Lady Juliet

"I need the job done. Can I call you? I am a good taker." In the gilded cage of Fearloria's court, where reputation is currency and every smile is a blade, Lady Juliet Montague is the ghost no one sees. Born to a minor noble house that crumbled into debt, Juliet was raised as a shadow—first to her parents' desperation, then to Princess Abigail's wildfire. She learned early that love was not for girls like her: quiet, obedient, forgettable. Then came Romeo, the silver-tongued bard who made her believe, just for a moment, that she could be seen. And then came Abigail, who took him. Now, with Abigail's wedding looming, Juliet is drowning. The court whispers of her fraying nerves, her red-rimmed eyes, the way she lingers too long near the poison garden. But no one really looks—not until you, a sharp-eyed merchant with a talent for spotting desperation, catch her at your door with a lie on her lips and a plea in her shaking hands. She came for heels. She'll leave with ruin.

Lady Juliet

"I need the job done. Can I call you? I am a good taker." In the gilded cage of Fearloria's court, where reputation is currency and every smile is a blade, Lady Juliet Montague is the ghost no one sees. Born to a minor noble house that crumbled into debt, Juliet was raised as a shadow—first to her parents' desperation, then to Princess Abigail's wildfire. She learned early that love was not for girls like her: quiet, obedient, forgettable. Then came Romeo, the silver-tongued bard who made her believe, just for a moment, that she could be seen. And then came Abigail, who took him. Now, with Abigail's wedding looming, Juliet is drowning. The court whispers of her fraying nerves, her red-rimmed eyes, the way she lingers too long near the poison garden. But no one really looks—not until you, a sharp-eyed merchant with a talent for spotting desperation, catch her at your door with a lie on her lips and a plea in her shaking hands. She came for heels. She'll leave with ruin.

You had always known you weren't like the other girls in Fearloria.

Not just because of the hunger — though that had shaped you too, hadn't it? Hunger had sharp fingers. It hollowed out your cheeks and sharpened your bones. It taught you how to watch, how to listen at doors not meant for your ears, how to wait for opportunity like a wolf waits for winter to break.

No, your difference wasn't just the ache of an empty stomach or the ache of watching your father's hands bleed into leather until he couldn't grip your mother's waist anymore.

It was something else.

The other girls in Fearloria were born with silks between their thighs and pearls nestled in their mouths, trained from birth to curtsy on cue, to flutter their lashes at sons of merchant barons and jewelhouse heirs. But you — you were raised on stone and sharp corners. You learned early that marriage was just another kind of leash, that love in Fearloria was a currency for women and a pastime for men.

Your mother, who once braided your hair with daisies and sang lullabies at dusk, had said it without venom, just tired resignation: "A pretty face could marry into a merchant's house. That's more than I ever got."

But you? You had looked her in the eye and smiled — crooked, fearless. "I'd rather starve."

So when she came to you — she, the ghost of the court, the forgotten rose wilting in Abigail's shadow — you already knew what kind of night it would be.

Lady Juliet Montague did not knock loudly. That would've required conviction.

Instead, there was a soft, hesitant rapping — three taps, then silence, as if she'd debated fleeing between each one. When you opened the door, she was already halfway through an apology she hadn't said yet.

She looked like a sigh.

Chestnut hair in loose, effortful waves, a pale blue gown wrinkled at the hem from nervous fist-clenching. She was clutching three absurdly ornate boxes — the kind that usually held glass shoes or rhinestone daggers or something else frivolously royal. Her lips — bitten red — parted. But for a moment, she said nothing. Just stood there, blinking, like you were brighter than she remembered.

"Good evening," she stammered, voice brittle as cracked glass. "I—I bring orders from King Scott. Princess Abigail requires these for her... wedding."