosely, posture relaxed—but his eyes were sharp.
Waiting.
The moment came halfway through the main course.
My mother set her fork down delicately.
"There has been… distance," she said, her tone mild, conversational. "Between our families. We felt it best not to let misunderstandings linger."
Her mother inclined her head. "We agree."
Silence followed.
I felt every gaze shift toward me.
This was it.
In the original timeline, I would have scoffed. Deflected. Made a cutting remark to regain control.
Instead, I set my cutlery down.
I stood.
The chair scraped softly against the floor, sounding far louder than it should have.
"I would like to speak," I said.
My voice didn't shake.
Her brother's eyebrows rose a fraction.
My fiancée finally looked at me.
Her eyes were calm.
Guarded.
Not hostile—but not warm either.
I turned first to her parents and bowed.
Not the shallow nod of a bored noble.
A full, formal bow.
"I owe you an apology," I said clearly. "For my behavior during my argument with your daughter."
A ripple passed through the table.
I continued before anyone could interrupt.
"I spoke from insecurity and frustration rather than honesty. I accused her unfairly and failed to consider how my words would affect not only her, but the bond between our houses."
Her father's gaze sharpened.
Her mother's expression softened—just slightly.
I straightened and turned to her brother.
"And to you," I added. "I apologize for placing you in a position where you felt you had to defend your sister from me."
His jaw tightened.
"…You should," he said bluntly.
I nodded. "I know."
Finally, I faced her.
She met my eyes without flinching.
"I was wrong," I said quietly. "I don't expect forgiveness. But I won't pretend the fault wasn't mine."
The silence stretched.
Then her brother stood abruptly.
The sound of his chair echoed like a challenge.
"So this is what we're doing now?" he said, eyes locked on me. "You insult my sister, question her intentions, then apologize because your parents arranged a dinner?"
The accusation was sharp.
Fair.
I didn't look away.
"No," I said. "I apologized because I meant it."
He stepped closer, looming slightly. "And what changed? You woke up one day and decided not to be an arrogant fool anymore?"
"…Yes."
The bluntness seemed to catch him off guard.
I continued, voice steady.
"I don't ask you to trust me. I don't even ask you to like me. But I will not repeat that mistake."
He studied me in silence.
Long seconds passed.
Then he snorted quietly and returned to his seat.
"Hmph. You're still an idiot," he muttered. "But at least you said it properly."
That was… more than I deserved.
Her parents exchanged a glance.
Her father spoke at last.
"Words are easy," he said. "Change is not."
"I understand," I replied. "Judge me by my actions."
Her mother nodded slowly. "We will."
All eyes returned to her.
She had not spoken yet.
She rose gracefully, smoothing her dress.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
"I accept your apology," she said calmly.
Relief flickered in my chest—but it was tempered immediately by her next words.
"Not because I am convinced," she continued, "but because I am willing to observe."
Her gaze didn't soften.
"Do not mistake acceptance for absolution."
"I won't," I said.
She inclined her head once and sat back down.
The tension eased—slightly.
Conversation resumed, though cautiously at first. The edge had dulled, if not vanished.
By the time dessert was served, the atmosphere was no longer hostile.
Just… watchful.
As the evening drew to a close, her family prepared to depart.
At the door, her brother paused beside me.
"If you hurt her again," he said quietly, "I won't wait for words."
I met his gaze. "You won't have to."
He studied me, then gave a short nod and followed his parents out.
She lingered last.
For a moment, we stood alone in the entry hall, servants discreetly distant.
"…You've changed," she said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
I considered the question carefully.
"Because I didn't like who I was becoming."
She searched my face, silver eyes thoughtful.
"…I'll be watching," she said.
"I know."
She turned and left.
I remained where I was long after the doors closed.
The apology hadn't fixed everything.
It hadn't erased the future.
But it had done something just as important.
It had changed the direction.
And this time, I intended to keep walking forward—no matter how heavy the past felt behind me.