The morning after the Ashcombe Ball brought with it a rare and precious thing—silence. Layla Bennett awoke in Adam Sterling's countryside estate, sunlight streaming through antique lace curtains, dust motes dancing like soft snowflakes above the velvet duvet.
For a brief moment, she let herself believe that the world was as still and beautiful as this room.
Then her phone exploded with messages.
Mira [07:12 AM]:
OH MY GOD.
YOU'RE IN THE DAILY MAIL
CALL ME
ALSO: why do I look like a puffy Victorian ghost in the background?
Yusuf [07:15 AM]:
Legend. You stunned the whole room.
But also… why is your pic next to the headline:
"THE COMMON GIRL AND THE CROWNED HEIR: A Gown to Divide Britain?"
Layla groaned, rolling out of bed like a disgruntled Victorian ghost herself.
Downstairs, Adam was already in the conservatory, playing something low and haunting on the grand piano. The notes lingered, hesitant. His fingers stilled when he heard her approach.
"Good morning," he said gently.
"Morning. Or is it?" she asked, flopping onto the fainting couch in front of him. "Apparently I've caused an aristocratic fashion crisis."
Adam looked faintly amused. "Yes. My mother sent a butler to knock three times on my door and hand-deliver her disapproval."
Layla snorted. "Did she monogram it?"
"Likely."
He stood, crossing to her. "Ignore them. We did nothing wrong."
"I know," Layla said. "But this isn't just whispers behind teacups anymore. They're dissecting the cut of my dress like it was a national scandal. I mean—fashion police, I can handle. But this is starting to feel like an actual battlefront."
Adam sat beside her, clasping her hands. "Let them rage. If a velvet gown can unravel their dynasty, maybe it deserves to be unraveled."
She tilted her head. "You're feeling rebellious this morning."
"I'm feeling something," he said, but there was a shadow in his voice.
She leaned closer. "What's wrong?"
Adam hesitated, then handed her a folded envelope from the side table. Pale cream. Wax seal. Thick and ominous.
She opened it.
An invitation—no, a summons—to the Sterling Family Assembly.
To discuss the matter of legacy and public perception in light of recent events.
Attendance is mandatory for the next heir.
Layla exhaled. "This sounds… medieval."
Adam nodded. "It is."
That afternoon, the tension in the estate was palpable. Mira had returned to London, promising to unleash her journalistic powers should Layla need a distraction piece titled 'When Aristocracy Needs Therapy'.
Layla, however, stayed. She had no intention of running. Not now.
Adam emerged from his study dressed in navy and silver—his family's colours. He looked every inch the future patriarch. The suit hugged him with a quiet authority, but his eyes searched hers with a flicker of unease.
"You don't have to come with me," he said.
"I know," she replied, looping her arm through his. "But I will."
The Sterling Assembly convened in an oak-panelled gallery room deep within the estate's western wing—a room so drenched in heritage that even the light seemed filtered through generations of dust and judgment.
Fourteen family members. All older. All impeccably dressed. They looked like characters from a BBC adaptation of a 19th-century scandal.
Lady Evelyn Sterling presided, her icy grace sharper than any sword.
Adam stood tall. Layla stood beside him, chin lifted.
The meeting began with pleasantries—then rapidly descended into what Layla would later refer to as The Roast of the Century.
Lord Marius Sterling, Adam's uncle, began. "We've weathered royal divorces, economic crashes, and even that time Gregory tried to sell family land for a polo school. But this…"
He paused dramatically.
"…this is unprecedented."
Lady Evelyn folded her gloved hands. "Adam. You've always been… unconventional. Your reluctance to embrace your role is known, if not forgiven. But to bring a woman of no title, no lineage—no formal standing—into our public orbit at such a precarious time?"
Layla felt the sting. But she refused to lower her gaze.
Adam's voice was calm but firm. "Layla is more accomplished and capable than half this room. She's a designer, an innovator, and unlike many of us—she's built something from nothing."
There were murmurs. Disapproval.
"She's not one of us," said Aunt Vivienne.
"Exactly," Adam replied. "That's why she's what we need."
Layla glanced at him. He wasn't performing. He was standing—truly—for her.
Evelyn's voice cut through. "What you need, Adam, is not the point. What this family needs is preservation. Dignity. Order."
Layla finally spoke. "Dignity doesn't come from exclusion. And legacy without love is just a mausoleum."
A pause.
Lady Evelyn's eyes narrowed, but a flicker of something—respect? irritation?—glimmered.
The meeting ended not with consensus, but with tension so thick it trailed them like smoke as they left.
Outside, under the frozen sky, Layla and Adam walked in silence.
Until she finally said, "I thought they might throw me into a moat."
He chuckled. "We got rid of the moat in 1823."
Layla bumped his shoulder. "Shame. Would've made a great Instagram post."
Back in the studio, Layla stitched in silence that night, her needle diving into velvet like punctuation.
Adam sat across from her, writing something by hand.
She finally asked, "Are you okay?"
He looked up, eyes tired but warm. "It's strange. I've never been more certain of what I want. And never more aware of how many people want me to be someone else."
Layla nodded. "Sounds like growing up."
He slid the paper across the table. "I've been writing again. Music."
She picked it up. Notes danced across the stave, messy but emotional. A new composition.
"What's it called?" she asked.
"'Her Shadows in Velvet.'"
Layla blinked. "After the dress?"
"After the woman who wore it," he said simply.
Her heart ached, in the best way.
Later, while Adam practiced, she stepped onto the estate balcony. Snow had begun to fall—gentle, pristine. She thought of her father, working through winters at the old tailor's shop. Of her mum, humming to radio tunes as she hemmed uniforms. Of South London trains and cheap coffee and watching her reflection in tube windows and dreaming she might belong somewhere grand.
This wasn't what she'd expected. But it was real. Painful. Beautiful. Earned.
And she was going to make it hers.
The next morning brought a new kind of chaos.
Mira called again, this time breathless. "Okay, so you're not going to believe this, but someone's leaked part of Adam's composition. Your dress music. It's on YouTube. It's gone viral. Millions of views. Classical blogs are calling it 'haunting and cinematic'. People are obsessed with the mystery composer."
Layla blinked. "But… it's not even finished."
"Doesn't matter. They're calling it 'The Velvet Concerto'."
Adam walked in, phone in hand. "Well," he said, "I guess the anonymity bit didn't last."
His screen showed headlines.
"Who Is A.S.? Mystery Composer Takes the Classical World by Storm"
"Velvet Concerto Sends Internet Into Frenzy—Soundtrack to a Hidden Romance?"
Layla stared. "What are you going to do?"
Adam set the phone down. "For the first time in my life, I don't want to hide behind the initials. I want people to know it's mine."
"And the family?"
"They'll combust."
"Do it," she said. "Let them."
By afternoon, the press had swarmed the gates.
And in a twist of fate only Mira could've predicted—Layla's dress was now a symbol. Haute couture houses were sending inquiries. Independent designers were rallying behind her as a face of modern British fashion.
Her phone buzzed with a new message—from the director of the London Design Forum.
Would you be available to present a solo capsule collection for the Spring Gala? We believe the nation is ready for a new voice.
She stared at it.
Then she screamed.
Then she showed Adam.
He grinned. "I hope you say yes."
"I'm terrified."
"You'll terrify them right back."
That evening, they lay side by side on the piano room carpet. His fingers toyed with her hair. Her cheek pressed to his chest, the rhythm of his heart a lullaby.
"I never wanted this kind of attention," she said quietly. "Not like this."
"Nor did I," he replied. "But if we're going to be watched—let them see us unafraid."
"You mean like reality show unafraid, or regency duel unafraid?"
He laughed. "Somewhere in between."
She smiled, eyes fluttering closed.
Above them, the chandelier flickered as a gust of wind passed. The estate creaked, old bones sighing. But beneath it, two souls stitched their names into legacy with laughter, velvet, and music that refused to remain in silence.