CHAPTER 140: THE DEVIL’S TREASURE

It was sunset.

The sky above Svetlana looked like it had been painted with fire. Shades of deep orange, soft purple, and fading gold melted into one another. The cold air of winter carried a sharp stillness, yet the entire city buzzed with life. Every noble house lit up like a stage, every maid and tailor working twice as fast. You could hear the carriages rolling across the cobbled roads, the chatter of noblewomen deciding what to wear, the clinking of wine glasses as servants rushed to set tables. But none of it compared to what was about to happen that night.

This wasn’t just any ball. This was the ball. A scandal of the highest order.

For eleven long years, no ball had been thrown in Zolotaria. Not a single one. Not since the last czar, Simeon Romanov, died at his own birthday celebration. He had raised a glass of wine during a toast, smiled warmly at his guests, and dropped dead before his favorite song could even begin. Poisoned. At a ball meant to honor him. Since then, the word "celebration" felt cursed.

No one dared host another. Not even weddings were grand anymore. They were quiet, short, simple—just enough to acknowledge a union. But joy? Laughter? Dancing? Gone. It was like the palace itself had gone into mourning for over a decade.

But tonight, that silence was being broken.

By her.

The Grand Duchess had returned after three years of disappearance. After vanishing when her marriage fell apart, after being whispered about in drawing rooms and torn apart in the press. She was back. And not just back—she was hosting a golden ball. As if daring the world to speak.

Even before the sun dipped completely behind the mountains, nobles were already arriving. They poured into the ballroom in waves—men in crisp uniforms, women in glittering dresses. The ballroom was like something out of a storybook. No expense had been spared. The chandeliers sparkled like stars, the tables gleamed, and everything—and I mean everything—was gold.

Golden trays. Golden goblets. Golden flower vases. Even the candlelight seemed to glow a little warmer, like it had been touched by sunlight. It felt surreal. Like the walls had been dipped in wealth. But no one was really looking at the decorations.

They were whispering.

And waiting.

And watching.

Because the hostess hadn’t arrived yet.

In a quiet corner of the palace, far from the laughter and gossip, Ivan Romanov sat alone in his study.

The soft music from the ballroom reached his ears like a ghost. It was faint, but it was enough to make him sigh deeply. He sat at his desk, leaning forward with both elbows resting on the wood, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. His eyes were fixed on the lamp that flickered beside him, as though he could find answers in the flame.

He hadn’t dressed for the ball. He hadn’t even decided if he was going.

There was a knock at the door.

Katherine stepped in, dressed simply, her face calm but her voice gentle.

"Your Highness," she said quietly, "the ball has begun."

"I know," Ivan replied without looking at her. "I can hear the music."

She lingered for a second, then turned to leave. But something in her made her pause. She looked back at him and asked softly, "Are you not attending?"

Ivan exhaled slowly. "I don’t know."

"She probably doesn’t want me there," he added, almost in a whisper.

Katherine walked a little closer, folding her hands in front of her. Her voice was low but filled with emotion. "Have you tried talking to her?"

Ivan didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He just kept staring at the lamp like he was afraid of what would happen if he looked away.

"She looks like she’s fine," Katherine continued, "but she’s not. I see it every day. She smiles without feeling. She laughs without joy. It’s sad watching her like this. I don’t know what happened between you two. But I know pain when I see it."

She let the words hang in the air for a moment, then quietly left the room.

Ivan remained seated, surrounded by silence, the music from the ballroom still echoing faintly in the background. His hand moved slightly, brushing over a small golden trinket on the desk. Something she had once given him. His jaw tightened.

Downstairs, the atmosphere was changing. The music played on, the nobles whispered behind their fans and wine glasses. You could feel the tension, the curiosity. Everyone was waiting for her.

And then it happened.

The music stopped. The room fell silent.

Not just quiet—completely still.

Even the orchestra froze. It was like someone had cast a spell over the room.

Because she had arrived.

Lydia stood at the top of the grand staircase, and every pair of eyes in the ballroom turned toward her.

She didn’t rush. She didn’t smile. She didn’t wave.

She simply walked.

And with each step, the sound of her heels echoed like thunder on marble. The soft rustling of her golden dress followed her like whispers of silk. Her jewelry jingled ever so slightly—delicate, yet impossible to ignore.

She looked like gold brought to life.

Her gown was bold, glowing, off-shoulder, hugging her figure in all the right places. Her skin gleamed under the candlelight. Her neck was bare, not out of modesty, but confidence. She wore golden earrings, golden bracelets, golden rings—but nothing on her neck. She didn’t need it.

Her perfume filled the air—sweet, rich, intoxicating. It drifted across the room, curling into every corner like a silent warning: I am here. You will see me. You will feel me.

Her hair was tied in a low, elegant bun. Her eyes were proud. Her steps were slow. She didn’t need to say anything. Her presence alone was enough.

She walked straight into the center of the ballroom and stood still, allowing everyone to look at her, to whisper, to wonder.

The silence stretched. No one dared breathe too loudly. The tension was thick.

Then she tilted her chin slightly and said with perfect calm, "You can carry on."

It was like a spell broke.

The crowd shifted awkwardly. People began to murmur. The orchestra picked up their instruments and started to play again, a soft waltz, unsure at first but slowly finding its rhythm.

Lydia stood tall and calm, her eyes scanning the room with quiet power. She looked like a woman who had bled and burned and survived—and now she was daring the world to act like it didn’t see her.

And then it happened again.

The room fell silent.

Because Ivan had entered.

He walked in quietly, but everyone noticed. His uniform was dark, regal, sharp. His eyes searched the room, but he didn’t look at anyone for too long. Except her.

His gaze landed on Lydia and didn’t move.

She didn’t look away.

The crowd watched the two of them like it was a play. Like they were standing on opposite sides of a battlefield. The air felt frozen again.

Then Lydia smiled. But it wasn’t a sweet smile. It was the kind of smile that said, I’m not broken. I’m shining.

"How about some music?" she said suddenly, her voice light but loud enough. "I feel like dancing."

The musicians looked confused for a moment. No one knew if she was joking. But then the conductor quickly raised his hand, and the violins began to play.

Lydia turned without hesitation.

She walked past Ivan without a glance. She walked straight to a nobleman standing a few feet away. He looked shocked. Terrified, even.

Lydia smiled at him and asked, "Shall I have this dance?"

The man’s mouth opened slightly, like he didn’t know if it was real. He stuttered, "Y-yes, Your Highness."

She took his hand before he could second-guess himself and led him gently to the floor.

And then she danced.

Right there. In front of everyone. In front of him.

Ivan stood frozen, his eyes locked on her every move. She was graceful. Elegant. The way her dress moved when she turned. The way her smile played at the corners of her lips. The way her eyes sparkled—not with joy, but with something deeper. Something defiant. Something broken and whole at the same time.

He remembered dancing with her once. Her laugh, her shy glances, the way she used to lean in closer when she was nervous. That woman was gone. This one was stronger. And he hated that he had pushed her to become this.

Everyone was watching her dance, but Ivan didn’t see the crowd.

He only saw her.

And she didn’t look back at him once. Not even for a second.

But she knew.

She knew he was watching.

And he knew.

He had lost something that could never be replaced.