── 𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓘𝐋𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝓞𝐅 𝓖𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝅄 ݁ ⏜



❝ 𝐈𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. ❞

✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓞𝐍𝐄 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



The room is bathed in the warm, shifting glow of candlelight, the flames casting their soft, golden shadows across the walls, shifting and flickering with every breath of air. The light plays delicately over your face and along the polished edges of the vanity mirror, softening each line and feature, yet you do not meet your own eyes. You focus instead on Amelie's gentle touch, her hands moving through your hair with the practised care of someone accustomed to ritual. She smooths and arranges each dark wave with reverence, her fingers gliding along as if she were tending to some precious, delicate thing. The strokes of the brush are even, controlled, but there's a softness in her movements, as though she's almost afraid to break the silence that hangs heavily between you.

Your hair spills over your shoulders, dark as midnight ink, each wave cascading down your back in a way that drinks in the warm candlelight, leaving it absorbed in a pool of shadow rather than casting it back. With every pass of Amelie's brush, each meticulous stroke, the ebony strands gain a faint gleam, yet to you, the image is hollow, meaningless. It is only a reflection, one you have become well acquainted with over countless lives. The face staring back at you in this mirror is a mask—exquisite, flawless, too beautiful to belong to someone real. Raven-dark hair frames skin as pale and smooth as porcelain, a surface unmarred, untouched by the ache and weariness that lies beneath. Violet eyes glimmer beneath dark lashes, capturing the light, yet behind them lurks an emptiness, a sorrow that feels eternal.

You avoid meeting your own gaze, unwilling to linger on this face that feels like it belongs to someone else entirely. Even after lifetimes spent looking into mirrors, this reflection, this person, is a stranger—a perfect, haunting illusion that mocks you. There are moments, fleeting yet sharp, when you wonder if you've forgotten your true face altogether, if the weight of roles played and masks worn has erased what was once there, leaving only this empty beauty. It is a face crafted by fate, by the story's demand, yet it is not your own.

Amelie's soft voice breaks through the silence, drawing you out from beneath the weight of your thoughts.

"The preparations for tonight's ball seem endless," she murmurs, her tone a gentle blend of lightness and respect, as though she senses the heaviness of your silence. "But with this gown, you'll be the vision of elegance tonight, my lady."

You nod slightly, acknowledging her words without letting them settle. Compliments hold no meaning for you; they are as hollow as the reflection in the mirror. You have worn countless gowns, been sculpted and adorned for countless occasions, each one a different costume for the same role, another layer of disguise. This, too, is just a mask, another layer in the endless play in which you must wear the mantle of the villainess.

Amelie steps away to retrieve the gown, moving with care as she gathers the fabric into her arms, draping it as though it were something sacred. And there it is—the dress that will serve as your armour tonight, a shield made not from steel but from fabric woven with shadows and whispered secrets.

The gown is a deep, nearly black amethyst, the rich fabric drinking in the dim light and releasing only a faint, ghostly shimmer with each movement. Threads of silver weave through the folds, catching the candlelight with spectral precision, lending the dress an illusion of life, as if something within it might stir, might breathe. Tiny amethysts and opals scatter across the bodice, arranged with meticulous care to resemble a field of stardust against the night sky. Each stone catches the light with a subtle gleam, both alluring and foreboding.

This is a dress that speaks not of innocence but of power—of a figure who commands both admiration and fear. It is a gown crafted to create an impression, to present you as something more than human, something that stands apart from those who inhabit this world with unthinking ease. A villainess. An elegant, undeniable reminder of the role you have been fashioned to play, a role that clings to you like a shadow in every life you've ever lived.

Amelie steps forward, a quiet pride in her gaze as she helps you into the gown, her hands careful as she fastens the fabric around you, adjusting each detail with an artist's eye. Her fingers brush against your shoulders, her touch light but steady, as though she, too, senses the weight of the role you are about to step into. She steps back, her cheeks faintly flushed, then quickly lowers her gaze, concealing the warmth that has blossomed there.

"If I may say so, my lady... it suits you perfectly," she whispers, her voice soft, reverent. Her fingers trace along the silver threads as though drawn by some spell.

"Thank you, Amelie." Your voice is polite, distant, carrying neither warmth nor coldness, only the quiet formality of someone long accustomed to admiration they do not feel. Amelie has always been attentive, unerring in her devotion, yet you keep the distance between you steady, an invisible boundary that has remained throughout lifetimes. For you know, perhaps more than anyone, that closeness is a dangerous indulgence, a fleeting comfort that only leads to ruin.

Across countless lives, you have learned that anyone who draws near is eventually caught in the merciless machinery of your fate. Friends, lovers, companions—all who have ventured close to you have been drawn into the story's inevitable tragedy, their devotion twisted until it becomes something that harms them, that turns against them. You have watched it happen again and again: those who care too deeply, who believe themselves strong enough to stand with you, only to be shattered by the unyielding weight of your life.

The cycle is cruel, unforgiving. They see the sorrow in your eyes, the pain you carry, and they believe they can shelter you from it. But in the end, the story consumes them, transforming their love into a weapon wielded against you. And when the curtain falls, they are left broken, discarded, their loyalty reduced to a footnote in the tragedy that defines your existence.

This knowledge sits in your heart like a stone, an unspoken weight that you have borne in silence over lifetimes. And so you keep them at arm's length, allowing them to see only the version of yourself that they expect: the poised noblewoman, the untouchable villainess. This distance is a shield, a barrier you maintain as much for their protection as for your own. They see only what you allow, never suspecting the depths that lie beneath, a chasm you have learned not to share.

Amelie's gaze shifts to the vanity, where a selection of silver and amethyst accessories lies waiting—a final flourish to complete the facade. She hesitates, her fingers hovering over a polished silver comb and an amethyst pin, then looks to you for permission.

"Which hairpiece would you prefer tonight, my lady? The silver comb or the amethyst pin..."

She trails off, a faint note of hope in her voice. But you have no preference. To you, they are merely adornments, decorations for a role you did not choose, yet one that clings to you with the tenacity of a curse. You offer her a slight, distant smile. "Choose for me, Amelie. Whatever you think best."

A blush colours her cheeks at the invitation, and she nods, her gaze turning focused as she selects the amethyst pin. The piece is delicately crafted, vines of silver curling around the polished gemstone like ivy caught in a winter frost. She pins it in place just above your ear, her fingers lingering a moment too long as she adjusts a stray curl.

"There," she murmurs, stepping back, her cheeks still faintly pink. She adds matching amethyst earrings, the stones catching the candlelight as they settle, completing the image. "The prince will be unable to look away from you tonight."

The mention of the prince brings a sigh to your lips, so soft it barely stirs the air. "If only that were not the case, Amelie. I have no desire for the prince's attention."

Amelie's gaze softens, a glimmer of understanding—or perhaps relief—in her expression. "I understand, my lady. The demands placed upon you... they are more than anyone should bear." Her hands smooth the fabric at your shoulder, her fingers trembling slightly as she lowers her gaze. "Perhaps... if you'd prefer, I could ensure the more persistent guests keep their distance."

Her words carry a quiet resolve, an offer of silent protection that resonates with the loyalty she has always shown. It is a small gesture, yet in it, you sense something deeper, a promise she is almost afraid to voice. Amelie views herself as a guardian, someone who can shield you from the endless scrutiny of the court.

"You would do that?" you ask, a faint curiosity slipping into your tone.

She meets your gaze in the mirror, her hazel eyes solemn as she nods. "Of course, Lady [Name]. I would do anything for you."

The weight of her words settles heavily in the space between you, a silence thick with meaning. In her eyes, you catch a glimpse of something hidden, something that remains unspoken yet tangible. It is as though, for a moment, she sees you truly, not as a title or a mask, but as someone real.

You look away, unwilling to let her gaze linger too long on the truth buried within. This distance, you remind yourself, is a kindness—a protection. Those who draw near are always caught in the storm that follows, their lives shattered in the cycle that consumes anyone who dares to care.

"Thank you, Amelie," you murmur as she secures the necklace around your throat, fastening the clasp with practised care. The pendant rests against your skin, an amethyst framed in delicate silver vines, its weight pressing down with a cold, undeniable finality. It feels less like a piece of jewellery and more like a chain, a physical reminder of the constraints you carry, the life you cannot escape. Her fingers brush your skin, and for a moment, you feel the faintest tremor in her touch.

When she steps back, she surveys her work, her gaze tracing the lines of the gown, the amethysts that frame your face, the subtle gleam of silver in the candlelight. Her admiration is palpable, as though she were gazing upon something sacred.

"You look... perfect, my lady," she whispers, her voice filled with awe.

You incline your head, your voice soft, almost a murmur. "Perfection is simply another form of armour." The words leave a bitter taste, but Amelie seems not to notice. Instead, she looks at you with quiet pride, as though witnessing a masterpiece she has helped bring to life.

As she opens the door for you to leave, she brushes her hand lightly against yours—a fleeting, tentative touch that lingers in its softness. "I will be nearby, Lady [Name]," she says, her voice low, steady. "If you need anything—anything at all—I'll be there."

You nod, acknowledging her words, though they settle upon you as both a comfort and a warning. Her loyalty borders on reverence, a devotion that walks the line between loyalty and something deeper, more fragile. But you know better than to let it grow too close. Amelie may see herself as a protector, but the story is unforgiving, and no matter her intentions, her devotion will only be twisted in the end.

As you descend the grand staircase, she follows just behind, her presence a shadow of quiet reassurance. You steel yourself, letting the familiar mantle of the villainess fall over you, settling into the role with each step—the poised noblewoman, a beauty to be admired and feared in equal measure.

Tonight, as with each life that has come before, you will wear this armour well. And beneath it, hidden from all who watch, you carry the silent, unspoken weight of every life before.



───────── ⟡ 𝜗𝜚 ‧ ⁺ ⊰ ─────────



The ballroom glows with the warmth of candlelight, each flame casting a flickering glow that breathes life into the grand hall's marble floors, tracing shadows that seem to waltz alongside the guests. Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen constellations from the ceiling, their refracted light cascading down to meet the polished surfaces below, creating an illusion of stars scattered at the feet of the dancers. Rich, embroidered tapestries and oil portraits of past rulers line the walls, bearing silent witness to the revelry below—a reminder of the power, the legacy, woven into every stone of the Valmont Empire's palace.

It's a carefully composed scene, a masterpiece of elegance designed to veil countless ambitions. Around you, whispered alliances form and dissolve, glances linger and drift, and masked intentions float beneath bright, courteous smiles. You stand on the periphery of the ballroom, poised, a silent sentinel cloaked in calm detachment. Your posture speaks of noble refinement, each gesture composed, each expression a picture of distant grace. Yet beneath the surface lies a deep, simmering disinterest—a fatigue born not of a single night but of lifetimes. This is just another event, another night, weighed down by expectations that settle over you like fine ash, clinging no matter how many times you shake them off.

Guests swirl around you, the air thick with the scents of perfume and anticipation, every figure draped in silk, glittering jewels casting fragmented light across the room. You recognise many faces; nobility's familiar ranks, the courtly elite, those for whom appearances matter more than truth. They float past you, their glances brief—some admiring, others curious, but none truly seeing. To you, their stares and murmurs are as fleeting and insignificant as the notes of the violins that fill the air.

At your side, Amelie stands quietly, a shadow of silent loyalty amidst the bustle, her gaze attentive yet unobtrusive. She meets your eyes briefly, her expression questioning, a wordless offer to remain at your side if you wish. But even surrounded by opulent gowns and well-polished grins, an unshakable solitude clings to you—a reminder of the endless scrutiny, as though you were caught beneath the harsh light of examination.

"Amelie," you say softly, your voice barely cutting through the music's gentle hum, "would you mind fetching me a glass of wine?"

Amelie hesitates, her brows drawing together, casting a swift look across the crowded room before her gaze returns to yours. "Of course, my lady," she replies, though a hint of reluctance lingers in her voice. She steps back, offering one last, wary glance before she vanishes into the swirl of silks and whispers. Her absence leaves a faint ache of solitude, heavier than the indifferent facade you thought might shield you tonight.

A subtle shift in the atmosphere cuts through your thoughts, a murmur spreading across the room like ripples on water, as heads turn and voices hush. A figure appears in the doorway, his presence unmistakable even from a distance.

Prince Lucian de Valmont.

The prince moves with an authority so natural that it demands silence. He cuts a striking figure, his shoulder-length blond hair catching the candlelight, the sharp planes of his face softened by the warm glow. His gaze, sharp and green, sweeps the room with quick precision, an assessing look that lingers briefly on faces, then dismisses them—until it rests on you. His attire, a deep royal blue embroidered with delicate gold threads, is immaculate, each detail an unspoken testament to the power he wields.

You turn slightly, hoping his gaze might shift, might seek another intrigue. But it holds steady, and, as if by some unseen command, the crowd parts to allow him a clear path towards you. He stops before you, his posture exuding a confidence that is both effortless and intentional.

"Lady [Name]," he says, his voice smooth, a subtle courtesy laced with a smile. "You honour us with your presence tonight."

"Your Highness," you reply, inclining your head in a polite nod, each word and movement shaped by careful deference. "The pleasure is mine."

His eyes hold yours a beat too long, intense and discerning. Then he extends his hand, his voice soft but resolute. "Might I have the honour of a dance?"

You glance at his outstretched hand, and a familiar reluctance rises within you. To refuse would draw unnecessary attention, stir whispers you'd prefer to avoid. Silently, you place your hand in his, feeling the light press of his fingers as he leads you to the centre of the ballroom. The musicians pause, then begin anew, and the waltz unfurls with a rising swell.

Lucian's hand settles firmly at the small of your back, guiding you into the first steps with a grace that feels both controlled and insistent. Your movements are effortless, fluid, each step timed to the music as though rehearsed. The amethyst fabric of your gown sweeps around you, pooling and rippling like liquid ink as you move. You glide through each turn, your gaze steady, fixed just over his shoulder, while his eyes remain intent on you, as if seeking something hidden within the mask you wear.

You dance with a practised elegance, your every movement graceful yet distant, each step measured to keep just the right degree of space between you. The room blurs into a haze of light and sound, the other guests melting into shadow, but you move on instinct, the rhythm carrying you as you maintain the careful poise of someone who has danced this same dance with countless princes, countless lives before. There is a distance to your elegance, a barrier that each step subtly reinforces, ensuring he cannot draw you closer than the dance requires.

Yet his gaze remains on you, unyielding, a quiet insistence woven into the way his hand holds yours. His eyes are a bright, steady green, filled with a curiosity that borders on challenge, as though he sees this dance as a chance to peel back layers you have long held firm. But you are unmoved, your expression as composed as ever, betraying nothing of the history you carry or the story you know too well.

The music rises, and he guides you through a series of graceful turns, your skirts sweeping outward, the amethyst fabric catching in the candlelight, scattering glimmers like dark stars. His hold is steady, confident, as he draws you into a close turn, the moment's intimacy more an illusion of the dance than any invitation. You remain poised, each movement deliberately controlled, each spin calculated to preserve the space that your words have already marked.

"You're very quiet, Lady [Name]," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear, the hint of amusement softening his tone. "One might almost think you aren't enjoying the ball."

A flicker of irritation stirs beneath your calm, but you allow only a faint, distant smile. "Such gatherings," you reply smoothly, each word chosen with deliberate care, "are best suited to those who seek attention."

He blinks, the briefest glimmer of surprise flickering across his face before it vanishes. He studies you with renewed interest, a faint crease forming between his brows as he searches your expression. "And what do you seek, then?"

The question lingers in the space between you, an invitation to share something that might let him in, might allow him some glimpse beyond the mask. But you know better than to indulge such curiosity. This dance, this prince, they are simply echoes in a cycle you have lived through too many times. You meet his gaze directly, a faint smile laced with melancholy touching your lips.

"I only wish to fulfil my duties and leave others to theirs," you reply softly, the words final, leaving no space for further questions.

His head tilts slightly, his gaze sharpening as though he were trying to decipher a code, an unspoken challenge. Yet his curiosity is unwavering, as if expecting that beneath your polished reserve lies some hidden warmth. But you have danced this dance before; you know too well where it leads, and your gaze remains steady, calm, a barrier he cannot breach.

"You intrigue me, Lady [Name]," he murmurs, his voice softening to something almost coaxing, a private confidence held within the ebb and flow of the dance. "I wonder what it would take to make you look at me with something other than disinterest."

You meet his gaze, allowing a faint, detached smile, the words slipping easily past your lips. "Perhaps that is something you'll never find out, Your Highness."

A glint of challenge sparks in his eyes, and his grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly. "Then I look forward to trying."

The music swells around you, each step drawing you closer, then pulling you back in an endless rhythm. His attention bears down on you like a physical weight, his curiosity keen, probing, as though he intends to glimpse something of you beyond what is offered. But you are a practised hand at this dance, letting the music carry you as you keep the distance carefully reinforced by each measured step.

The ballroom fades into a soft blur, colours and figures merging into a sea of light and shadow, until it feels as though this dance exists within its own world. Each turn, each lift and dip, is a part of a ritual you know intimately, woven into the fabric of every existence you've known. Yet, even as you move through it with ease, a whisper of weariness tugs at you—a reminder of the lifetimes you've spent in scenes just like this, the inevitability that awaits once the song ends.

And as the final notes echo through the hall, the music drawing to a close, you feel a rare, fleeting wish—an impossible hope—that, perhaps, this time, you will be the one to walk away first.



✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓔𝐍𝐃 𝓞𝐅 𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓞𝐍𝐄 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓥𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝓘𝐒 𝓣𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃!

𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦! 𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘹 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴! 𝘧𝘦𝘮. 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

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