── 𝓒𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝓢𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝅄 ݁ ⏜



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

✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓕𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



The rain beats down with a relentless rhythm, a heavy, drumming cadence that seems to seep into everything, dulling colours and sounds alike, wrapping the world outside in a haze of grey that blurs every edge and softens every line. From your seat by the window, you watch the rivulets race down the glass, merging and parting, leaving behind faint trails that snake downwards, tracing paths as fleeting as the faces that have passed through your life. The gardens below—once a vivid array of flowers and winding hedgerows—are now sunken beneath the weight of the downpour, petals plastered to the ground, their brilliance muted, washed of all vibrancy. The scene feels like an echo of your own life: full of potential, yet dulled and stripped bare by forces beyond your control.

The chill in the room is persistent, a dampness that seeps into your skin, wrapping itself around your bones until even the warmest shawl offers no reprieve. The fabric, soft against your neck, feels flimsy, unable to shield you from the bleakness that has settled both outside and within. The room itself feels dim, the pale light that filters in only amplifying the stillness, casting faint, listless shadows that deepen the quiet emptiness around you.

The rain has always felt like a reminder—a soft, unyielding nudge of the loneliness you carry through each life, the cycles that bind you and force you to live and relive the same disillusionment, the same weariness. With each downpour, there's a sense of your world shrinking, growing colder, as though the rain itself were sapping the life from everything it touches. The beauty of the garden, so radiant in its own right, seems to fade as the rain beats down, and you feel, perhaps irrationally, that this garden, like so many things in your life, will never again be as bright or as alive.

A quiet knock breaks through the drumming on the windowpane.

"Come in," you murmur, your voice nearly swallowed by the steady hum of the rain.

Amelie steps into the room, her movements as silent as ever, though today there's a touch of wariness in her stance. In her hands, she holds a silver tray, and atop it rests a single, pristine envelope, the deep crimson wax seal gleaming faintly. Her eyes are cautious, flicking between you and the letter as though bracing herself for your reaction.

"My lady," she says, her tone soft, careful. "A letter has arrived."

You don't move immediately. Your gaze lingers on the window, the rain. "I thought I asked you to dispose of all letters from Lady Genevieve," you reply, voice measured and low. "I have no need for her explanations or her apologies."

Amelie hesitates, her expression shifting, a trace of reluctance tightening her grip on the tray. "This one isn't from Lady Genevieve," she says, her voice quieter, almost a whisper. "It's... from the Imperial Palace."

Her words sink in slowly, the significance taking its time to crystallise, but as you turn to look at the envelope, your heart gives a faint jolt. The seal—a deep, regal crimson bearing the insignia of the Valmont Empire—is unmistakable. It's a mark that carries weight, that demands attention. There is no question of ignoring it, no polite pretext under which you might decline. A summons from the palace is not an invitation; it is a command, and one that holds within it all the authority and inevitability of the empire itself.

A chill, sharper than the rain-soaked air, settles over you as you take in the seal. Even before you read the words, you understand what this means. It's a missive that doesn't allow for hesitation or refusal, a call that echoes with all the power of the empire. The crest gleams in the dim light, a small but undeniable emblem of duty pressing upon you with an unyielding force. Your stomach knots with a resigned dread, a hollow weight filling you, stretching across the quiet space between you and the letter.

Amelie's voice is soft, almost apologetic. "It appears to be from the crown prince, my lady. He... wishes to speak with you."

Her words hang in the air, each one weighted, carrying the unspoken certainty that this is no mere request. You reach for the letter, your fingers cold, the tips brushing over the wax seal that crumbles faintly under your touch, a small and yet significant surrender. For a moment, you hesitate, unwilling to open it, to face the inevitability it holds, but the letter's presence is a force in itself, pressing down upon you, reminding you that the time for reluctance has passed.

You break the seal, feeling the slight resistance of the wax give way, and unfold the paper with a sense of foreboding. The handwriting is elegant, each line crafted with a precision that suggests both care and an underlying power. Every word feels chosen, measured, and in its own way, relentless, as if even the script itself were imbued with a quiet authority, a weight that demands obedience. As your eyes move over the text, the words draw you in, each sentence wrapping tighter around you, binding you in ways both subtle and unmistakable.



─────────────────────

Lady [Name],

I trust this letter finds you well. It would be my honour to extend an invitation for a private audience, as there are matters I wish to discuss with you personally.

Please inform me of a suitable time for your convenience, though I would prefer our meeting to take place without delay.

Yours sincerely,

Lucian de Valmont

─────────────────────



The rain pours in a steady, insistent rhythm, each drop drumming against the windowpane with a cold, unyielding purpose, turning the world beyond into a blur of muted greys and streaked glass. The sky hangs low and heavy, the clouds thick and oppressive, pressing down on the landscape, smudging the garden paths and trees into indistinct shapes. Even the vibrant autumn leaves, now damp and darkened, seem resigned, their colours sinking into the sodden earth. You sit by the window, watching the droplets slip in winding paths, their constant motion a strange comfort in the stillness of the room, though the coldness of the rain feels like a reflection of the emptiness within you. Each drop feels like a reminder of your own isolation, your existence held in place by invisible strings tied to someone else's will.

Wrapped in a thin shawl, you pull it tighter around yourself, but the fabric offers only a superficial warmth, unable to touch the chill that has seeped into you, the heaviness that has taken root since the letter arrived. The faint morning light, dulled by the rain, drifts weakly into the room, settling across the furniture, the silvered mirror, the soft, muted colours of your chamber. The quiet here is deep, the kind that makes even the smallest sounds seem out of place, and yet the rain's persistent patter blurs into a low, hollow hum that fills the room, its weight a tangible presence that presses in from every side, enclosing you.

The letter sits on your lap, the envelope open, its seal of dark crimson wax now broken, though the insignia of the Valmont Empire is still visible, sharp and unmistakable in its authority. The paper is thick and smooth between your fingers, bearing words written with elegant precision, each line carefully penned in a way that could almost be called beautiful, were it not for the words themselves, which bind you tighter with each reading. You've read the letter twice, once to absorb its meaning, and again, as if to confirm the gravity beneath the courtesies. It reads as an invitation, yet every line carries an undercurrent, an unspoken demand cloaked in courtesy, a summons veiled as interest. The letter is a chain, gilded and fine, but a chain nonetheless, and it wraps around you with a weight that grows heavier the longer you sit with it.

The prince's tone is subtle, gracious even, the kind of politeness that leaves little room for resistance. There is an attentiveness to the words, a warmth meant to charm and soothe, yet beneath the elegance lies an unbreakable force, as though each carefully chosen phrase is another turn of the key, locking you into a fate that has already been decided. He does not ask; he commands with a finesse that makes refusal unthinkable. The prince's interest is no light attention; it is the kind that transforms a life, that consumes it with the silent, unspoken understanding that his will is absolute.

Outside, the rain seems to pick up its pace, the droplets racing down the window in countless lines, as though mirroring the inevitability of your own life, the unyielding course it has been set upon without your consent. The gardens below are barely visible now, swallowed by the rain, their once-bright colours faded, their beauty hidden under a veil of grey. Everything in the world beyond seems distant, unreachable, as though the rain has drawn a line between you and the rest of existence, separating you from a life that once might have been yours.

With a hand that trembles slightly despite your effort to keep steady, you fold the letter, slipping it back into the envelope, pressing your thumb gently over the broken seal, as though you might close it off, hide the truth within. But the weight of the letter remains, even as you place it on the table, the prince's insignia pressing into the paper like a brand, a mark that claims you in ways even your title never has.

Amelie stands a step away, silent, her gaze lowered in deference, yet you can feel the sympathy in her presence, a quiet understanding of the burden that has just settled over you. She has seen the prince's power in court, the way his gaze shifts, intent and piercing, commanding loyalty without need for words. She knows, perhaps better than anyone, that the letter is no invitation, that it binds you as surely as the iron chains of duty and expectation. She does not speak her concern, but it lingers in the air, unspoken yet unmistakable.

"Will you... accept?" she asks softly, her voice delicate, each word weighed with the same quiet apprehension that echoes within you. Her tone holds a gentleness, a compassion that offers a small anchor in this sea of inevitability, as though she, too, is willing you to believe that there is some choice left to make.

Your gaze drifts to her, an ache rising in your chest, a hollow pain that words cannot quite touch. "There is no choice, Amelie," you say, the resignation in your voice falling heavier than the rain outside. "The prince's will is... absolute."

The words settle into the silence, a confirmation of the truth you had felt the moment the seal was broken. Amelie's expression shifts, a brief, almost imperceptible sadness touching her face before she lowers her gaze, nodding. Her acceptance is a quiet solidarity, an understanding of the path that neither of you can stray from. Between you passes an unspoken awareness of the snare hidden in the prince's interest, the invisible chain that now binds you, fine as silk yet unbreakable as steel.

As she places the letter carefully upon your desk, her hands are steady, her movements deliberate, though you can feel the weight of her thoughts in each small gesture. She straightens the edges of the envelope as though to lessen its impact, though the sight of it, the emblem of the empire emblazoned upon it, leaves little room for comfort. She does not voice her own sorrow, but you feel it in the space between you, a silent, unbreakable understanding that extends beyond duty and obedience, a shared knowledge of the limits imposed upon you both.

Your gaze drifts back to the window, and you stare out at the blurred world beyond, barely visible through the relentless rain. The garden, the distant hills, the hedgerows, all of it shrouded in a mist that obscures, erasing the familiar details and leaving only faint outlines against the grey sky. The rain has transformed everything into a half-formed vision, as though the world itself were fading, slipping away beyond your grasp, mirroring the life you can feel being pulled from your own hands.

The cold air settles heavily in the room, pressing against your skin, sinking into your bones with a quiet chill that seems to remind you of the walls that surround you, the life that feels so distant and unreachable. This letter, this command, is not a choice or an honour, but a tether that binds you as tightly as the roles you've been given, as inescapable as the life you have been forced to live. The prince's interest has claimed you, and there is no freedom in it, only the soft, gilded illusion of control over a fate that has already been decided.

You feel a deep sense of isolation settle over you, as though even the rain, even the shadows of the garden, are slipping away from you, leaving you alone in a life that feels borrowed, dictated by the desires of others. Each raindrop sliding down the glass feels like a faint echo, a reminder of the endless path you have been set upon, one that stretches out before you with no visible end, bound by duty, by the weight of expectation that no defiance, no courage, could ever break.

In the silence that follows, the rain patters on, filling the room with its hollow, mournful sound, each drop a distant whisper of lives you have never truly lived, choices that have never truly been yours. The future before you is as blurred and grey as the world outside, and as you sit there, the prince's letter upon your desk, you feel yourself slip beneath the weight of it all, the hollow realisation that your life is not your own, that each step you take is guided by hands unseen, in a pattern that was never meant to be broken.

And as you stare out into the endless rain, the coldness of reality settles over you, and you are left only with the ache of your own solitude, the understanding that, even here, even now, there is no escape.



✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓔𝐍𝐃 𝓞𝐅 𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓕𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓥𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝓘𝐒 𝓣𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃!

𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦! 𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘹 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴! 𝘧𝘦𝘮. 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

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𝜗𝜚 ✧𓆪 ‧₊˚⊹

𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓢𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 ﹕edited !





Guys, trust me, things will get better for the MC eventually... maybe (or not). ANYWAY, new love interest soon??