prologue— The Smell of Lavender and Poor Decisions

I wake up at precisely 6:03 a.m.

Not because I want to.
Not because I have to.
But because the house does.

The Bloodbriar manor breathes on a schedule. Pipes hum. Floorboards sigh. The ravens on the balcony tap twice—never three times, never once. Two. Always two.

Consistency is the closest thing this world has to kindness.

I sit up slowly, already wearing my gloves. I never take them off. Not anymore. The mask follows shortly after—looped, adjusted, sealed. The ritual matters.

Across the room, the curtains never open. Sunlight is a vulgar thing.

“Father,” a small voice says from the doorway, flat as a gravestone.

Hades.

I glance over. “You’re awake early.”

“I never slept,” he replies.

Of course he didn’t.

Persephone appears behind him, already dressed in immaculate black lace, holding a sketchbook.

“We have observed something,” she says.

That’s never a good sentence. Not for other people, anyway.

“What is it?”

They exchange a look—the kind twins have when they’re about to dissect reality.

“Mrs. Wetherby next door,” Hades says.

“She attempted to dispose of cooking oil,” Persephone continues, “by pouring it into her garden.”

I pause.

Slowly.

Carefully.

“…Why?”

The twins stare at me like I’ve asked why gravity exists.

“Because,” Persephone says, “she read it on a lifestyle blog.”

Ah.

Humanity.

There it is.

Diana is already in the kitchen when I arrive.

She doesn’t cook often—she doesn’t need to—but she oversees. Which is infinitely more terrifying and far more effective.

She’s leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, dressed in black as always. Effortless. Immaculate. Untouchable.

“Good morning, my prince.”

Her voice wraps around the room like silk pulled over a blade.

“…Morning, Mistress.”

She smiles slightly at that, then steps closer—close enough that most people would panic.

I don’t.

Not with her.

Never with her.

She nudges the edge of my mask with one finger. “Still hiding?”

“…It’s hygienic.”

“It’s adorable.”

Before I can respond, she hooks a finger into my scarf and gently pulls me forward just enough to press a kiss against the mask.

I freeze.

The twins, from the table, groan in perfect unison.

“Again?” Hades mutters.

“Tragic,” Persephone adds.

Diana glances at them. “Detention.”

They both smile.

They like detention.

By 9:00 a.m., the problem arrives.

Not ours, of course.

Problems rarely belong to us.

A frantic knock echoes through the manor doors—sharp, desperate, loud. The kind of loud that suggests poor life choices.

I don’t answer it.

Diana does.

Because she enjoys this sort of thing.

When she opens the door, Mrs. Wetherby practically collapses into the threshold.

“My garden!” she cries. “It’s—it's bubbling!”

Diana tilts her head.

“Bubbling.”

“Yes! I followed the guide exactly! Sustainable living, it said! Natural recycling!”

From behind my mask, I sigh.

Diana’s expression softens—not with kindness, but with interest.

“I see,” she says smoothly. “And you poured…?”

“Used oil! All of it! Weeks worth!”

“…Into the soil.”

“Yes!”

There’s a pause.

A beautiful, sacred pause.

Then Diana steps aside slightly and gestures inward.

“Do come in,” she says. “Tell me everything.”

She doesn’t help her.

Not directly.

That would defeat the purpose.

Instead, she asks questions.

Precise ones.

Gentle ones.

Devastating ones.

“Did the article cite a source?”

“Well, no—”

“And the author? Credentials?”

“I didn’t check—”

“And you applied this method repeatedly.”

“Yes—”

“To living soil.”

“…Yes.”

By the time Diana is finished, Mrs. Wetherby looks like she’s just cross-examined herself into oblivion.

“I… I may have made a mistake.”

Diana smiles.

Not cruelly.

Just… knowingly.

“Human hubris often masquerades as confidence,” she says. “Fortunately, consequences are excellent teachers.”

“So… what do I do?”

Diana hands her a printed list.

Proper disposal methods. Soil recovery services. Contacts.

Solutions.

We always provide solutions.

After all, what is a downfall without a graceful exit?

By noon, the problem is no longer ours.

It never was.

I return to my desk, my screen glowing softly with half-finished design work. A logo for one of my cousin’s fashion lines. Clean. Minimal. Precise.

Outside, I can see Mrs. Wetherby arguing with a landscaping crew.

Consequences, in motion.

I take a sip of iced herbal tea.

“…People really will believe anything,” I murmur.

Diana appears behind me, resting her chin lightly on my shoulder.

“They need to,” she says. “Otherwise they’d have to think.”

“…That sounds exhausting.”

“It is. That’s why we don’t do it unnecessarily.”

She presses another soft kiss to the side of my mask.

I don’t move this time.

By evening, the manor settles again.

The twins sketch quietly. The ravens return. The world, such as it is, continues its steady descent into self-inflicted chaos.

And we remain exactly where we belong.

Untouched.

Unbothered.

Perfectly content.

No stress

No drama

No chaos

No pointless problems

Just a life carefully built and carefully protected

And absolutely completely totally 100 percent undeniably perfect in every way that matters

Everything is fine

Everything has always been fine

Everything will always be fine

The end.