As Rosalee and Ben strolled back through the winding paths of the garden, the scent of morning dew clinging to freshly bloomed roses lingered in the air. The tranquil moment was shattered by the shrill voice of a maid briskly making her way down the gravel path.
"There you are, Lady Rosalee!"
The maid barked without decorum. Her face twisted in irritation.
"You're late for your lessons again! Do you think the tutors are here just for your convenience?"
Rosalee blinked in surprise, thrown off by the sudden reprimand.
"Lessons?"
They muttered, a momentary lapse in their otherwise confident poise. Their head throbbed faintly, and in an instant—too fast to resist—a new flood of memories surged forth.
Cold rooms. Blistering cane strikes. Hands grabbing too tightly. Fingers lifting their chin, forcing them to look up. Sickly sweet breath brushing against their ear as threats were whispered behind closed doors. One tutor in particular, with yellowed teeth and a laugh like curdled milk, blackmailed the old Rosalee, cornered them with false reports, demanding to see their body as proof of "devotion" to learning. He would tell their parents Rosalee wasn't trying hard enough. That alone was enough to ensure pain—beatings, starvation, humiliation.
But worse was what happened when Rosalee did obey.
They staggered slightly as the memory slammed into their head.
A sickness rolled through Rosalee's gut—but not from fear. No. A tremor of rage bloomed across their face—their lips tightening, jaw clenched, eyes flashing red like blood-spun garnet beneath the sun.
Ben noticed it at once. The slight shift in Rosalee's stance. The way their shoulders pulled back and chin tilted up—not with defiance, but something colder. Something absolute.
Rosalee's eyes locked on the maid like a hawk sizing up a rodent.
"Where is the study?"
They asked in a tone so calm it was chilling.
The maid blinked, surprised.
"It's—just off the west wing. But—"
"Thank you…"
Rosalee interrupted sharply.
"Don't let me keep you."
And with that, they turned and strode off, long scarlet locks trailing behind them like a tide of crushed rose petals.
Ben and the maid were left in stunned silence.
"…What's gotten into her?"
The maid whispered with a pout, trying to catch Ben's reaction, hoping for a smile, a laugh—anything.
Instead, Ben turned to her slowly, his pale green eyes hardening with cold, contemptuous precision.
"Mireille, correct? I don't know who taught you it was acceptable to speak to your betters that way…"
He said in a low voice.
"But I advise you never speak to Lady Rosalee like that again. Understood?"
Mirelle's lips parted slightly.
"I-I was only doing my duty…"
She stammered.
"I thought you'd—"
"You thought wrong…"
Ben cut her off.
"Lady Rosalee may be second-born, but she is still noble. If I hear you disrespect her again—"
He said coolly, eyes narrowed at the maid. His pale green gaze sliced across the distance like polished ice.
"—without rank, reason, or permission— you'll regret it."
The maid's eyes widened, her lips parting in disbelief. Wasn't she always the obedient one? The good one? The one who followed every Florenzia order to the letter?
"I—I only meant—"
"You heard me."
The finality in Ben's voice sealed the air between them. Her cheeks flushed, not from shame but from heartbreak—hot and sour and unbidden. For weeks now, she had watched Ben pass her in the halls, hoping for a glance. A word. Anything. She'd cleaned his boots once when she thought he wasn't looking. Just to be near him.
Now, here he was—defending Rosalee. That spoiled, useless second. That pawn in noble silk.
Her stomach curdled. Her vision blurred. But she bowed all the same.
"Yes, Mr. Bell."
Ben turned on his heel without waiting for further response, cloak swishing behind him as he made his way back toward the estate. The echo of his boots on the stone path rang louder than usual. Inside his chest, something twisted.
The Rosalee from a day ago wouldn't have stormed off like that. They wouldn't have looked anyone in the eye. Let alone raised their voice.
And yet… this Rosalee—today's Rosalee—walked like they owned the damn estate. Spoke with confidence. Looked people through their eyes rather than just at them.
Part of Ben's duty was to report any shifts in behavior to Thornwood. He'd been trained for it, raised for it. But something in him hesitated.
He remembered that flicker of agony in Rosalee's face, barely concealed. The anger, the trauma hidden beneath the sudden strength. And how he had walked in on them that morning, standing in the light, radiant and utterly different than he had ever seen them before.
Ben's hands tightened into fists.
What was he supposed to tell Thornwood anyhow?
That Rosalee was…changed?
Not disobedient, no. Something else. Poised. Clever. Dangerous. The way she—no, they—spoke now was laced with the kind of venom reserved for noblewomen twice their age. And yet… something elegant lingered behind the sharpness.
Ben frowned.
He'd tell Thornwood. Of course he would.
Eventually.
But maybe not all of it. Not yet.
Just enough to buy time. Enough to watch and learn.
Because for the first time, Ben Bell wasn't sure if Rosalee Florenzia needed protecting… or if they were the one about to change everything.
And for some reason, that thought wouldn't leave Ben alone.
…
The doors to the study slammed open with the full force of Rosalee's fury.
The air inside was dry—dead, even. The thick curtains suffocated the sunlight, casting the entire chamber in a dreary gray haze. Rows of books lined the walls like tombstones, their spines dusty and untouched. At the far end stood a heavy wooden desk and a high podium where lectures were no doubt barked, not taught. Beside it, a low table with stale biscuits, sweating fruit, and a sweating pitcher of water gave off the scent of rot. A single, bloated couch sat like a slug under the window, swallowing the light it was supposed to reflect.
And there—at the center of this gloom—was him.
The man stood as Rosalee entered. His face bloomed into a disgusting flush, pockmarked skin rippling around beady eyes that glimmered with lewd expectation. He was hunched, thick-necked, and had the self-satisfied gait of someone who'd enjoyed unchecked power for far too long.
"Well, well…"
He said, voice slick like rancid butter.
"You're late again, my lady."
Rosalee said nothing. They merely reached behind and closed the door with a click, the sound echoing like the snap of a neck in the cold quiet. Then they turned the latch and locked it.
The tutor's eyes gleamed. He thought he was in control.
"Good."
The man murmured, mistaking Rosalee's silence for obedience.
"We'll need to reinforce the importance of punctuality, won't we? I'll teach you properly today. No need to tell anyone. Wouldn't want to embarrass yourself."
He turned his back, waddling toward the podium.
"Now then…"
He said with casual cruelty,
"Take off your dress."
Rosalee's hands didn't go to their buttons.
They went to the table.
Their fingers curled around the iron neck of the reading lamp—a beautiful thing, crafted in a swirling shape of silver vines. It hadn't been turned on in some time. Its base was heavy. Solid.
Rosalee lifted it without hesitation.
The moment slowed.
The sound of the man shifting his weight. His robes rustling. The wet smacking of lips. That smug, obscene anticipation.
'How dare he.'
With no warning, Rosalee brought the lamp down.
Crack.
The impact rang out sharply as the lamp's edge struck the man's skull. He dropped forward with a grunt—more from shock than pain—before his body crumpled to the floor like a sack of grease. A slow stream of blood pooled beneath his matted hair.
Rosalee panted once. Just once.
Then, calmly, they set the lamp down.
He stepped over the unconscious body, moving to the table where the pitcher of water trembled slightly in his hand.
"Let's see…"
They whispered. Their red eyes shimmered faintly as their palm hovered over the surface. With a breath and a flick of will, the water began to rise.
A perfect sphere. Crystal-clear. Glistening with stolen light.
With gentle grace, they moved it through the air, floated it above the man's head—then pressed it down.
It molded against the man's face like a second skin.
There was a gurgle. Then nothing.
Rosalee stood still. Watching.
Ten seconds passed. No more. No less.
Not enough to kill—but enough to ruin.
Enough to ensure that if he ever woke again, he'd never be able to touch or speak or leer ever again. Not without drool slipping from his ruined mouth. Ten long seconds of suffocating him beneath the water's surface had stolen more than his breath. It had stolen everything that made him dangerous.
The water retracted, swirling in a perfect sphere, and with the same casual movement, Rosalee guided it back into the pitcher.
The silence was now complete.
The study was still dark. The man was unmoving.
Rosalee smoothed their sleeves and walked to the door.
Click.
They unlocked it.
Paused.
Then turned back.
"Consider this your lesson…"
They said softly.
"You picked the wrong guy in heels to fuck with."
The room was eerily still.
The heavy, ragged breaths of the fat, stinking man lay sprawled on the floor had gone shallow—gasping like a fish choking on air, his limbs twitching slightly in the aftermath of his induced near-drowning. Blood matted his greasy hair. His skin had turned a sickly bluish hue, and his eyes, even if he ever opened them again, would never see the same world.
Rosalee stood tall amidst the gloom, heart pounding but face cool and composed. Their gaze landed on the lamp, their only accomplice—their only witness—and grabbed it again. Their hand tightened around the cold silver handle of the lamp as they wiped the fingerprints off with a silk cloth taken from the table. No cracks. No obvious trace. Just a speck of blood near the edge that they blotted out with meticulous care.
The lamp was spotless now.
Rosalee admired their own handiwork with a twisted sort of pride, the same way an artist would regard a finished sculpture. No mess, no smears, no fingerprints. The lamp sat innocently back on the edge of the desk, its silver sides gleaming faintly in the dim light, just another mundane piece of furniture in the study's grim decor.
Tik-tok. Tik-tok.
The sound of the monotonous grandfather clock in the far corner echoed in the silence, then came the shift. He took a single, steadying breath, turned toward the door, sucked in a slow breath—and broke.
Their trembling lips parting into a perfect, helpless sob as they curled their shoulders inward and summoned tears with the same ease they used from years of practice to summon tips from drunk men back in their last life. Mouth opened, their voice rose in a raw, high, and piercing scream before collapsing to the floor.
"Help! S-someone, help! He's hurt! My tutor—! Help! Please! My tutor—he collapsed! He's bleeding!"
It took more time then it should but soon the hallway stirred.
Footsteps thundered.
A pair of guards in gray tabards burst in first, hands instinctively dropping to their weapons. Behind them trailed three maids and a young butler, all wide-eyed and breathless. The dim study suddenly became a hive of activity, muffled gasps and murmurs punctuating the room as their eyes darted between the unconscious man and the fragile second trembling like a startled deer by the desk on the floor.
They froze at the sight.
There was Lady Rosalee—trembling, tears streaking down their pale cheeks like rain on porcelain, one hand clutching her bodice in sheer fright. And on the floor beside them, the portly tutor, a crimson smear trailing from his scalp and pooling on the carpet. His chest rose and fell in tiny, stuttering gasps—alive, but damaged beyond return.
One of the guards stepped forward, wary.
"What happened here?"
Rosalee looked up, eyes wide and glistening with staged innocence.
"I—I came in late, and he was so angry, and he… he stood up, yelled at me, and then… he just grabbed his chest and—fell…"
Rosalee stammered through glossy, tear-filled eyes. Their voice cracking in just the right places.
"He fell—h-hit his head on the edge of the table! I-I didn't know what to do! I—I thought he was dying—!"
The butler crouched to check the man's pulse and nodded.
"Alive, but barely. We need a doctor."
The group exchanged glances. Some wore looks of disbelief, others of apathy—Rosalee was, by all accounts, the family embarrassment to many of them. But none dared question too loudly. They were still a noble.
"We'll call for a physician."
A maid murmured, already turning on her heel and scurrying off to fetch one, her skirts swishing as she disappeared down the corridor. The others lingered, unsure whether to comfort the trembling second or keep their distance. After all, this was Rosalee Florenzia—a child of the household, yes, but more tool than person in their eyes.
But just then—
"Lady Rosalee!"
Ben's voice cut through the rising murmurs like a sharp blade, his boots heavy and fast as he stormed into the room, sharp with urgency. He entered with uncharacteristic haste, his usually collected expression crumbling into one of raw panic when he caught sight of the chaos. His chestnut-brown hair had fallen slightly into his pale green eyes, which scanned the room with a rare intensity before landing on Rosalee—and everything else dropped away.
Rosalee, curled on the floor and sobbing with just the right amount of dainty tremble, looked up. Their eyes met—and for a brief, unguarded second, Ben's breath caught.
He rushed to Rosalee's side, his presence a sudden wall of warmth and protection.
"What happened?"
He demanded, dropping to one knee beside him, one hand automatically reaching for Rosalee's arm.
"Who did this? Are you hurt?"
Rosalee blinked. They hadn't expected that tone—desperate, almost… worried. Like someone who cared.
Rosalee shook their head, eyes wide and glassy. They played their part without hesitation. Their lower lip quivered as they turned into Ben's touch and buried their face against the butler's chest.
"N-no… I just… I was late and he got so angry…I didn't know what to do…"
They whimpered.
"He was so angry and then—then he collapsed…"
Ben's arms went rigid for a second before softening. His gaze snapped to the gathered servants.
"You left Lady Rosalee alone with him? Why was no one here with her?"
He barked, his tone turned ice-cold.
One of the maids flinched.
"She usually comes alone—"
Ben glared at her.
The guards exchanged nervous glances.
"She's been coming to these lessons alone for months, though."
One of them muttered.
"I don't care about usual or for how long. That's no longer acceptable. From this moment forward, no one enters a room with Lady Rosalee unless she has a personal escort. You never leave a noble lady alone with a man. If something had happened—if she had been harmed—!"
Ben growled.
A beat of silence fell. Rosalee, hearing that, clung a little tighter to Ben's sleeve. Their head tilted and peeked up at Ben through their lashes, as if seeking comfort. Inwardly, they smirked.
'This is working better than I thought.'
The guard stepped forward, uneasy.
"We didn't see any signs of violence. It looks like an accident."
Ben ignored him, still focused on Rosalee.
Ben's arms gently circled Rosalee, lifting them up with surprising ease. The maid from earlier—the one who had chastised Rosalee in the garden—watched the scene with tightened fists at her sides, her face carefully composed into blank civility, but her eyes burning with raw jealousy.
Ben helped Rosalee walk from the study, his hand lingering just a second too long on Rosalee's waist.
"Come…"
He said gently.
"You're not doing lessons today. You're going to your room to rest."
He murmured.
Rosalee gave a soft, uncertain nod, like a frightened little bird needing coaxing.
"I—I don't want to be alone…"
"You won't be…"
Ben said, tightening his grip slightly.
"I'll walk you back myself."
As Ben helped Rosalee to their feet and led them out of the room, the gathered servants stood dumbfounded. Never had they seen the cold and dutiful Ben Bell so tender with Rosalee. Not even once. Whispers immediately began to form in their minds.
Mirelle stood at the back of the group, hands balled into tight fists. Jealousy burned in her chest like poison. That look of concern—of care—she had never seen it on Ben's face. Not once.
And now it was being wasted on it.
Rosalee.
She forced a bow as Ben and Rosalee passed, her face calm but her eyes glittering with quiet rage.
Inside the crook of Ben's arm, Rosalee caught all the signs Mireille was trying so hard to hide and smiled faintly.
Checkmate.
***
Rosalee leaned lightly against Ben as they walked, their delicate frame still trembling—an exquisite act perfected over years of seduction and survival. Their red lashes fluttered against their cheeks, and their grip on Ben's sleeve was just shy of possessive.
The hallways of the Florenzia estate, typically cold and dismissive, now seemed to hold their breath.
Every maid, every footman they passed, watched them in stunned silence. Some exchanged whispers behind gloved hands. Others looked away quickly, unsure how to process what they'd just witnessed.
Ben Bell—stern, reliable, impassive Ben—guiding Lady Rosalee with the care of a man escorting a porcelain doll, a prized treasure too delicate for the world.
Ben said nothing as they moved through the halls, but his mind was an inferno.
'They were crying. They looked… terrified.'
He'd always thought of Rosalee as an inconvenience. A second groomed to be something they weren't, used and discarded by a family clawing its way up the noble ladder. But this—this sudden shift—was more than he could explain.
Rosalee seemed different. Not just in behavior, but in presence.
They used to be small—shrunken, withdrawn, afraid of their own shadow.
Now… now they were alive. Still delicate, yes. Still soft and graceful. But something else simmered beneath that elegant frame. Something dangerous. Powerful.
And yet, Ben couldn't stop the irrational urge to protect it.
They reached the door to Rosalee's chambers, and Ben opened it with a sigh.
"You should rest…"
He murmured, not quite meeting Rosalee's gaze.
"I'll have tea and something light sent up."
Rosalee didn't move at first. Then, with that same mysterious smile, they turned to Ben and leaned in slightly. Their lips parted as if to whisper something, but instead they spoke softly.
"You really care, don't you?"
Ben tensed.
"I care that you're safe."
He said briskly.
Rosalee's eyes sparkled—not with tears this time, but with mischief.
"That's not what I asked."
Ben flushed. A flicker of red tinted his ears.
"You need to rest."
Rosalee reached up and brushed a speck of dust off Ben's chest, fingers lingering far longer than necessary.
"Thank you for coming for me."
They whispered, voice dripping in honey.
Ben stepped back like he'd been slapped, hastily bowing.
"I'll be outside if you need anything."
Then he turned and strode off, almost fleeing.
Rosalee watched him go, pleased.
Behind their beautiful, trembling facade was a mind already whirring again with schemes. They could see it clearly now—the power they were beginning to amass. Even the smallest cracks could be turned into fissures with the right touch.
And Ben Bell… might just become their most useful pawn yet.
Rosalee closed the door gently, walked to the window, and parted the curtains.
The sun spilled in like liquid gold.
They were no longer Lollipop.
But they were still dangerous. Still beautiful. Still the one holding the cards.
And the Florenzia estate was their new playground.
***
The moon hung low over the sprawling Florenzia estate, its pale light barely filtering through the sheer curtains that framed the high arched windows of Rosalee's chambers. The air was quiet, heavy with the scent of rose oil from the bath earlier, and the faint crackle of a dying fireplace settled into the corners of the room like a lullaby. Dinner had been brought on a silver tray, wheeled in by none other than Ben Bell himself. Rosalee had just finished dinner—a delicate arrangement of roasted pheasant, a sweet custard tart, and a steaming cup of herbal tea.
"Are you still shaken, my lady?"
Ben asked, carefully arranging the empty dishes so he can easily carry them away. Rosalee tilted their head thoughtfully as Ben picked up each plate with his usual precision, eyes flicking over every movement of the chestnut-haired man. A flicker of guilt, or perhaps it was concern, lingered in Ben's pale green eyes.
Rosalee, lounging on a velvet red chaise lounge in a pale red robe, blinked languidly up at him.
"Thank you for the dinner, Benny. I'm feeling much better now."
They cooed, voice lilting with false fragility, testing the nickname with honeyed warmth.
"How thoughtful it was of you to even bring it up yourself."
Ben paused, the name clearly catching him off guard. His expression didn't change much, but Rosalee caught the way his fingers twitched at his sides. Ben's pale green eyes flicked over to them, cautious but warm.
"It seemed more prudent than sending someone else. You've had… a trying day."
"Indeed…"
Rosalee agreed, lifting the last forkful of roasted duck to their plump lips.
"I'll never forget how brave you were. My knight in butler's uniform."
They gave a soft laugh, watching Ben from the corner of their eye.
Ben, flustered, bowed stiffly and made to excuse himself.
"Sleep well, Benny…"
Rosalee added softly as Ben reached the door.
"I hope you have a good night."
Ben froze for the faintest second before nodding and stepping out, closing the door behind him.
Alone once more, Rosalee turned to their now-empty table and sighed dramatically.
"That duck was good. Damn good. I'm gonna get fat if I keep this up."
Pushing themselves off the chaise lounge, they returned to the massive canopy bed and collapsed backward, letting the plush mattress swallow them up. A long exhale left them as they stared at the ceiling, mind already wandering. Not to Ben. Not to their new body. But to the reason they were here at all—the game.
Otome: Holy Saintess Must Find Her Match.
"Right…"
They muttered.
"Let's see…where I am in this damned story, the prolong? Or…maybe even before that? I think…I'm eighteen, if I recall the original Rosalee's memories. Ah, and then there's the real main character…"
Jill Maze.
The name bloomed like an unfortunate daisy in their mind.
A petite thing with crisp blonde hair tied in twin braids and sapphire blue eyes that shimmered with naïve optimism. So sweet she'd give you diabetes. The game's protagonist, blessed by the Gods and hailed as the next Saintess by the church. And the setting? The elite Noble Academy where all the future scions of power and prestige gathered like crows on a silk-draped carcass.
Jill arrives on a rare scholarship to the prestigious Noble Academy through the Holy Church, her humble birth meant to contrast the pompous arrogance of the noble world. There, she meets her four love interests, each practically dripping with trope-perfect allure.
Rosalee groaned and flipped to their side, punching their pillow.
"Of course, she's humble, pretty, and full of magical potential. The perfect protagonist. Blegh. Gods, I forgot how boring the original plot was."
From there, the story blossomed into a tangled web of romance and kingdom-level intrigue.
At the academy, she'd meet her three official love interests. First was Crown Prince Roland Solarmelt—the blond golden boy with molten golden eyes and a stick up his arse, cold as an iceberg but passionate when cracked open. Powerful, perfect, and painfully predictable. Been there, done that. Got all his endings. He was... fine. Rosalee scoffed just thinking about him.
Then there was Dixon Aqualar, the tall and muscular younger brother of the villainess Vixtia. With his dark purple hair that he wore loose and wild as it brushed the bottom of his shoulders, and soft pink eyes that contrasted with his hardened body and sword-strapped back, Dixon had the whole brooding knight-in-training package. Built like a mercenary, always in armor or a loose shirt showing off scars from training. Kind of hot. Definitely had that brooding loyalty kink. Rosalee didn't mind the view, but the man himself? Rosalee smirked.
"I'd let him pin me to a training dummy before tossing him aside."
The next was Lyle Blessteel. A vision of grace and gentle smiles, his long silver hair trailing to just below his bottom like a holy river of moonlight. His pale green eyes were soft but sharp—like he saw into your soul and didn't always like what he saw. At six feet tall with a slim but trained build, Lyle was the priest blessed with strong and powerful holy magic, the one destined to guide the faithful and purify the wicked as the next High Priest candidate. He liked things pure, was older than the others, and terrifyingly pious.
Rosalee narrowed his eyes as they laughed aloud.
"I'd have driven that man insane. Though he smiles like a saint, that one judges like a goddamned executioner…"
They muttered.
"Always muttering about 'sinners' under his breath."
But the one who had surprised players the most was Blake Darkwood. Mysterious. Cloaked. Leader of the underground Dark Guild. Half the fandom thought he didn't exist until they stumbled into his hidden route. The secret romance route. Long hidden behind side quests and cryptic dialogue, Blake wasn't even revealed as a love interest until halfway through the game. He was tall—six foot one—cloaked in a dark, brooding beauty. Black hair fell just at his shoulders like ink spilled over velvet. His navy blue eyes held no warmth, only calculation.
Blake was the leader of the Dark Guild, a man enmeshed in black market dealings, weapons trade, forbidden magic—and coin. Always coin. He had no noble title, no official role. Just raw, terrifying power and a love of profit. Rosalee remembered the forums exploding the day someone finally unlocked his ending.
"Him…"
Rosalee mused.
"He was fun. And probably the only one who didn't snore. He was the only one who made Jill work for it…"
Rosalee said aloud, leaning back into the pillows.
"Cold bastard."
And yet…
There was something so disinterested about Blake until Jill wormed her way into his life. Rosalee had liked that, liked the resistance, the thrill of the chase. But in the end… even he became lovestruck and soft.
"And that…"
Rosalee muttered.
"Was when I lost interest."
Their gaze drifted to the canopy overhead, mood slipping from amused to contemplative. Though the story had a rich cast and grand drama, it was surprisingly shallow on the details. Currency, culture, and even how magic truly worked were never explained. Power was handed out like candy, and logistics were swept aside.
Not once did the game explain its economic structure, or how magic actually worked outside of combat events. What were the limits? Were there laws against dueling? What was the punishment for murder?
"Too many gaps…"
They murmured.
"And I don't plan to die a second time 'cause I trusted a shoddy game mechanic. If I'm going to survive this, I'm going to need more than charm and a pretty face."
They needed information. Allies. Leverage. And gods, they needed a better tutor—someone who didn't try to grope them between lectures or at least is hot while doing so. They thought back to earlier. The tutor's limp body. The crimson-stained rug. The weight of the lamp in their hand. That bloated, greasy bastard wouldn't be whispering threats or leering ever again.
That tutor—no, that pig—had been his wake-up call. These people saw him as weak. Prey.
Well, not anymore.
Rosalee frowned, their red eyes narrowed toward the dark ceiling.
But he couldn't keep making people disappear.
"I'll need better tutors. Real ones. Not creeps with tenure. But if I kill too many, someone's bound to get suspicious. Too many corpses, and I'll be labeled a bad omen or some hellspawn sent to doom the house. Then it's pitchforks and flames for Lady Rosalee…"
They shuddered. No, he had to play smart now. Play noble.
"I'll need a smarter plan going forward."
With a yawn, they tucked themselves deeper under the silk sheets, dragging the rose-scented coverlet up to his chin. The room darkened around them, peaceful and quiet.
As their eyes began to droop from exhaustion, Rosalee's thoughts turned to Kyle. His Kyle. The only man he'd ever loved in a way that wasn't transactional or strategic. The man who was a constant since infancy, who protected him, and loved him like a brother. A bond so strong, no one word could be used to describe it.
"I hope you're okay, my Kyle."
They whispered into the dark.
A flicker of Mark's tear-streaked face surged in his mind like a static flash, uninvited.
"Ugh…"
Rosalee muttered, rolling over and shoving his face into the pillow.
"Not you."
Sleep began to take hold.
They didn't see the shadow that lingered at the edge of the balcony. A tall figure stood, still as stone, half-hidden by the folds of the heavy curtains. Outside, the figure crouched silently just beyond the closed balcony doors, their presence barely disturbing the curtains as they pulled away into the night, unnoticed the moment Rosalee's breathing deepened, the silhouette vanished into the night. Silent. Watching. Waiting.
But inside, Rosalee drifted to sleep with a sly smile curling at his lips.
They had the game memorized, the players cataloged, and the board in front of them.
Now it was their turn to play.
Rosalee, curled in their silken sheets, drifted off unaware, their lips murmuring one last sleepy promise:
"Tomorrow… I start building my kingdom."