"And Master Sebastian?" Blair asked softly, her clear eyes looking up at Thomas. "What is his take in all this?"
The system interface hovered phantom-like at the edge of her vision, showing that tiny, stubborn 2% next to his name. She wondered what it would even take to crack through that thick lion armor, or if he would always view her as nothing more than a temporary nuisance.
Thomas went silent for a second, his polished, professional posture faltering into a rare beat of hesitation. He cleared his throat lightly, adjusting the tablet in his hands.
"Master Sebastian... left early for the executive tower this morning, Mrs. Deruno," Thomas replied carefully. "He did, however, approve the budget and security clearance for the banquet without objection before departing."
Blair lowered her head, a faint, wry smile touching her lips. "Right."
Thomas observed her quiet reaction, his sharp eyes softening just a fraction. "Are you disappointed, Mrs. Deruno?"
"How could I be disappointed when I didn’t have any expectations from the start?" she murmured softly, lifting her gaze back to him with calm, unbothered grace. "He has an empire to run, and I am still just a stranger in his house. It’s only natural."
Thomas bowed his head respectfully, deeply impressed by her composure. "Your maturity is commendable, Mrs. Deruno. Though I assure you, in this estate, silence does not always equal absence. Now, if you are ready, your first etiquette instructor is waiting in the grand parlor."
Blair took a deep breath, standing up from her vanity as her system life clock silently glowed at forty-eight days.
"I’m ready, Thomas," she said firmly. "Let’s begin."
Thomas led her down the grand marble staircase and through the silent, vaulted corridors toward the ballroom.
Blair kept her posture upright, though her pulse hammered against her ribs.
She braced herself mentally. In this world—and especially within the noble circles that had eventually cast her out—weakness was mocked. Among pureblood beastmen, she expected raw, unfiltered contempt, but she wa ready to live through that contempt just so she can improve.
When Thomas opened the tall double doors of the ballroom, a solitary figure stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Madame Mary was a rabbit beastwoman of pristine lineage. She wore a tailored, high-collared charcoal dress that emphasized her impossibly straight spine. Long, velvety, snowy-white ears twitched slightly atop her head, sensitive to every whisper in the room.
Her expression was guarded, sharp silver spectacles resting on the bridge of her nose.
She looks like a woman who doesn’t tolerate a single wasted second, Blair thought, her throat tightening. A pureblood beastwoman... She’s going to look at me like I’m a piece of glass waiting to shatter.
"Mrs. Deruno," Thomas announced, stepping aside. "May I present Madame Mary of the Silver-Ear lineage. She will be overseeing your instruction in high-society protocol, posture, and vocal cadence."
Madame Mary turned slowly. Her sharp, intelligent gaze swept down Blair’s small frame, taking in everything at a glance: her pale complexion, her delicate stature, and finally, her wrapped right hand.
Inside Madame Mary’s mind, a swift calculation took place.
So this is the human the three brothers took as their wife, the older beastwoman thought, her twitching ears settling back. Fragile. Severely injured just yesterday, if the rumors I heard from the servants’ wing hold true. Her wrist is small enough that a wolf could snap it with two fingers. What did the brothers hope to gain from marrying someone so weak?
Yet as Madame Mary met Blair’s eyes, she noticed something unexpected. There was no arrogance, no entitled posture, but there was no sniveling cowardice either. The human stood still, breathing carefully, holding her chin up even as her fingers trembled slightly against her skirt.
Madame Mary adjusted her silver spectacles with a click of her fingernail.
Blair held her breath, waiting for the inevitable. She expected the cold sneer, the subtle sigh of disappointment, or perhaps a condescending remark about how a human could never truly grasp the weight of the Deruno name.
Instead, Madame Mary walked forward, her shoes striking the floor in precise, measured beats. She stopped two paces away and looked Blair dead in the eye.
"Human or beast, a mistress of a noble house carries herself like a mountain, not a reed," Madame Mary declared, her voice crisp, clear, and ringing with absolute authority. "Remember that."
Blair blinked, startled.
Madame Mary’s gaze dropped briefly to Blair’s wrapped wrist before returning to her face. "I do not care what species you were born into, Mrs. Deruno. I care only for discipline. The high-society beasts who will attend your banquet in three weeks are predators who feed on hesitation. If you cower, they will tear you apart. If you stand firm, they will bow."
She reached out with a gloved hand and gently, firmly pressed two fingers against the center of Blair’s upper back, forcing her shoulder blades to settle into perfect alignment.
"Your hand is injured, so we will not rush physical strain today," Madame Mary added softly, her tone strict but devoid of malice. "We will begin with vocal projection and spatial command. Do you have the resolve to learn, child?"
A sudden, overwhelming wave of relief washed over Blair. Her chest expanded, the suffocating fear of judgment melting into a quiet, burning determination.
Madame Mary wasn’t going to pity her, nor was she going to look down on her. She was going to teach her how to survive.
"I have the resolve, Madame Mary," Blair replied softly, her clear eyes shining with new hope. "Please teach me."
"Good," Madame Mary said, stepping back with a sharp nod. "Then let us make sure no one in that ballroom ever dares to look down on you again."
Over the next two weeks, the grand estate transformed into an intense academy of high-society protocol.
Blair proved to be an exceptionally fast learner. Absorbing every subtle cue of beastman etiquette, posture, and vocal cadence, she dedicated herself completely.
Throughout her grueling daily sessions, she could always feel heavy, intense gazes lingering on her from the edges of the room.
Sometimes it was Lukas, leaning quietly against the high gallery railing with his white fox tail swaying in silent fascination; other times it was Philippe, resting in his wheelchair near the tall glass windows, his dark eyes tracking her every movement.
She never broke her focus to look back at them, but the constant awareness of their presence drove her to push harder. They are watching. I cannot fail.
As her wounded hand healed rapidly under Dr. Vane’s care, Blair resumed her evening routine in the kitchen. She prepared quiet, comforting meals every night to once again take care of her husbands.
Lukas ate with grumbling enthusiasm, his cheeks flushing pink whenever she caught him enjoying a dish, while Philippe accepted her offerings with stoic, quiet gratitude.
Sebastian, however, returned straight to his cold, unyielding ways—dismissing her efforts and discarding her trays without a second glance, as if to tell her to her face that her efforts would never be recognized by him and that she was wasting her time.
Yet, Blair wasn’t disheartened. Rejection from the coldest brother was simply progress in disguise.