Chapter 3: Dressed in Power

The carriage ride to the Rue de la Soie was an exercise in silent torture. Seraphina sat ramrod straight, her gloved hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles ached. She stared out the window, watching the familiar, elegant storefronts of Aethelburg’s most fashionable district pass by in a blur, refusing to look at the man seated across from her.

Kaelen Thorne was, as always, an island of unnerving calm. He did not fidget or look out the window. He simply watched her, his silver eyes seeming to absorb the light, their analytical gaze making her feel like a specimen under glass. She could still feel the phantom sting of his words from their first lesson—a cage of gilded lies, and you, its most beautiful prisoner. Now, he was marching her directly to the workshop of her cage’s most skilled locksmith: Madame Dubois’ Exquisite Attire.

“You are tense, Miss Veridian,” Thorne observed, his low voice cutting through the clatter of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones.

“I am contemplating the immense challenge of transforming a block of granite into a passable imitation of a gentleman,” she replied, her tone pure acid.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “And here I thought you were merely dreading the gossip.”

He was right, of course, and his knowing it was infuriating. Madame Dubois’ was more than a clothier; it was the city’s central exchange for rumor and speculation. To be seen there with a man like Thorne—an unknown, an industrialist, a creature with horns hidden beneath his hair—was social suicide. Every seamstress was a spy, every client a judge.

The carriage stopped. Seraphina took a deep, steadying breath, schooling her features into a mask of bored indifference. This was a performance. She would play her part.

The moment they stepped through the glass-paned door, a delicate bell announcing their arrival, a hush fell over the opulent showroom. Two ladies examining a bolt of lace froze, their eyes widening. The seamstresses hovering in the background paused, needles mid-air. It was exactly as she had feared.

A formidable woman with silver hair coiled into a severe chignon glided forward. Madame Dubois herself. Her smile was a masterpiece of polite inquiry, but her eyes, sharp as sewing shears, were already cataloging every detail: Thorne’s foreign, imposing presence, the tension in Seraphina’s posture, the scandalous implications of their association.

“Miss Veridian,” Madame Dubois purred, her voice like cream. “An unexpected pleasure. And you have brought… a guest.”

“Madame Dubois,” Seraphina said, her voice a cool, clear note in the suddenly silent room. “May I present Mr. Thorne. He is in need of a complete wardrobe suitable for the season.”

The name ‘Thorne’ elicited a flicker of confusion, then dismissal, in the woman’s eyes. He was no one. A nobody. Her gaze shifted back to Seraphina, a silent question hanging in the air: Why is this… man… with you?

Seraphina prepared to endure the humiliation, to use her expertise to guide the process and get them out as quickly as possible. But Thorne stepped forward, moving past her. He did not wait to be guided.

“I require several day suits, evening attire, a greatcoat, and all requisite accessories,” he stated, his voice calm and authoritative, resonating with a power that had nothing to do with lineage. “The finest materials you have. I am particularly interested in your velvets and silks.”

Madame Dubois blinked, taken aback by his directness. “Of course, sir. Our prices are, shall we say, commensurate with our quality. Perhaps you would like to establish an account…?” The unspoken words were clear: Can you afford to even breathe the air in here?

Thorne did not reply. He simply reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a banker’s draft. He placed it on the polished mahogany counter. The number written on it was obscene. It was a figure that could have purchased a small country estate, a figure that could have saved the Veridian family ten times over.

The effect was instantaneous and profound. Madame Dubois’ professional smile melted away, replaced by an expression of genuine, avaricious awe. The subtle condescension vanished, vaporized by the sheer heat of Thorne’s wealth.

“Right away, Mr. Thorne! Henri, fetch the Italian wools! Pierre, the Charlevoix silks! Immediately!” she commanded, her staff scrambling to obey.

The tables had turned with breathtaking speed. Seraphina stood forgotten by the door as Madame Dubois and her senior tailors fawned over Thorne. They didn't see an outsider anymore; they saw a patron of almost mythical proportions. Thorne, for his part, handled the attention with dismissive ease. He was not a fumbling parvenu, awed by the finery. He examined fabrics with a critical eye, his choices swift and certain. He pointed to a bolt of charcoal wool, a deep midnight velvet, a dark emerald silk for a waistcoat that made Seraphina’s breath catch in her throat.

He had no need for her guidance. He possessed his own form of terrifying competence. He understood that in this world, while blood was the preferred currency, a mountain of gold was a perfectly acceptable substitute. She had intended to teach him the rules, but he was simply buying the game. She had been reduced from tutor to mere ornament, a silent testament to his purchasing power.

After an hour, when a half-dozen designs had been approved and Thorne’s measurements taken with reverent care, he turned his attention back to her. The full force of his silver gaze made her feel pinned in place.

“Now, for Miss Veridian,” he announced to the room.

Seraphina stiffened. “I am not in need of anything, Mr. Thorne.”

“Nonsense,” he said smoothly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We will be attending the Duke of Alistair’s ball together. It is our debut, so to speak. You require something… memorable.” He turned to a still-gaping Madame Dubois. “You have that crimson silk, the one that arrived from the continent last week?”

Madame Dubois’ eyes lit up. “The Sangre de Diablo? But of course! It is… a very bold choice, Mr. Thorne.”

“Miss Veridian is a very bold woman,” he replied, his eyes locked on Seraphina’s.

“I will not accept it,” Seraphina hissed, her voice low and furious. “It is entirely inappropriate.”

A gift of a gown was a public declaration. A claim. It marked a woman as being under a man’s patronage, or worse, his protection. For her to accept such a thing from him would be the final nail in her reputation’s coffin.

Thorne’s expression didn’t change. “Consider it part of my tuition fee. My public image is tied to yours. Therefore, your presentation is as vital as my own. You cannot refuse a uniform required for the execution of your duties.”

He had trapped her in her own logic, twisted their bargain into a gilded shackle she could not escape. To refuse would be to defy their contract, the very thing saving her family from ruin.

Madame Dubois, sensing the shift in power, unrolled the bolt of silk. The color was shocking. It wasn’t a genteel rose or a demure burgundy. It was the color of fresh blood and hot embers, a vibrant, scandalous crimson that seemed to drink the light of the room and blaze with its own inner fire. It was the color of passion and danger.

The silk cascaded over the counter, pooling on the floor like liquid sin. Seraphina stared at it, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She was being dressed in his power, wrapped in his wealth, marked by his choice.

“The cut will be simple, elegant,” Thorne continued, his voice a low murmur meant for both her and the dressmaker. “To showcase the fabric. And the woman wearing it. A slightly lower neckline than is currently fashionable, perhaps.”

Every word was another brick in her prison. She looked from the blazing crimson silk to Thorne’s triumphant, silver eyes. He was not just learning her world. He was conquering it. And he was starting with her.