Awakening Love: Reborn to Be His Duchess Chapter 290: Locked

Elowen tipped her chin slightly toward Vivian. "Take her to the next room. Lock the door. Unless I say otherwise, she is not to leave."

Her voice remained calm, almost gentle.

Vivian stiffened, the color draining from her face. "I'm a marchioness—"

Gerda and Edith didn't let her finish. One seized Vivian's arms while the other clamped a firm hand over her mouth.

Vivian's protest dissolved into muffled, furious sounds.

Elowen kept smiling. "And I am the Duchess of Duskmoor."

Then she gave a light gesture. "Go on."

The two older women hauled Vivian away, more forceful than polite, dragging her through the doorway.

On the floor lay a silver hairpin, dropped during Vivian's struggle.

Elowen bent and picked it up.

"Elowen... I'm sorry."

Sylvia's voice was small.

Elowen held the hairpin and looked up. "Why are you apologizing?"

Sylvia lowered her head. "You keep having to deal with problems because of me."

Elowen's smile came easy. "I'm not dealing with the problem. Your sister is. She's the one locked in a room."

Sylvia didn't brighten. Her shoulders stayed slumped. "I don't know why, but... part of me feels like she wasn't completely wrong. Who gets married with their mother and brother not there? What kind of wedding is that?"

Elowen went quiet.

Marwen and Lucien hadn't treated Sylvia well. That much was clear.

But she was still family. Blood wasn't nothing. And people weren't made out of pure cruelty, Marwen and Lucien had probably given Sylvia warmth sometimes too, even if it was inconsistent. On a day like this, it was normal for Sylvia's heart to waver.

After a moment, Elowen said, "When you go to the hall, you'll understand why it doesn't matter."

Sylvia looked up, confused. "Why?"

Elowen didn't answer directly. "You'll see. For now, finish getting ready. Falconcrest's wedding party will be here soon."

Sylvia nodded. She took a breath and looked at herself in the mirror again.

A stool was brought over. Elowen sat and watched.

A maid applied scented powder and smoothed Sylvia's complexion. Another dabbed color onto her cheeks.

When they finished, Sylvia's skin looked pale with a natural flush.

"Press your lips together," the attendant said with a smile, offering a small parchment square brushed with crimson lip pigment.

Sylvia followed the instruction, pressing her lips gently against it. When she pulled back, her mouth was tinted a full, vivid red.

Next, they settled the bridal circlet in place.

Then came the wedding gown.

It was a deep crimson gown, richly crafted and embroidered with gold thread and bright silks. The patterns were intricate and precise.

And Sylvia had sewn it herself.

At first, Elspeth and Elowen had wanted to hire the finest seamstresses in Vanelle—some of them former palace artisans—to make Sylvia's wedding gown.

But Sylvia had shaken her head softly. "I know you could arrange that. I just... want to make it myself."

Her cheeks had warmed as she explained. "If I sew it with my own hands, it feels... meaningful. Like a promise. As if the marriage will begin under a good sign. That we'll grow old together."

Back then, Elowen had grown a little distant.

In her previous life, when she married Alaric, she had sewn her own wedding gown too, stitch by stitch, with her own hands.

And that marriage had not been smooth at all.

Elspeth had grumbled, "Whether a marriage turns out well has nothing to do with who stitched the gown. Let a seamstress do it. You'll ruin your eyes and your hands."

Elowen had smiled and said, "Let her make it."

Then she had added, quietly but clearly, "Whether a marriage turns out well depends entirely on the man you marry. But if you sew the gown yourself, you'll walk into the ceremony with a joyful heart."

Now Elowen understood something more clearly than ever.

The pain she had lived through was not because she had done anything wrong.

She had married with hope. That was not wrong.