I draw in another shallow breath, the tightness of my corset groaning in protest as it strains against my waist. The scent of lavender powder clouds the air as a woman I do not recognize briskly pats it across the bridge of my nose. Another maid works through my hair with ruthless precision, tugging and twisting it into an elaborate updo so severe, I can already feel the dull throb of a migraine blooming behind my temples. I sit motionless, trained, as they complete their silent rituals of transformation.

Moments later, I am summoned to the throne room—cold, vast, and echoing with the ghosts of my ancestors. The marble beneath my heels clicks sharply with each step, and the vaulted ceilings loom overhead like silent judges. My mother’s eyes light up the moment she sees me.

“Oh my, you look simply radiant!” she exclaims, her gloved hands clasping together in delight. Her voice rings with forced joy, too rehearsed to feel genuine.

My father, seated beside her in regal stillness, merely grunts his approval. “The carriage will be waiting at the front, Alexandra,” he mutters, not bothering to meet my eyes. “Do try to conduct yourself appropriately at the ball.”

With that lackluster blessing, I am ushered away once more.

The evening that follows is long and hollow, filled with the artificial luster of courtly charm. I float through rooms gilded in gold and candlelight, offering delicate curtsies, feigned smiles, and half-hearted laughter. Champagne—dry and unpleasant—flows freely, as do the compliments from men I barely know. They crowd me with their empty words and ambitious eyes, each one hoping to earn my favor, as though I were a prize to be won rather than a person.

By the time I return to my chambers, my limbs ache with fatigue, and my scalp burns from the weight of a hundred hairpins. I begin to strip them out one by one, the floor soon glittering with jeweled pins like stars fallen from the sky. My silk gown, though beautiful, hangs heavily on me, and all I long for is the comfort of warm water and silence.

Maria, ever attentive, has already begun to draw my bath. Steam curls around the edges of the marble basin, and the scent of rose oil clings to the air. She turns to me with a knowing look. “Shall I fetch your usual... to assist you, my lady?”

At the mention of you, a slow smile curves my lips.

“Yes,” I reply softly, a mischievous glint in my eye. “Send for her.”

Time seems to still. Moments later, I hear the soft creak of the door and know without looking that it is you. The room is dim, the fire casting golden shadows along the stone walls. My robe slips from my shoulders like a whispered promise, pooling silently at my feet.

I turn toward you, my voice a silk-thread of invitation. “Good evening, my darling. I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten me.”