CHAPTER 157: STOLEN SPRING

It was sunset.

The palace in Svetlana was alive again, burning with lights and music, preparing for yet another ball. But this time, it wasn’t just the palace that was alive. It wasn’t just the city of Svetlana buzzing with whispers and excitement. It was the whole of Zolotaria, even beyond its borders. Word had spread like wildfire.

They called them the grand duchess’ balls. Extravagant. Shocking. Breathtaking. Each one was more dazzling than the last. People spoke about them in hushed voices as if speaking too loudly would make them lose their magic. Nobles argued and fought over invitations. Even those who weren’t invited gathered outside the palace gates, just to feel close to the spectacle, to hear the faint echo of music, or to catch a glimpse of the lights shining through the tall windows.

Everyone remembered the last ball. How the decorations shimmered, how the tables groaned with food and wine, how the dancers twirled until dawn. And above all, they remembered Lydia. They remembered her dress that night, the rare blue diamonds that caught the candlelight and set the room on fire with whispers. Blue diamonds that most people had only heard of, never seen with their own eyes. She had worn them so carelessly, so boldly, as if the jewels themselves had bent to her will.

And now, the question hung in the air like perfume.

What would she wear tonight?

The rumors spread across the streets, across taverns, across the countryside. Some said she would wear emeralds, others swore it would be pearls. There were even wild claims that she would cover herself in gold leaf. People laughed at the guesses, but deep down they all knew something was true—whatever Lydia wore, whatever Lydia chose, it would not be forgotten.

The ballroom was breathtaking. She had named it A Touch of Spring. And she did not disappoint.

From the moment guests stepped inside, they were surrounded by pink roses. Roses everywhere. On the walls, in tall crystal vases, hanging from the chandeliers like falling petals frozen in midair. The air smelled sweet, like a garden in full bloom after rain. The musicians played softly, violins humming sweet tunes that carried the warmth of spring across the hall. Everywhere one looked, there was brightness, warmth, and life. It was as if Lydia had stolen spring itself and brought it into the palace, refusing to wait for the season to arrive on its own.

And then came the moment. The moment they all waited for.

The music stopped. The murmur of conversations hushed. Heads turned toward the staircase. Hearts quickened.

She appeared.

Lydia.

She was the center of everything, the axis around which the night revolved. She took one slow step down, then another, her presence swallowing the room.

Everyone had expected her to dress in soft pastels, gentle greens, maybe a pale yellow to match the theme of spring. Something sweet and safe.

But Lydia never chose safe.

She chose bold. She chose shocking. She chose unforgettable.

She wore hot pink.

The color was alive, dramatic, almost dangerous. Her gown sparkled under the lights, every inch of it daring people to look away, and no one could. It was off-shoulder, leaving her neck and collarbone bare, but decorated with tiny pink quartz stones that glimmered like drops of fire. The gown flowed to the floor with the weight of fortune, every fold perfect, every movement deliberate.

Her shoes matched, covered with tiny pink sapphires that flashed when she stepped. Her purse, small and elegant, was set with the same gems. Her hair was curled softly, but there was a hidden sharpness to it, as though every strand had been arranged not just for beauty but for power. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips matched her dress, hot pink and dangerous. And in her hair, soft pink feathers rested like the wings of some exotic bird.

She wore silk gloves, pink as well. But all of this paled in comparison to the final touch—the necklace around her throat.

Hot pink diamonds.

Not rubies. Not sapphires. Not the usual stones one might expect. These were diamonds, glowing with a fire unlike anything most of the guests had ever seen in their entire lives. People had heard of them in myths, in stories, but to see them here, shining against her skin, was almost unbelievable.

A hush swept the room, not of disapproval but of awe. She looked powerful. She looked untouchable. She looked like beauty itself had turned into something blinding.

"She looks... unreal," someone whispered.

"She looks like spring lost its breath," another answered.

And it was true. She wasn’t dressed like spring. She was dressed like she had stolen spring’s very breath and claimed it for herself.

The ball began again, though many could hardly focus. The musicians returned to their music, dancers filled the floor, and the air buzzed with gossip. Servants carried trays of wine, food, and sweets, but no one could stop glancing at Lydia. She stood at the center of it all, as though the roses bloomed only because she was there.

She smiled politely at those who bowed, nodded at those who tried to flatter her. She listened faintly to conversations. But her heart wasn’t in it.

Her eyes kept drifting.

To the door.

Over and over again.

She scanned the hall, she looked across the room, but the one face she wanted wasn’t there.

Ivan.

He wasn’t in the room.

He hadn’t come tonight.

It unsettled her in a way she hated to admit. Everyone else was staring at her, hungry for her presence, desperate for her attention, yet she felt only the weight of the one man who was absent. She wanted to hate him for it. She wanted to dismiss it as nothing. But she couldn’t. Because every time her eyes returned to the door, she found herself silently hoping he would appear.

Her fingers tightened around her silk gloves. Her lips trembled faintly, though she quickly masked it with a faint smirk, the kind everyone expected her to wear.

But inside, she felt the absence like a cut.

The whispers around her continued, the dancers spun, the roses glowed. She looked like a queen of spring, untouchable and radiant. Yet her gaze betrayed her. Only she knew how restless her heart was. Only she knew that every sound of the door creaking made her chest tighten with foolish hope.

But the night stretched on. And Ivan never came.