How to Love a Prince

FIFTEEN

Roselia

The silence that followed was a physical entity, heavy and suffocating. My hand, still gripping Theron Deveraux’s arm, felt like an anchor—he was utterly still, a statue carved from granite and cold confidence.

“I-I’m sorry, Sir!” I could feel the hard muscles beneath the sleeve of his expensive suit, careful to not consciously grip too tight and immediately pull away.

Lowering my head, I bowed and waited until I can hear any sign of forgiveness, feeling my knees weakening by the second as I recall how his gaze is not one of anger, but of piercing, dispassionate appraisal, as if I were a particularly flawed painting on a wall.

Everyone in this mansion doesn’t see me as a living, breathing human, it seems.

“It’s alright.” he spoke gruffly, passing by me to sit at the center seat, signifying everyone to return to their own matters.

Alistair held my hand and guided me by to my seat, squeezing it slightly as if to remind me to fix myself and not show any more openings for them to exploit on.

“My dear,” Eleanor cooed, her saccharine voice a horrifying contrast to the raw tension. “Do be careful. Our rugs are vintage, and one must simply must learn to mind one’s footing in a home of this scale.” Her smile was a masterpiece of phony concern, her eyes glittering with undisguised delight at my humiliation.

“Please do give my wife some space to adjust.” Alistair tried to appease the tension by smiling at them, and with his practiced gentleness, he turned to me.

“Roselia, are you alright. darling?” he murmured, his voice a perfect blend of public concern and private fury.

“Yes, thank you, love,” I murmured out of unwashed anxiety, hoping that by responding, they could at least see how I try to blend into their inconvenient dynamics.

Damian let out a low, amused chuckle. “There hasn’t been anyone who managed a feat like that. Alistair, you do have a knack for finding… unique partners.”

Theron Deveraux finally moved, lifting a right hand to signal one of the maids to pick up an exquisite wine with her gloved hands, pouring delicate amount in our glasses, starting from the master himself.

He didn't say a word about the incident, but the sheer lack of comment was more damning than any public reprimand. He had seen everything and judged it all in a single, silent moment.

“Dinner, please,” he commanded, and the butler immediately began serving.

As the servants brought the dishes out one by one, the scent of delicious food began filling the air, however, with the fragile silence that could either be broken by wholesome or complex discussions, no meal or liquor could make me feel hungry.

“So, Roselia,” Theron began, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that commanded attention. “Alistair tells me you are a woman of remarkable talents. A scholar, I believe he said? Tell me, what was your field of study?”

My mind went completely blank. Scholar? I frantically searched for the fabricated story Alistair’s team had invented, hoping to say the right words to align with what they published about my story online. “I studied literature, sir.” I stammered, the simple answer feeling woefully inadequate.

Eleanor cut in, her smile unwavering. “Oh, how lovely! So simple, it suits you well. My dear, you must tell me about your favorite poets, hm?” she asked, causing me to pause lifting my spoon for my next bite.

“I do love a good sonnet. It’s so much more… direct than modern prose, isn’t it? Perhaps you could share some pieces for us?” Her words were a soft, venomous trap.

Aside from trying to prove I am not a literature student, she was also subtly implying I was basic, simple, and not up to the Deveraux intellectual standard.

What will I do?! I dropped out of high school and began working all day and night just to earn money for repaying debts!

“Ah, yes, Ma’am. There are a lot of pieces worth our talks, perfect for dinners like this.” I smiled, trying to buy time as I wrack my head on what names or titles I could even mention.

Alistair, a master of damage control, answered before I could even open my mouth once more. “Mother, Roselia and I had a whirlwind romance.” He chuckled as she shook his head, taking my spoon from my hand and feeding me the bite I was supposed to have earlier.

“Because I ended up courting her, she was far too busy with her studies and our secret dates to read much of anything. I’m afraid I distracted her terribly that she can’t even give you the best recommendations just yet.” He said it with a charming laugh, a public admission of infatuation that served as a perfect shield.

Damian smirked, leaning forward. “So less of a scholar, more of a muse? I can appreciate that. The Deveraux men do seem to have a fondness for pretty faces. It seems to be a family tradition.” His eyes flickered to his own mother, a blatant and snarky comment on her place in the family.

Eleanor's smile tightened for a fraction of a second before softening again. “Damian, dear, you are being so terribly rude. Roselia is a lovely girl. I do hope you don’t upset her on her first night. She seems so… sensitive. A delicate flower, you might say.”

I bristled at the insult. A delicate flower? I had survived a family of con artists and a life of constant debt. If anything, I was a weed.

A stubborn, resilient weed.

The pressure was immense. Every word was a calculated move, a subtle attack, a brilliant defense. I was a novice in a game of professional chess. I felt my composure slipping, my hands trembling slightly as I tried to keep up.

It was already a mess, trying to respond to Eleanor and Damian without triggering the hidden bomb at this fancy dinner.

But like any other game, the difficulty increases when the final boss joins in.

"It is my hope that you will be a stabilizing force in Alistair’s life," Theron said, his voice cutting through the tension. He was looking at me now, his gray eyes unwavering.

"He is… prone to flights of fancy. A steady presence would be most welcome for my son who’s always in the limelight."

My mind raced. Was he talking about me? Or was this about something else entirely? A “stabilizing force” and “flights of fancy” seemed to be coded insults at Alistair's pop star career.

Is it a warning for me to behave? An indirect order for me to monitor his son? Or both?

"I hope I can be, sir," I managed to say, my voice steady despite the chaos in my head.

Theron held my gaze for a long, unsettling moment. A flicker of something, perhaps a hint of approval, passed through his eyes. “We shall see,” he said finally, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “After all, a Deveraux wife is replaceable.”

Replaceable, huh? Funny…I am not even considered a real wife.