I hesitated for the briefest moment before inclining my head.
“Very well.”
The words left my lips like a sentence passed.
As I turned to leave, retreating into the solitude of my thoughts, the image of her lingered—porcelain skin, soft blue eyes gleaming with untold sorrow, a fleeting moment of fragility colliding into me in the dim corridor.
Elizabeth.
A woman about to be sealed into a fate worse than death.
The question gnawed at the edges of my mind, refusing to be silenced.
How could I stop it?
ChapterFive
ELIZABETH
The afternoon sun painted the chamber in gold, its warmth spilling through the tall windows and casting long, shifting shadows that danced across the walls.Tapestries lined the room, intricate depictions of a fiery phoenix rising from the ashes—an omen or a cruel jest?
For a moment, I lay still, allowing the sun’s gentle heat to kiss my cheek, a fleeting comfort before the weight of the evening ahead soured the sweetness outside my window.
As I rose, my toes curled into the thick rugs, their plush weave a poor consolation for the cold settling deep in my chest.
Today was not an ordinary day.
It was the night of my father’s announcement.
The first public declaration of my betrothal to Lord Winston.
This should have been a joyous occasion, an event worthy of celebration.Had my intended been anyone but a tyrant.Instead, it felt like a sentence, one inked in blood long before I could protest.
I moved toward the window, my fingers grazing the cool glass.From below, the scent of roses drifted in—lush, untamed, free—a painful contrast to the gilded prison closing around me.
The reflection staring back at me was not my own.
It was the face of a girl I no longer recognized—pale, wistful, framed by wheat-gold hair and sky-blue eyes that once held dreams.Now, they held only resignation.
“Lady Elizabeth, please,” Mary’s gentle voice pulled me back from the edge of my thoughts.
She stood at my bedside, fussing over the gown laid across the silk sheets—a Robe à la Française, exquisite in its craftsmanship.The delicate brocade shimmered in the sunlight, floral embroidery twining like ivy over satin and silk—a gown fit for a queen.
And yet, as I stared at it, all I saw was armor.
Each stitch, each delicate fold, a chain in the shackles I was to wear.
“Mary, must we?”I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath.
She stilled.
But Mary understood.
Mary always did.
Mary was more than just my maid.
She was my closest confidante.My best friend.In many ways, she was the sister I never had.
