Chapter 38 Chapter 38: The Road to Draven Mansion
I sat at the small writing desk in my quarters, staring down at the blank piece of stationery for far longer than it should have taken to write such a simple message. The room still smelled faintly of smoke from the burned dress I had carried down the corridor only minutes earlier. The garment case rested on my bed behind me, closed once again but now holding nothing like the elegant masterpiece that had arrived that morning. Inside it were only charred fragments of silk and brittle threads that broke apart if touched too roughly. I exhaled slowly, pressing the tip of the pen against the paper as Elara’s instruction echoed in my mind.
Apology not accepted.
Such a short sentence. Yet somehow it carried the weight of a war.
I hesitated before writing it. My pen hovered over the page as doubts crept into my thoughts. Sending the burned remains of a luxury dress back to the Draven mansion was not just a rejection—it was a statement. One that Auren Draven would not miss.
“Alright,” I murmured softly to myself. “Just write it.”
The pen finally moved.
Apology not accepted.
The ink looked stark and unforgiving against the cream-colored paper. I stared at the words for a moment, half expecting them to somehow soften if I waited long enough. They didn’t.
I folded the note carefully and slipped it into a small envelope, sealing it with a firm press of my fingers. Then I stood and turned toward the bed.
The garment case looked almost innocent now, resting there quietly as if it hadn’t been the center of such chaos only an hour earlier. I lifted the lid once more to check its contents. The burned remains of the Red Reign dress lay inside like blackened petals. A faint smell of smoke drifted upward again.
“Poor thing,” I muttered softly.
Carefully, I placed the sealed envelope on top of the ruined silk and closed the case.
Elara had been very clear.
Make sure Auren receives it.
I lifted the garment case and carried it down the quiet staff corridor. The mansion had settled into its usual afternoon stillness, but I could still feel the echo of Elara’s earlier fury hanging in the air. By the time I reached the grand foyer, the driver was already standing near the entrance doors, adjusting his gloves.
He looked up when he saw me approaching.
“Miss Sera,” he said politely. “Is everything alright upstairs?”
I shifted the garment case slightly in my hands before answering. “Yes… everything is handled.”
His eyes moved briefly to the case.
“Is that the delivery box from earlier?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said carefully.
He stepped forward slightly. “Would you like me to return it somewhere?”
“Yes,” I replied quietly. “To the Draven mansion.”
The driver’s eyebrows lifted just slightly, though he said nothing at first. Instead, he reached out to take the case from me.
“Of course,” he said respectfully. “Shall I deliver it to their staff?”
I hesitated.
“No,” I said firmly.
He paused.
“Not the staff?”
I shook my head.
“This needs to be handed directly to Mr. Auren Draven.”
The driver looked mildly surprised now. “Personally?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at the case again, clearly sensing that this delivery carried more meaning than an ordinary package.
“May I ask if there are any instructions?” he said carefully.
I stepped a little closer and lowered my voice slightly.
“Yes,” I said.
He leaned in just enough to hear.
“Make sure he opens it himself,” I told him quietly. “Not a secretary. Not a servant. Him.”
The driver nodded slowly.
“I understand.”
“And please,” I added after a brief pause, “be discreet about it.”
A faint, knowing smile crossed his face.
“I have been a driver for this household for many years, Miss Sera,” he said calmly. “Discretion is part of the job.”
That made me feel slightly better.
He lifted the garment case easily and turned toward the front doors.
“I will leave immediately,” he said. “The Draven mansion isn’t far.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
He gave a small respectful nod before stepping outside, the large doors closing behind him with a quiet thud.
Auren’s POV
The late afternoon sun hung low over the golf club as Douglas and I walked off the final green, the soft rustle of trimmed grass brushing against our shoes. I swung my golf club casually over my shoulder while Douglas dragged his bag behind him with the dramatic exhaustion of a man who had just lost more pride than points. The air smelled faintly of fresh turf and expensive cigars drifting from the clubhouse terrace. It had been one of those rare afternoons where the world felt slow and uncomplicated—no business calls, no family expectations, just competition and quiet laughter. Douglas wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and glanced sideways at me with narrowed eyes.
“You know,” he said slowly, “I’ve come to a very important conclusion today.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That you should retire from golf?”
He scoffed. “No. That you’re cheating.”
I stopped walking and looked at him with deliberate calm. “Douglas, you lost by four strokes.”
“Exactly,” he replied, pointing accusingly at me. “Suspicious.”
I chuckled, tossing my glove into the back seat of the car as we reached the parking area. “You drove your ball into a bunker three times.”
“That bunker has it out for me.”
“It’s sand.”
“It’s hostile sand.”
I shook my head, still amused as I slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Douglas dropped into the passenger seat beside me with a long sigh, stretching his legs like a man who had endured a heroic battle. As the car rolled away from the club, the long road back toward the city opened before us. The fading sunlight filtered through the trees lining the road, casting flickering shadows across the windshield.
Douglas turned toward me again, still refusing to let the subject go.
“You know the moment I should’ve known the universe was against me?” he said.
“When?”
“When your ridiculous second shot bounced off that oak tree and rolled straight toward the hole.”
I smirked. “Skill.”
“That was not skill.”
“It absolutely was.”
“You didn’t even aim at the green!”
“Improvisation,” I corrected calmly.
Douglas leaned back in his seat with a groan. “You are the most insufferable person to play golf with.”
“And yet you keep inviting me.”
“That’s because I keep hoping you’ll eventually lose.”
“Hope is important.”
“You’re impossible,” he muttered.
The city skyline slowly appeared in the distance as we drove, and soon the familiar iron gates of my family estate came into view. The guards opened them immediately as the car approached, and we rolled onto the long private driveway lined with tall cypress trees. The mansion rose ahead of us, bathed in warm evening light, its tall windows reflecting the fading gold of the sun.
Douglas glanced toward it and whistled softly.
“You know,” he said, “every time I come here I forget how ridiculously large this place is.”
“It’s not that big.”
“It has three wings.”
“One of them is unused.”
“That doesn’t make it smaller.”
I parked the car near the front entrance and stepped out, stretching my shoulders as the cool evening air brushed against my face. Douglas grabbed his golf bag from the back seat and slung it over his shoulder.
“You owe me dinner after that humiliation,” he said.
“You volunteered to play.”
“You didn’t warn me you’d be ruthless.”
“Competition requires ruthlessness.”
Douglas shook his head as we walked toward the grand glass doors.
“One day,” he said thoughtfully, “I’m going to beat you.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“You underestimate my determination.”
“I’ve seen your swing,” I replied.
He opened his mouth to argue again, but before he could, one of the house staff approached from inside the foyer.
“Good evening, Mr. Draven.”
I nodded slightly. “Good evening.”