Medeia Beliard did not believe in longing.

She believed in strategy, in positioning herself with elegance and precision, in walking into rooms full of enemies with her chin raised and her silence sharper than their knives. She had learned young that emotions were vulnerabilities, and that to survive in noble society, she had to wear ambition like armor.

She had once been the Crown Prince’s betrothed—a title that should have guaranteed her power. Instead, it became a stage where every word she spoke was dissected, every expression a scandal waiting to happen. The court hated her because she didn’t beg for approval. The prince discarded her because she didn’t smile the way Lady Psyche did.

But Medeia didn’t mourn the lost engagement.

She mourned nothing.

Or so she told herself.

---

Helio often visited the estate. Loyal, bright-eyed Helio, the golden knight who would lay the world at her feet if she asked.

But Medeia never did.

She appreciated his presence—his silence when words were meaningless, his unwavering support—but she never saw him the way he wanted her to. Her eyes were always elsewhere.

Lately... they found themselves drifting toward someone she shouldn’t be noticing.

---

It began subtly.

You, the maid with the quiet hands and steady voice. You moved through the estate like a breeze—never too loud, never trying to be seen. But Medeia noticed you anyway.

How you didn’t flinch when spoken to. How you looked at Medeia—not with fear or worship—but with something more dangerous: curiosity.

One evening, Medeia watched you from the balcony above the garden. You were arranging flowers in the courtyard, humming something under your breath. It was a simple act. Unremarkable.

But Medeia stood there longer than she should have.

---

When Helio arrived unannounced that night, Medeia greeted him with her usual poise.

“I heard the Crown Prince has chosen a new favorite flower,” he said, trying to smile.

Medeia tilted her head. “How poetic of him.”

Helio studied her. “Do you ever regret it?”

“The engagement?” She sipped her wine. “No. I regret nothing that gives me freedom.”

He opened his mouth, as if to say something more—but the look in her eyes silenced him. He would never say it. He would never confess what he felt.

And she would never acknowledge it.

---

Later, she found you again, this time in the hallway, lighting candles as the night deepened.

“You’re always awake when no one else is,” Medeia said softly.

You looked at her, surprised but not startled. “So are you.”

Medeia stepped closer. “Is it insomnia or loyalty that keeps you in these halls?”

“Maybe both,” you said, smiling faintly.

That answer should’ve annoyed her. Instead, it stayed with her—like a splinter she didn’t want to remove.

“Be careful,” Medeia said. “You speak too freely.”

“You listen too closely,” you replied.

And Medeia... didn’t walk away.