The morning sun filtered through the castle's eastern windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Elaine stood in the drawing room, her hands folded, her eyes distant. She hadn't slept. Not well, at least.
The door opened with a flourish.
Her sisters entered — three of them, dressed in matching silk, their voices already sharp.
"Well, look who's still here," said the eldest, Seraphine. "We thought you'd be hiding after the prince ran off."
Elaine stiffened. "I didn't ask him to leave."
"No," said the second, Mirelle. "But you didn't give him a reason to stay."
The youngest, Celia, laughed. "You've always been cold. No wonder he found warmth elsewhere."
Elaine's breath caught.
"You were supposed to be queen," Seraphine said. "Now you're just a scandal."
Elaine opened her mouth, but no words came.
The cruelty was too sharp. Too sudden.
She had never known what it felt like to be the target. To be the wound.
The door slammed again.
Carmine stood there, eyes blazing.
"Enough," she said.
The sisters turned.
"You don't get to speak to her like that," Carmine snapped. "You don't get to tear her down because you're bitter and bored."
Seraphine scoffed. "She's not your concern."
"She's more than you'll ever understand," Carmine said, stepping forward. "Now get out."
The sisters hesitated, then turned and left, their heels clicking like retreat.
Elaine stood frozen.
Carmine walked to her, voice soft now. "Are you alright?"
Elaine nodded slowly. "I didn't know it could hurt like that."
Carmine touched her hand. "You're strong. You're bold. You're brilliant. Don't let them take that from you."
Elaine looked at her, eyes searching.
"I admire your confidence," Carmine said. "I always have."
Elaine's voice was barely a whisper. "Even when I'm cruel?"
"Especially then," Carmine said. "Because you're learning."
Elaine leaned forward.
And kissed her.
It was soft at first. Then deeper. Then full of everything they hadn't said.
That night, they didn't speak much. They didn't need to.
They shared warmth, laughter, and quiet touches beneath the moonlight — not out of rebellion, but out of truth.
The next morning, Colden woke in a hayfield, the scent of grass and dew clinging to his coat. He sat up slowly, brushing straw from his hair, and looked toward the horizon.
He didn't know where Marco was.
But he knew he had to keep moving.
He packed his satchel, adjusted his boots, and began walking — one step at a time, heart steady, eyes forward.
In the brothel, Marco scrubbed the tiled floor of the bathhouse, his arms aching, his breath shallow. The steam clung to his skin, and the scent of perfume made his head spin.
Lisa was somewhere in the dressing wing, painting faces, tying corsets, pretending not to cry.
Marco leaned against the wall, exhausted.
The door creaked open.
Wahlberg stepped in, dressed in velvet, his smile slow and sharp.
"Well," he said. "Still standing, are you?"
Marco didn't answer.
Wahlberg chuckled. "Let's see how long that lasts."