── 𝓡𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝓔𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝅄 ݁ ⏜



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

✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓔𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



The study was cloaked in shadows, the dim light of a single lamp casting flickering patterns across the room. Heavy velvet curtains swallowed the daylight, turning the space into a tomb of ink-stained darkness. The scent of old parchment and leather-bound tomes hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint tang of lamp oil. It was a room that demanded silence, where words were not merely spoken but decreed. You stood at the centre of it all, a fragile figure before the imposing monolith of your father's desk.

The polished mahogany gleamed in the dim light, its surface unmarred except for the inkpot and scattered correspondence. Behind it loomed the towering figure of your father, his silhouette sharp and unyielding, carved deeper by the shadows that clung to him like a second skin. His face, lined with the marks of age and perpetual disdain, was a thundercloud ready to break, and his presence radiated anger so potent it seemed to warp the very air.

The silence stretched, taut and dangerous. It was not the kind of quiet that brought peace—it was a suffocating stillness, a prelude to the inevitable storm. And then it broke, shattered by the thunder of his voice.

"You insolent girl!" The roar filled the room, his words cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. His fist slammed down onto the desk, the force of it rattling the inkpot, sending a dark smear across the pristine surface. The sound reverberated in your chest, shaking something deep within you, though you didn't allow it to show. "Do you think me a fool? Do you think the crown prince's interest is a game you can toy with?"

The words lashed out like barbed chains, each syllable striking with precision honed by years of authority. They carried the weight of his pride, his anger, his frustration—emotions that had always found their outlet in you. Your pulse quickened, the heat of his rage brushing against your skin like fire, but you held your ground, standing as still and composed as a figure in a painting. Your hands were folded neatly before you, your posture impeccable, every part of you trained to project obedience even as the cracks beneath your surface deepened.

"Father," you began, your tone calm, your words carefully measured, "the prince's words were not a formal declaration. He has not approached you or the family."

"Do not play coy with me!" he bellowed, his voice reverberating off the walls. His movements were sharp and deliberate as he stepped out from behind the desk, each stride carrying him closer to where you stood. The air grew hotter, denser, as though his presence consumed the oxygen. His shadow fell over you, a suffocating force, and his hand trembled faintly as he raised it to point an accusing finger at you. "Do you know how the court whispers? How they mock me—mock this family? Because of your selfishness?"

The word cut deep. Selfishness. It twisted like a blade, sinking into a place that had been hollowed out by years of hearing it. Still, you didn't flinch. You kept your head high, your expression calm, though the weight of his accusation pressed against your chest like iron. "I have done nothing to disgrace this family," you replied, the faintest flicker of defiance creeping into your voice despite your best efforts. "If the prince's interest fades, as it surely will, what good would come of my—"

The blow came without warning.

The sharp crack of his hand against your cheek echoed in the stillness, a sound that seemed to hang in the air long after it had fallen silent. Your head snapped to the side, the force of it jarring, the sting blooming into a searing heat that spread across your face. The taste of copper pricked at the edge of your tongue, and for a moment, the room blurred, the edges of your vision clouded by the sharpness of pain. You swallowed hard, and bit down on the inside of your cheek until the ache there rivalled the throb in your face.

Slowly, deliberately, you straightened, as you fought to regain your composure. The skin of your cheek burned, a steady pulse of pain that refused to be ignored, but you did not allow yourself to falter. Instead, you met his gaze, your eyes steady despite the storm that raged within you.

"You refuse nothing," he said, his voice now low and venomous, each word sinking into the space between you like stones dropped into still water. He loomed closer, his breath hot and sharp as it brushed against your skin. "You are my daughter, and you will do your duty."

The words were chains, heavy and unrelenting, binding you tighter with every syllable. Your cheek throbbed, the pain a stark contrast to the numbness that spread through your chest. You knew this moment, this anger, too well—it was a script you had memorised, a scene you had played out countless times before. And as always, there was only one response he would accept.

"Yes, Father," you murmured, the words falling from your lips like dead leaves. There was no strength in them, no resistance, only the hollow echo of what he demanded to hear.

He stared at you for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with the force of his anger. Then, with a sharp wave of his hand, he dismissed you. "Leave me," he said coldly, his tone dripping with disdain. "Get out of my sight."

You curtsied, the motion automatic, flawless, even as your muscles screamed with the effort of keeping yourself together. You turned and walked towards the door, each step heavy, the distance between you and him feeling both impossibly far and agonisingly close. The latch clicked softly as you closed the door behind you, sealing him inside.



───────── ⟡ 𝜗𝜚 ‧ ⁺ ⊰ ─────────



Back in your chambers, the air felt colder, heavier, as though the walls themselves were aware of what had just transpired. You moved carefully, each step deliberate, as though any sudden motion might disturb the fragile veneer of calm you had wrapped around yourself. Sitting at your vanity, you gazed into the mirror, the faint redness on your cheek catching your attention like a thorn embedded in silk. It bloomed against your pale skin, a stark reminder of the encounter with your father, but you regarded it with detachment. It was as though you were observing someone else, a stranger whose pain you could not truly feel.

The room was quiet save for the faint rustle of the wind against the window, a sound that felt too soft, too gentle for the storm churning inside you. The dim light cast muted reflections on the surface of the mirror, fracturing your image into faint ripples that seemed to mock your attempt at composure.

A soft knock broke the silence. Before you could respond, the door opened, and Amelie stepped inside. Her eyes immediately darted to the mark on your cheek, widening ever so slightly before narrowing with concern. The faint crease between her brows deepened as she moved closer, her lips pressing into a tight line. Her worry was palpable, radiating from her like heat.

"My lady," she murmured, her voice taut with unease. "Your cheek..."

"It's nothing," you said, cutting her off with a wave of your hand. Your voice was calm, dismissive, even as the warmth of her concern made something within you twist painfully. "It will fade."

But Amelie was not so easily deterred. She retrieved a damp cloth from the small basin near the hearth. Kneeling beside you, she brought the cool fabric to your cheek, her touch impossibly gentle. You flinched at the sensation—not from the cold, but from the tenderness in her hands, a kindness you felt undeserving of.

"Amelie," you began, but she shook her head.

"You should not have to endure this," she said softly, her words meant more for herself than for you. Her tone was steady, but her hands betrayed her, trembling faintly as she dabbed at the redness with the cloth.

"It's nothing new," you replied, your voice even, though the ache in your chest flared at her care. "It is simply how things are."

Her hands stilled for a moment, her gaze snapping to yours. There was disbelief in her eyes, a quiet outrage that she quickly suppressed. "It should not be," she said, the words almost inaudible. But before you could respond, she returned to her task, her movements more careful now, as though trying to erase not just the mark but the memory of what had caused it.

When she finally finished, she placed the cloth aside with meticulous care, her expression heavy with unspoken thoughts. She rose to her feet and turned as if to step away, but your voice stopped her.

"Amelie," you said softly. She straightened, her gaze finding yours, and you forced yourself to hold her eyes despite the heaviness building in your chest. "I have something I need to say."

Her brow furrowed, confusion and concern mingling in her expression, but she said nothing, waiting for you to continue.

"You've done enough," you said, your tone firm yet laced with gratitude. "More than enough. It's time for you to take a break."

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head almost immediately, the motion vehement, as though rejecting the very idea. "My lady, I cannot leave you—"

"This isn't a request," you interrupted gently but resolutely, your voice soft yet unyielding. "You've been by my side through everything, Amelie. And for that, I am endlessly grateful. But I cannot allow you to wear yourself thin because of me."

Her lips parted as though to protest again, but you raised a hand, silencing her before she could speak. "You deserve rest," you said, your voice softer now, almost pleading. "Please, Amelie."

She stared at you, her eyes glistening with unshed emotion. For a moment, it seemed as though she might refuse, her loyalty battling against the weight of your words. But finally, with a reluctant nod, her shoulders slumped in resignation.

"As you wish, my lady," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, looking away, unable to bear the look in her eyes any longer. Your gaze drifted to the window, where the pale light of the afternoon cast long shadows across the room. The silence between you was heavy, thick with unspoken emotion, but you didn't break it. You heard her footsteps retreat, the soft rustle of her skirts as she moved towards the door. The quiet click of it closing behind her felt like the final note of a dirge.

The room, now empty, seemed colder, the walls pressing in with an unfamiliar weight. You leaned back in your chair, your hand brushing lightly against your cheek. Amelie deserved better than this life, better than the burden of your existence.

And yet, the emptiness that filled the room after her departure felt sharper than you expected. It gnawed at the edges of your composure, a hollow ache that refused to be ignored. You were used to being alone—had long since accepted it as your reality. But the silence left behind by Amelie's absence seemed to echo louder than any solitude you had ever known.



───────── ⟡ 𝜗𝜚 ‧ ⁺ ⊰ ─────────



You sat rigidly in your chair, the stiff upholstery pressing into your back, the newspaper in your hands crinkling faintly with every tremor of your fingers. The pages fluttered as though they might fly apart under the strain of your grip, but you continued to skim them, your gaze darting from headline to headline in search of something you didn't fully understand.

Your eyes grazed over the usual fare—an article on foreign dignitaries, reports of trade agreements, and the inevitable column dedicated to the court's frivolities. None of it truly registered. You were looking for something, though you couldn't have said what.

Then you saw her name.

Lady Vivienne.

It was as though the world tipped on its axis. The letters leapt out at you, stark and unyielding against the pristine white of the page. Lady Vivienne, tragically deceased. The words blurred slightly as your eyes refused to accept them. The explanation that followed was brief, a footnote to a life that had burned so brightly in the social circles of the court. An unexpected illness, the column claimed. Peaceful, they suggested. But the absence of detail only deepened the unease.

Your breath hitched. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Not her.

Lady Fontaine's death—yes, that tragedy was a constant. It was a grim inevitability, an event that unfolded with a sort of cruel reliability in every life you could recall. You had made your uneasy peace with it, a marker in the timeline of events that tethered you to your role as the villainess. But Lady Vivienne? She had never been part of that cycle. She was sharp, cruel, unrelenting—a fixture of the court's contemptuous games. She had always survived, her laughter ringing out like glass shattering at the expense of others.

But now...?

Your hands trembled, the paper shaking as if it might dissolve in your grasp. You lowered it to the table with more force than you intended, the teacup beside it rattling on its saucer. The porcelain sound felt deafening in the oppressive silence of the room. You closed your eyes for a moment, willing the rush of memories and questions to still. But they didn't. They only multiplied.

What had changed? Why now?

Your thoughts twisted back to the familiar cycles of your lives, the way the everything bent and shifted to accommodate the heroine's light. You were used to it by now, the way fate seemed to write and rewrite itself to ensure her rise and your inevitable fall. Perhaps this was merely another ripple in that narrative, a small correction to keep the story moving forward. But no matter how you tried to rationalise it, the unease in your chest refused to abate.

Was it because of you?

The thought came unbidden, sharp and unwelcome, and it struck deeper than you expected. You had declined Lady Fontaine's invitation that day, choosing instead to attend Lady Genevieve's tea party. It had been an impulsive decision, one born not of strategy but of fatigue. You had thought little of it at the time, brushing it aside as an insignificant divergence. But now, as Lady Vivienne's name stared back at you from the newspaper, the weight of that choice pressed down like a millstone.

Had your absence shifted the balance of fate? Had it created a void where once you had stood, a shadow that now loomed over someone else? The notion unsettled you deeply, twisting in your chest like a knife. You had always believed your choices mattered little, that you were bound to the script written for you long before you'd taken your first breath. And yet, here was evidence that the script could bend, that the unchangeable might not be as immutable as you once thought.

The name Lady Vivienne seemed to pulse in your mind, louder with every passing second. You stood abruptly, the motion jerking your chair back against the wooden floor with a sharp scrape. The stillness of the room felt unbearable now, the air too thick, the silence too accusing. You crossed to the window, desperate for something to anchor you.

Outside, the gardens swayed gently in the breeze, their vibrant colours almost mocking in their tranquillity. The roses, so carefully tended, stood in neat rows, their petals unfurling in perfect harmony. Yet the sight offered no solace. The beauty felt hollow, disconnected from the storm raging within you.

The reflection in the glass stared back. You tried to push the questions away, to banish the gnawing thoughts that refused to let you rest. But it was impossible. The threads of fate, once so rigid, now seemed to twist and writhe, shifting beneath your feet like an unsteady bridge.

You pressed your hand against the cool glass, your breath fogging the surface as you exhaled slowly. The room behind you remained still, heavy with unspoken questions. But the ache in your chest refused to subside.

And as the morning wore on, you knew one thing for certain: the threads of fate were shifting. And whether by choice or circumstance, you were being pulled into their weave.



✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓔𝐍𝐃 𝓞𝐅 𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓔𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓥𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝓘𝐒 𝓣𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃!

𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦! 𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘹 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴! 𝘧𝘦𝘮. 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━



━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝜗𝜚 ✧𓆪 ‧₊˚⊹

𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓢𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 ﹕edited !





Next chapter in Amelie's perspective jsgdsghhsxdand, then we'll be focusing more on someone else! (say bye-bye to amelie y'all 😔)