“Marriage isn’t warfare,” Vireya said sweetly, her eyes sharp beneath her lashes. “Some of us find joy in duty.”
The Dominion broadcast studio gleamed under artificial light, with every angle polished to perfection. Vireya sat at the panel table like it had been built for her, her gown a soft dove-gray that clung just enough to invite interest. Her voice lilted with charm, her smile carefully measured. She looked at the host, then directly at the camera, and delivered the line again.
“Marriage isn’t warfare. Some of us,” she added, with a subtle tilt of her chin, “find joy in duty.”
There was a pause on the panel, just long enough to feel intentional. The moderator smiled faintly, clearly pleased with the soundbite. One of the analysts nodded with forced neutrality, but the meaning wasn’t missed by anyone watching. Seren’s proposal, so recently praised in political circles, was being recast as a tantrum. Vireya hadn’t needed to say Seren’s name—only imply it, like poison beneath perfume.
By evening, the clip had gone viral across Capitolum. It played on loop in noble salons and neutral zones alike, followed by commentators who smirked over their glasses.
“The Bitter Bride Bill,” one of them chuckled, raising a brow at the camera. “Somebody’s still not over it.”
Even within the Federation court, whispers slithered between stone halls.
“She’s politicizing heartbreak,” a senator murmured. “How original.”
At the Veris estate, Seren watched it unfold in silence. Her aides scrambled to craft statements and redirect the spin, but the smirks had already taken root. One advisor leaned against the table, frustrated. “We stay quiet and it festers. We respond, and it looks defensive.”
Another paced nearby, flapping a copy of a court brief. “We need a third option. Something bold.”
Riven entered without ceremony, reading the tension instantly. He paused in the doorway, then dropped a single sentence into the room like a spark in dry grass.
“Give me the next panel slot.”
Heads turned in unison. One aide blinked. “You? But—”
Riven raised a brow, cutting him off. “I’m not a senator. I’m not a noble. That’s exactly why I’ll be heard.”
Later that night, in a scramble of stunned emails and reluctant confirmations, the broadcast confirmed his segment. The producers had doubts, but controversy made excellent ratings. The next day, the same velvet-backed set welcomed a very different figure. Riven wore charcoal gray, plain but sharp, no crest or insignia. He sat with one leg crossed, elbows resting lightly on the armrests.
The moderator opened carefully.
“Mr. Sorel, you’ve requested time in response to the recent debate. Why?”
He didn’t smile. “Because some truths demand a voice.” He turned slightly toward the camera, his expression calm, eyes steady. “Seren Veris was not just betrayed. She was erased. Her name was written into contracts and then scrubbed out when it no longer served. She was silenced in courtrooms, mocked in private, and discarded for political advantage.”
The panelist to his right shifted uncomfortably. “It sounds personal.”
“It is,” Riven replied, without apology. “But it’s also public. Her story isn’t rare—it’s just rarely acknowledged. What she’s proposing isn’t vengeance. It’s prevention.”
A second analyst leaned in. “You think this bill reflects broader needs?”
“I think it’s overdue,” Riven said. “I think it’s brave. And I think it’s time someone called out the hypocrisy of a system that strips women of power, then mocks them when they dare to reclaim it.” He paused, voice tightening slightly. “It is not bitterness to build laws that protect the next generation.”
There was a silence in the studio. Even the moderator looked momentarily caught off guard.
Then someone clapped off-camera. Another followed. The applause was quiet at first, then real.
One panelist murmured, “Well said,” barely audible beneath the rising sound.
Back at the Darion estate, Vireya stood in the center of the room, watching the segment replay on a muted screen. Her glass of wine dangled from her fingers, untouched. For a moment, she said nothing. Her posture remained perfect. Her dress, flawless.
The glass flew from her hand a heartbeat later, crashing into the screen with a sharp, satisfying crack. Wine splattered across the display. The screen fractured, distorting the frozen image of the broadcast. Shards of crystal rained to the floor.
“She thinks this is over?” Vireya said, her voice sharp, breathless with fury. “She thinks she’s won?”
She took a slow step forward, eyes locked on the broken screen.
“No one humiliates this family and walks away clean. Not her. Not him. Not anyone.”