XCI
The rest of the ball spun on as if nothing had happened. The music swelling, gowns glittering, nobles gossiping about trivialities, while behind the scenes the world quietly rearranged itself.
The council moved fast.
They drafted a treaty of non‑aggression, hands shaking slightly as they wrote. They added a pact of cooperation, carefully worded, meticulously balanced, and signed it with pens that trembled just a little. Every clause was designed to make one thing clear:
I could not be caged. I would not be harassed. I was not theirs to own.
I would still work with them, yes, if the world was in danger, if the mirror stirred, if the hat‑man's instincts sensed something wrong. I would still be paid, compensated, and respected. They were not my bosses. The did not rule over me like a sovereign. I was an independent contractor.
I had shown them enough power to rival their entire council.
And they were thoroughly frightened. Good.
I didn't need Fairy aristocrats breathing down my neck, meddling in your relationships, dictating your choices, or pretending they had authority over you. I didn't need centuries of tradition telling you who you could love or what you could be. I didn't need their fear disguised as diplomacy.
I walked out of that side room with the hat‑man at your heels, small again, exhausted, but smug, and the council watched you like someone watching a storm pass overhead, praying it didn't turn back around.
The ballroom glittered on, oblivious. But the council knew.
Lorian knew. A line had been drawn.
A new balance had been set. I was no guest. I was a force to be reconned with. They would think twice, before trying to put me in a cage again.
I changed into street clothes from my ball gown. I had decided to pack up and get a hotel for the rest of my stay in Europe. It'd be awkward seeing Lorian at breakfast when we had just broken up. I definitely needed some retail therapy.
Changing out of the ball gown and into street clothes felt like shedding a skin — stepping out of the glittering, political nightmare and back into myself. The moment I decided to pack up and get a hotel, the tension in my chest loosened.
Just me, Europe, and a credit card backed by a very generous inheritance.
Retail therapy was practically medicinal at this point.
Calling Callum's male cousin Cassiel, who's stylist name was Callisto, presenting as female, was the smartest move I could've made. She'd know exactly where to send me, the boutiques that don't advertise, the ateliers tucked behind cafés, the places where aristocrats quietly buy their "casual" clothes that cost more than rent. And honestly? Spending some of my inheritance on myself after everything I just endured wasn't indulgent. It was survival.
I'd been threatened, cornered, pressured, and forced to break your own heart in front of a room full of aristocrats. I deserved a day where the only thing you had to worry about was whether the boots matched the jacket.
And the hat‑man, perched on my shoulder or walking freely underfoot in his cat form, absolutely approved of a shopping spree.
Callisto was in her element, pink wig perfectly curled, white boots kicked up on the edge of the hotel's velvet ottoman, scone crumbs on her napkin, and the kind of delighted, vicious gossip‑energy that only a stylist with insider access can produce.
Your hotel room smelled faintly of new leather, perfume samples, and the cardboard of freshly delivered couture. Half the outfits were draped over chairs like glamorous casualties. The hat‑man, in cat form, was curled on a pile of silk blouses like a dragon guarding treasure.
Callisto sipped her coffee, lashes fluttering dramatically.
"Darling, you dodged a bullet the size of Mallorca," she declared, tapping her nails against her cup. "Evelyn is… how do I put this politely… a walking diplomatic incident in heels."
I snorted into the latte, displacing the foam.
Callisto leaned in, delighted to continue.
"She insulted his choice in girlfriend, which, rude, because you're stunning then she insulted his business, which is thriving, and then she insulted his great-uncle for marrying an American. Honestly, she's on a speedrun to alienate the entire family."
She took another sip, pink wig bobbing.
"And she's already complaining about the engagement ring. It's a diamond encrusted Emerald! Says it's 'too modest.' It's a family heirloom worth more than her entire palace wardrobe."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
Callisto nodded, eyes sparkling with malicious joy.
"She told Lorian she expected something 'more fitting for a future queen.' I nearly choked on my macaron."
The hat‑man let out a tiny, disdainful meow from his silk nest, clearly agreeing.
Callisto continued, voice dropping conspiratorially.
"And between us? She's already asked three designers to 'modernize' the royal wedding aesthetic. She wants LED computerized lighting, and drones. In a fairy wedding."
I groaned. Callisto grinned.
"Sweetheart, you're going to be fine. You're free, you're rich, you're gorgeous, and you're not stuck with a woman who thinks insulting Americans is a personality trait."
She raised her cup in a toast.
"To new beginnings, retail therapy, and the fact that you're no longer in the blast radius of that engagement."
The hat‑man hopped onto your lap, purring smugly.
Callisto winked.
"And tomorrow, we're getting you the boots that will make every aristocrat regret underestimating you."
The shop was a dream. The kind of place that felt like stepping through a time‑warp into a world where everything was glossy, rebellious, and unapologetically cool. The air smelled faintly of vinyl and citrus perfume, and every rack shimmered with sequins, metallics, and bold patterns that hadn't been in style since the last time disco ruled the earth.
Callisto practically dragged you inside, her pink wig bouncing with excitement.
"Darling, this is where icons are born," she declared, sweeping her arms dramatically as if unveiling a sacred temple.
I barely had time to laugh before she thrust the white leather boots into your hands — knee‑high, buttery soft, with a heel that promised danger and glamour in equal measure. Then came the oversized white sunglasses, lenses so large they could hide entire emotions behind them. You slipped them on and felt instantly untouchable.
But the silver mini dress? That was the moment.
Callisto shoved it at you with the authority of someone who had styled royalty and refused to take no for an answer. The fabric shimmered like liquid moonlight, catching every glint of the shop's neon signs.
"Try it," she insisted, pushing you toward the dressing room. "Trust me."
I stepped into it — cool, smooth, hugging just right — and when you looked in the mirror, your breath caught. The dress hit mid‑thigh, making your legs look impossibly long, sleek, and a little dangerous. The silver caught the light and turned you into a walking disco ball in the best possible way.
Callisto clapped her hands, delighted.
"Look at you. Look at those legs. Stubby? Where? I see nothing but runway."
She spun you around, adjusting the hem, fluffing your hair, tilting your chin.
"You're giving retro space‑age goddess. You're giving 'I survived a fairy council and now I'm hotter than their entire bloodline.' You're giving main character."
The hat‑man, perched on a nearby shelf in cat form, blinked approvingly, slow, smug, like he'd known all along you'd look devastating.
Callisto leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
"Evelyn could never pull this off. She'd look like a disco ball someone dropped."
Callisto didn't just style me — she curated.
By the time she finished assembling the look, you were a walking piece of retro art, the kind of woman who could step straight out of a 1973 fashion magazine and onto the streets of Europe without missing a beat.
She added the white leather cap first, tilting it just so, giving you that perfect mod‑era silhouette. Then came the oversized vintage glasses, huge white frames, lenses dark enough to hide your entire emotional history behind them. Finally, she draped a sheer white coverup over your silver mini dress, the fabric floating like mist around your legs.
"It's chilly," she said, fussing with the hem. "And it looks like rain. But we're not sacrificing aesthetic for weather."
I adjusted the boots, re‑zipping them up your thigh. The leather hugged your legs like they were made for you. I felt tall. I felt powerful. You felt like someone who had just told a fairy council to shove their archaic politics and walked away with a treaty in hand.
Callisto stood beside you, radiant in her own riot of color. A giant mod print of green and blue swirling across her dress, bangles stacked up her wrists like she'd robbed a 70s jewelry store, and glossy turquoise boots that made her look like a psychedelic superhero.
She struck a pose next to you, chin lifted.
"Look at us," she said proudly. "We're a revolution."
The hat‑man, curled on a nearby chair in cat form, blinked slowly. The feline equivalent of applause.
I caught your reflection in the shop's mirror: silver mini dress, white boots, white cap, sheer coverup, sunglasses that screamed don't even try me. I looked like heartbreak had turned into fashion. Like independence had a wardrobe. Like I was ready to walk out into the rain and make it part of your aesthetic.
Callisto grinned, looping her arm through yours just after swiping her credit card at the cashier. She picked up a vintage clear plastic umbrella and walked us back into the world.
"Let's go show Europe what a newly single Keeper looks like."
And honestly? Europe wasn't ready.
The park felt like a different universe — no chandeliers shaking, no council members judging, no heartbreak pressing against your ribs. Just the soft hush of evening, the reddening sky, the smell of rain somewhere far off, and the warm weight of shopping bags stacked beside the bench like trophies from a victorious campaign.
I sipped your latte, letting the foam linger on your lip, and for the first time in days my chest didn't feel tight.
The hat‑man, currently a very smug tuxedo cat, tore into his meat‑pie with the enthusiasm of someone rediscovering a lost religion.
"I had missed tasting food, darling," he purred between bites, crumbs on his whiskers. "At least this kitten lets me do that."
He looked absurdly pleased with himself, tail flicking as he devoured the pastry like it owed him money. A couple walking past glanced at him, then at me, then hurried away — probably sensing something uncanny in the way his eyes gleamed too intelligently.
Callisto had left you at the park entrance across from my hotel with a dramatic kiss on the cheek and a promise to text more gossip later. Her silhouette, all turquoise boots and swirling mod print, disappeared into the city like a neon comet.
I leaned back on the bench, letting the cool air brush your legs beneath the sheer coverup. The silver mini dress caught the last of the sunset, turning into a shimmer of light. The white boots were propped elegantly on the edge of the bench, sunglasses perched atop my head like a crown.
You'd had a full day of therapy, the real kind.
No talking, no crying, no negotiations.
Just choosing things. Trying things.
Laughing. Eating pastries.
Letting myself be a person again.
It was distracting. It was fun.
It was exactly what I needed.
This, the freedom, the independence, the ability to walk through Europe with no one's expectations chained to your ankles, this was what I wanted out of life. No council breathing down my neck. No aristocratic mother judging my existence. No heartbreak dictating your future.
Nothing holding us back.
The hat‑man finished his pie, licked his paw, and hopped onto your lap, curling into a warm, purring ball.
"You're better like this," he murmured, voice vibrating through his tiny body. "Unbound. Unbothered. Uncaged."
I stroked his fur, watching the sky fade into deeper shades of red and violet.
"Yeah," you said softly. "I think I am."
And for the first time since the ball, the world felt wide open again.