"What are you doing inside the King's chamber?" asked a familiar voice, sharp with accusations.
I turned slowly, and there he was—Jared, his face hard with anger. His eyes blazed as they locked onto mine. I blinked in confusion. Why did he look so furious? Didn't he know what I was doing? I was certain he had been aware of my intentions. Had he forgotten? Or was this part of the act—playing the loyal soldier in case someone was listening?
I quickly scanned the hallway. No footsteps, no whispers. The guards weren't nearby. Good. Wasting no time, I reached out and grabbed his wrist, tugging him into a shadowed corner of the corridor where the candlelight didn't reach. My heart pounded as I whispered urgently.
"I found something inside," I began, my words tumbling out like a broken dam. "My documents were there—untouched, completely blank. So I filled them out myself. Every detail. If he's going to judge me, he might as well judge the real me." I took a shaky breath, then continued. "And there was a portrait—of the King as a boy with the Viscount and Viscountess. It doesn't make sense, Jared. How did he rise to the throne if they were in line ahead of him? It's suspicious."
He didn't say anything, so I pressed on.
"And this… this project—a demolition plan in Vermin. He's planning to destroy entire homes just to build his royal resort. It's sickening. That man isn't fit to rule. We have to bring him down, and soon, before more lives are ruined."
But Jared's expression didn't soften. He didn't even acknowledge my words. Instead, he asked, "How did you get inside the King's chamber?"
His voice was flat—emotionless. That unsettled me more than his anger.
I sighed and told him everything. About Myra. About the key. About how I followed them and stopped her before she did something she'd regret. About how I took the opportunity to sneak in and uncover what I could. I didn't leave anything out.
Jared frowned, his jaw tightening. "So… it was Myra. She returned after you left the palace?"
"Yes," I answered quietly. "And just yesterday, I saw them at the cemetery. They went to visit the grave... the one with my name on it. I watched them from afar. And I saw Sebastian too." My voice wavered. "He's still hurting Xyra. I saw the bruises. He doesn't even try to hide it anymore."
Jared's eyes darkened, his fists clenched at his sides.
"He's untouchable," he muttered. "Even the elites protect him. Their money buys silence. No one dares cross him."
I nodded solemnly. "I wanted to meet you earlier, to talk about all of this. But you were nowhere to be found. And now, I can't stay long. This place… these walls… they have ears. I need to go."
I stepped back into the corridor, the shadows clinging to my form. Then I turned back to him and gave a small smile—soft, bittersweet. "Good night, Prince Jared."
I called him that not because of his title, but because to me, he was like a prince charming—honorable, brave, and gentle, even if the world never gave him the crown.
He didn't respond.
Instead, he looked away.
------------
"Rise and shine, Miss," greeted Fiora softly.
But her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. They were swollen, still red from crying—mourning the news of my supposed death. My heart clenched at the sight. Poor Fiora. She had no idea I was alive until just days ago, and even now, with me standing before her, the weight of grief hadn't yet lifted.
I rose from the bed and began my usual routine—daily rituals to maintain this borrowed elegance, this face the palace believed belonged to someone else. I sat at the ornate dressing table and studied my reflection. The woman in the mirror looked older, more poised. More refined. It wasn't me—it was the art of illusion, painted with expert hands by Ares.
His makeup skills were nothing short of genius. Even after several baths, the transformation he'd given me remained intact. My features appeared sharper, almost aristocratic. Somehow, he had made me look like I belonged here. It was fortunate I had commissioned a two-storey house from Xyrone—tucked a bit away from the busy Market Place. At the time, it had merely been part of a backup plan. Now, it felt like divine foresight.
The dressing room itself was exquisite, every corner whispering elegance and secrecy. Inspired by the Baroque era, the space was a masterpiece of golden filigree, velvet-lined walls, and a sprawling mirror framed with curling floral motifs. The marble floor glowed faintly under the warm light of a crystal chandelier, and the soft scent of lavender lingered in the air. Clearly, no expense had been spared. Perhaps because I was the last candidate and this was the only room left—or perhaps someone wanted to keep me comfortable. Either way, I counted it as luck.
Laid across the chaise lounge was the dress Rebecca had chosen for today: a rich red gown adorned with delicate lace that traced from my shoulders down to my wrists. It exuded confidence, grace, and just the right amount of mystery. The accompanying makeup palette mirrored its palette—subtle shadows and just enough rouge to enhance the crimson tones. Fiora began brushing my hair in silence, her fingers steady and familiar.
But then she paused. Her hands froze mid-stroke, her eyes narrowing at my scalp.
"Your roots…" she murmured. "They're black. But your hair is ivory white. Is it natural?"
I hesitated for the briefest moment, then offered a composed smile.
"Yes," I lied smoothly. "I inherited it from my mother."
Fiora tilted her head, considering. Hair like mine was rare here—this style hadn't gained popularity in the kingdom yet—so maybe she was just curious. Eventually, she nodded, a little unsure but no longer pressing.
The illusion held. For now.
But I knew well—one crack in the mask, and the entire truth could come crashing down.
As I stepped out of my chamber, a familiar presence caught my eye. Rebecca stood at the end of the corridor, her lips curling into a sly smirk before she gave me a quick wink. So she's here. I hadn't expected to become even remotely close to a woman like her—fiery, proud, and never afraid to speak her mind. But somehow, fate had twisted our paths together, aligning our goals in this perilous palace game.
Today, she was dressed in a deep royal purple—an unmistakable nod to her noble bloodline. The color radiated command and elegance, as if announcing that she was not to be trifled with. In contrast, my own dress, crimson with silver embroidery, signified power not born of heritage but of earned status. High enough to turn heads. High enough to be dangerous. But here, in the Kingdom of Zenon, appearances were masks. Not everyone who bows to you is loyal; some only kneel to strike when your back is turned. This place thrived on whispers and secrets. Trust was a rare commodity—and most of the time, a costly mistake.
"Do your best," Rebecca said coolly, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. "I hate losers."
Her maid, a small-framed girl barely older than a child, flinched at her mistress's words. I caught the nervous glance she cast downward, as though afraid to breathe too loudly.
I let out a soft, mocking giggle and tilted my head toward Rebecca. "If I fail," I said sweetly, "perhaps it only means I didn't have the best teacher for dancing."
Her eyes narrowed, glittering with challenges—but there was a hint of amusement too.
"Then you'd better not fail," she retorted. "Because you were trained by the best."
Her voice held pride. Not arrogance, but conviction. She knew her skill—and she expected nothing less than perfection from anyone who bore her name. It was a warning, but also a strange form of encouragement. In her own brutal way, Rebecca was placing her reputation in my hands.
And I intended to wield it well.
Now, standing beneath the chandeliers of the grand ballroom, I could feel the pressure settle in my bones. Every corner of the lavish hall shimmered with candlelight and polished marble. The nobles had gathered in full regalia, their eyes gleaming with judgment and curiosity. I could feel them watching—assessing every tilt of my chin, every breath I took. This was not just a dance. It was a statement.
And we had a problem.
One of the ladies had tripped just before we took our positions—an unfortunate twist of fate that left her ankle swollen and her presence unusable. The alignment of the dance was thrown off instantly. Panic rippled through the line like a gust of wind over flame. I could feel it in the twitching fingers, the anxious glances.
But Rebecca didn't flinch.
She had foreseen the possibility of error. With a simple nod, she commanded the reformation. Two dancers were silently removed from the introduction, just as she had rehearsed in secret with the alternates. The symmetry rebalanced. The rhythm restored. It was ruthless—cold, even—but necessary. Perfection was her game, and we all danced at her tempo.
The music began—Turning Page by Sleeping at Last. Slow, delicate, mournful. A lullaby to the past and a prelude to something new. As the piano swelled, I took my place at the very front of the formation. The other women, cloaked in soft pastels and moonlight hues, mirrored my every move like shadows caught in a gentle breeze.
Then came my idea—the rose petals.
We had hidden them in the sleeves of our gowns. At the first swell of strings, we raised our arms in perfect synchronicity and released them. The petals, dusted with fine glitter, floated like ruby snowflakes. They shimmered under the candlelight and fell around us as though time itself had paused to watch.
The crowd gasped, charmed. Even the sternest nobles leaned forward in their seats.
Our bodies formed flowing shapes. Slowly, the dancers at my sides curved backward, creating a seamless U-formation that framed me in the center. It was time.
Heart pounding, I stepped forward.
I raised my arms with grace and bowed low before the throne. I held that pause, then extended one gloved hand toward the King.
A gesture.
A silent invitation.
The final chorus hovered in the air like a breath waiting to be exhaled.
The room held still—waiting.
Then the King stood.
Without a word, without a flicker of hesitation, he took my hand.
A wave of murmurs swept the crowd like wind through tall grass. I could almost hear them thinking: Who is she to dance with him? What is her game? But I didn't look at them. I only looked at him.
The waltz began, slipping into a graceful rhythm as if the music had been made for this exact moment.
"You're full of surprises," the King murmured, his hand resting firmly at my waist.
"So I've been told," I replied softly, matching his steps without missing a beat.
His eyes studied me—curious, perhaps slightly suspicious, but undeniably drawn in. Whether it was the performance, the daring, or something else, I couldn't tell. But for this dance, I had his full attention. And in the palace of Zenon, that was a dangerous power to hold.
As we spun across the ballroom floor, petals still falling like fading blessings, I knew this was not just a performance.
It was a move.
And the game had changed.