Page 138 of The Violet Raven

Hundreds of flowers spill across the tables, their vibrant blooms bursting from perfectly placed arrangements. The sheer beauty of it steals my breath, striking me as both overwhelming and deeply moving. Amelia did all of this—for me. To celebrate my homecoming, as she’d called it.

Patrons dance with carefree abandon, their movements more expression than coordination. Their attire is a spectacle in itself—flowing gowns adorned with shimmering embellishments, richly coloured tunics, capes that glisten under the chandeliers. Their confidence is effortless, fused into every laugh, every step. The sheer joy in the room is palpable, swirling through the air like a tangible force.

Eyes fix on me—some curious, others admiring. The attention doesn’t unsettle me. Instead, it fuels something stronger, a boldness I’ve never fully embraced. I stand taller, the nerves that once gnawed at me dissolving into something heady and exhilarating.

Confidence drapes over me like my gown—deliberate, daring. I feel worthy of the celebration.

“Auntie, this is—” Words slip from my grasp as I stand there, mouth partially open, trying to take it all in.

“This is all for you, dear,” she says, her voice warm but laced with something bittersweet. “For nineteen years of missed birthdays and holidays. For moments I should have been there, but wasn’t. Time I can’t get back, no matter how much I wish I could. But tonight—tonight is ours. Tonight, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She takes my hand and pulls me along, her energy urging me forward. Whether it’s keeping me from crumbling under the weight of her sentiment—or to shield herself from lingering in the same thoughts—I can’t be sure. But I let her guide me, my heart full and my throat tight as I silently promise to make this night one to remember.

Casey spots me first, standing in the far corner with a drink in his hand. His jaw drops, his expression frozen in disbelief, before he hurriedly claps Callan on the back with enough force to make him flinch. Callan turns, irritation clear on his face as his conversation—with a small group of partygoers, mostly women—comes to an abrupt halt.

His narrowed eyes lock on me, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he weighs his options. Is he really willing to test Aunt Amelia’s warning? Judging by the tension in his stance, every muscle in his body aches to storm over and drag me away. The nerve of him—standing there, chatting with women dressed just as boldly as I am, yet looking at me like I’m the one committing some unforgivable sin.

With a mischievous grin, I stick my tongue out at them both. Childish? Maybe. Satisfying? Absolutely.

It’s a minor act of rebellion, one they can’t retaliate against tonight. Not here, not with Amelia’s warning hanging over their heads like a storm cloud.

Taunting them without consequence fills me with a small, delicious sense of victory. They’ll just have to sit with their opinions, because tonight is mine—and I don’t intend to waste it.

Amelia must sense the hesitation in my step because she glances back, her brow lifting ever so slightly in silent question. I don’t answer with words, my gaze fixed on the boys. The moment they catch her eye, their reactions are nothing short of comical—Callan stiffens like he’s been caught stealing, and Casey dramatically averts his gaze.

Amelia’s lips twitch with a barely concealed smirk, and I swear I hear her whisper, “Cowardly bastards,” under her breath as we continue walking.

“You must have said more than you mentioned, Auntie,” I say, side-eyeing her as her expression remains maddeningly composed.

She merely shrugs, a picture of innocence, though her silence tells me everything.

Despite myself, a laugh escapes me, soft but genuine.

Amelia slows, resting a hand lightly on my arm. When she looks at me, her voice is gentle but resolute.

“You have a soul so beautiful, Triona, it radiates outward. You’re gleaming—and I want you to stand tall tonight.”

Her sharp, kind eyes meet mine. There’s no room for deflection in her gaze—only quiet insistence. “And I want you to stop denying yourself the things you’ve been pushing away.”

My voice catches, and it’s thinner than I mean it to be. “What do you think I’m denying myself?”

She lifts her brows slightly, her expression unreadable but knowing. “Only you can answer that.” A pause, then with a glint that borders on amused:

“But I’ve my suspicions. And I trust you’ll come to your senses—sooner rather than later.”

The words land with more force than I expect. I’m left wondering if I’ve been more transparent than I thought—or if Amelia simply sees right through me.

With her, the latter never feels entirely impossible.

I realise something unusual as I’m led further into the room: no other woman in the crowd wears red. While the other patrons embrace boldness in their shimmering fabrics and intricate designs, the crimson of my gown stands alone, commanding a unique kind of attention.

“Auntie,” I begin, glancing around the room again, “why am I the only one in red?”

She chuckles softly as she places a reassuring hand on my back. “Triona, you are not the only one in red.”

I turn to her, my brow furrowing in confusion, but her gaze drifts past me, settling at the far end of the room. A soft smile graces her lips as she gestures with a subtle nod. I follow her line of sight to a figure standing with his back turned, deep in conversation with Bran. His outfit catches the light—a deep red fabric that clings to him, adorned with floral embellishments that mirror the design of my gown.

He’s the finest man on the floor.