Chapter 11

Fiona's POV

"Ha ha ha ha!"

Vivian burst into laughter. "How pathetic, Professor Thorne. Have you been using the same tricks to deceive those poor little girls all along? Master Evelyn's swan song? Don't make me laugh!"

Caleb's face grew darker and darker, as if he wanted to unleash all his shame and fury upon me.

"All right, all right," Vivian changed her tone, clearly satisfied by the inflated vanity this had brought her, and no longer wished to entangle herself with me.

She turned her gaze upon me. "For Professor Thorne's sake, I can let this go. But your fiancée must apologize to me."

Caleb breathed a sigh of relief, turned to look at me, his eyes carrying a hint of warning. "Fiona, apologize to Miss Lesos quickly."

I looked at him, my heart turning cold as ice.

"I've already apologized, Miss Lesos."

"Have you?"

A cold sneer rose in Vivian's emerald eyes. "In your human society, does an apology consist merely of words from the mouth, without any substantive punishment?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Lesos. I don't know what else you want me to do to appease your anger."

I said through gritted teeth.

"Is that so? My maid told me yesterday that the bright red feather duster was ruined by a skunk."

She circled around me again and again, reaching out to lightly tousle my red hair.

"This mess of hair isn't bad, is it? Anna, go fetch me a pair of scissors from the courtyard!"

What?!

She actually wanted to cut my hair to use as a feather duster for her maid!

I wasn't afraid of enduring humiliation, but I couldn't easily expose the true golden bloodline hidden beneath this red hair!

That lackey called Anna had already eagerly fetched the scissors for Vivian, gleaming with silver light, their sharp edges terrifyingly menacing.

I turned to look at Caleb, hoping he would say a few words on my behalf.

But he only fell silent for a moment, then stepped forward and gently pushed my back.

"This worthless red hair of yours does look rather distasteful, Fiona. Cutting off a lock for Miss Lesos to vent her anger isn't such a big deal."

I looked at him, the last shred of illusion in my heart completely shattered.

But just then, a slender figure emerged from the shadows.

It was a man with rare purple hair, his long locks loosely tied in a ponytail at the back of his head, a few stray strands falling along his cheeks, making his features look even paler and more refined. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and idly toyed with a single red rose in his hand.

He looked like the kind of scholar who’d never thrown a punch, but a sly glint sharpened his narrow, violet eyes.

His name was Cyril.

He was the chief strategist of the Volkov family, of the rare purple wolf bloodline—a race renowned for wisdom and cunning.

"That's quite enough, Miss Lesos. Bullying people at a Volkov family banquet is rather stealing the spotlight, wouldn't you say?"

Cyril's intervention instantly extinguished Vivian's arrogant flames. She glanced at me resentfully, then turned and left with her entourage.

Caleb took a deep breath and hurriedly bowed before Cyril.

"Thank you, Mr. Leites. My fiancée is attending such an occasion for the first time and doesn't understand the rules. I'm truly ashamed that she has disturbed the great steward of the Volkov family."

“Oh, is that so? From what I can see, Professor Thorne doesn’t seem to know the rules either. Stop trying to pin this on the woman standing next to you.”

Cyril examined me with eyes like purple crystals. "A qualified fiancé, in such circumstances, should first think about how to help his fiancée change into a proper dress."

With that, completely disregarding Caleb's fish-dead eyes, he made an inviting gesture toward me.

"Please follow me, Miss Sterling."

Cyril led me around a corner into a secluded side corridor. The clamor behind us gradually faded, replaced by a deathly silence.

This long hallway was covered with thick, deep red carpet, and the walls were hung with portraits of successive Volkov family patriarchs, their cold gazes seeming to watch every intruder.

The air grew colder and colder, carrying the scent of ancient wood and stone.

I walked barefoot on the carpet—yes, my high heels had accidentally broken a heel earlier, and I could only carry them awkwardly in my hand.

"Excuse me, Mr. Leites... may I ask, did Prince Alexander instruct you to find me? Is he... all right? Was his injury serious? I haven't seen him appear at the reception all evening, and I was wondering if he..."

I gathered my courage and spoke up.

"Miss, you ask rather too many questions."

Cyril narrowed those purple crystal-like slender eyes, the corners of his mouth curving into a knowing smile. "If you don't want your dignity trampled upon casually in high society, you should learn when to fight back and when to shut up. We're here. Go in and wait. Someone will come to attend to you."

He stood outside an ancient doorway and pulled open the heavy door handle.

The sight before me made even someone accustomed to the Sterling family's luxury catch her breath.

This was not an ordinary guest room at all, but a miniature palace.

Beneath my feet was a pure handwoven wool carpet from the Persian highlands, so thick and soft it felt like sinking into clouds.

The walls were hung with classical oil paintings of vigorous brushwork, the frames inlaid with tiny but brilliant gemstones.

In the center of the room stood a four-poster bed, its canopy woven from the finest shark silk, glowing with a pearl-like warm luster under the soft wall lamps. The air was filled with a faint, reassuring scent of sandalwood, completely dispelling the awkward champagne smell and chill from my body.

"Miss Sterling, please rest here for a moment." Cyril bowed slightly and withdrew.

"Wait—"

I wanted to ask more, but pushing open the door revealed only the deathly silence of the castle corridor.

A quarter of an hour later, the door was knocked upon again.

"Come in."

The door opened, and the person who entered was not the maid with washing supplies I had imagined, but a woman who appeared to be around forty, with a capable and cool demeanor.

She wore a sharply tailored black work outfit, her hair pinned back without a strand out of place, gold-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, and she carried a huge silver metal case in her hand.

The moment I saw her, my pupils contracted sharply.

It was Evelyn!

It was her in person!

That legendary Dark Weaver, the top designer all of wolf high society pursued!

"Hello, Miss Sterling."

Evelyn had no superfluous words. She walked straight up to me, her gaze sweeping over the ruined dress on my body.

A trace of barely perceptible disdain flashed in her eyes, but was quickly replaced by professional calm.