The sun had only just begun to peek through the soft velvet curtains of the Florenzia estate when the quiet stillness outside Rosalee's door was interrupted by the brisk, rhythmic steps of a man approaching with urgency. Ben Bell, ever punctual and dutiful, had risen early under orders—only partly because of his master, Thornwood. The other part was because he had stirred with his own resolve.
Rosalee's faint cries from the previous day still echoed in his ears. His sleep had been restless. Troubled. And though he told himself it was simply part of his duty, something deeper stirred—a need to see Rosalee with his own eyes. To be certain they were alright.
He reached the door, lifted his hand—then paused. His knuckles hovered midair, hesitating. Why?
Ben coughed awkwardly, as if to warn off his own thoughts, then gave a stiff knock.
Inside one of the mansion's farthest rooms, nestled in its lonely west wing, Rosalee Florenzia had just finished their bath. Having soaked luxuriously in a rose-scented bath while the rest of the estate still slumbered, their body, still damp in places, shimmered under the early light. The warm air of the bathwater clung faintly to their skin, with a flick of their fingers and a whisper of intent, the remaining moisture pulled away from their porcelain skin and vanished into a swirl of water magic as they directed the droplets away with casual finesse, their weak control over their element growing more graceful with practice.
Their waist-length red hair shimmered dry, half-curled, cascading like a silk veil down their back. Rosalee was already in the final stages of dressing. The dress they'd chosen for the day was made of fine, lightweight cotton, soft against their skin and flowing with a subtle sheen but cut cleverly and clung loosely enough to showcase the elegance of his pale shoulders, the pronounced dip of his collarbones, and the gentle slope of their neckline like a frame to a prized work of art. The color of it was ripe strawberries. Lace-trimmed stockings ran up their thighs, delicate and sheer, contrasting faintly with the flush of their fair skin. They now stood before the full-length mirror in nothing but sheer lace stockings and a half-fastened red cotton dress. They reached for the ties near the waist and just as they were lacing up the front of the bodice, that's when the knock came.
"Ah, yes, come in…"
Rosalee called breezily, not looking back, fingers still working at the ribbon ties. They assumed it was the maid they had sent earlier to fetch shoes more fitting for their vision. Their voice was sultry and low, as if unaware of the effect it had on others—or perhaps because they were entirely aware.
"I hope you found something with taste this time. I swear, I'm walking barefoot if you bring me another pair of clunky boots."
The door opened with the quiet hum of hinges.
But instead of hearing a maid's voice, there was only stunned silence.
Rosalee blinked. Then turned their head lazily—and froze when they spotted Ben in the doorway, his pale green eyes widened in shock, and his jaw ever so slightly slack.
"Oh!"
Rosalee said, lips curling into a slow, wicked smile.
"My, it's you, Benny."
Ben Bell didn't move; his mouth hung open, about to speak, but the words caught in his throat as his eyes met the scene before him. His gaze dropped for just a fraction of a second to take in the sinfully pretty sight: Rosalee stood near the mirror, bathed in early light, the red cotton dress only half fastened and sliding slightly off one shoulder. The thin fabric clung to the curves of their body, the shape of their narrow waist, the faint swell of their chest, and the way their long, vivid red hair cascaded down like a veil across their exposed back; it framed them like bloodied silk. The curve of a hip peeked through the side slit. Their legs—long, toned, and lithe—were sheathed in lace stockings, rose-patterned and just sheer enough to tease the imagination. Rosalee stood barefoot on the rug, unbothered and poised.
The image branded itself into Ben's brain like an unholy vision. His mouth parted but no sound came out.
Rosalee arches a brow at the silence. Ben visibly flinched. His pale green eyes darted anywhere but directly at Rosalee, and his cheeks flushed a furious pink.
"You—Lady Rosalee—I-I apologize, I thought—!"
He stammered, already halfway to spinning on his heel to flee.
Rosalee stepped forward with casual grace, catching the tie of the dress in one hand. Their voice was playful, edged with a knowing tease.
"You really do have a habit of catching me when I'm indecent, Benny."
They tilted their head coyly.
"Should I start assuming you do it on purpose?"
Ben's face turned scarlet. His words tangled in his throat.
"I—I would never—! That's not—I thought you were—! I—I assure you, I didn't— I mean, I didn't know you were—like this—I came to—"
The poor butler looked like he'd combust at any moment.
Rosalee laughed softly, not cruelly, but with genuine amusement. They liked seeing the stoic butler lose his composure, especially when it was over them. It was flattering, in a way that only confirmed Rosalee's firm belief: this body—this new, pale, curvaceous form—was devastatingly attractive.
Just before Rosalee could toy with him further or Ben could properly gather his senses, the maid finally arrived. She stepped into the room with a quiet tsk of impatience and no apology for interrupting, holding in her arms a box. In it, a pair of bold red high platform shoes, their lacquered heels gleaming in the morning sun.
"Your shoes, Lady Rosalee…"
She said curtly, placing the box down by the edge of the bed with a practiced grace without looking at either of them directly. Her voice held no kindness, only brittle professionalism wrapped around disdain. She'd chosen them on purpose—red high platform shoes, fashionable but notoriously difficult to walk in, especially for someone like the "old" Rosalee, who stumbled in kitten heels.
Rosalee's eyes flicked to the shoes, then to the maid, and immediately recognized the intention behind them.
'Ah. A trap and a petty attempt at one, too. Cute.'
They mused, eyes watching the maid's smug expression.
'Trying to humiliate me, darling? Wrong bitch.'
The shoes were nothing compared to the six-inch stilettos they used to strut in during their old life, hips swaying and men dropping bills just to touch them. These were practically slippers.
"I hope these meet your standards, milady…"
She said sweetly, just loud enough for Ben to hear.
"I picked them specially. The color is bold… just like you."
Rosalee raised an eyebrow but said nothing to the sarcasm dripping beneath her words. Instead, they smiled—a slow, sultry, dangerous smile.
Ben, unaware of the intent but sensing something wrong, bent forward to take the shoes, brows furrowing as he studied their height.
"These are a bit much…"
He said carefully.
"Lady Rosalee might—"
"Oh no, Benny…"
Rosalee interrupted with a raised hand, smoothly cutting Ben off. Strolling back to the bed with a sway of hips that made Ben's throat tighten, with a teasing lilt, they added.
"I love them. I think they're perfect…"
They sat down on the edge of the bed with regal elegance, lifting one long, stockinged leg slowly and delicately. The motion was calculated, meant to draw the eye, and it did. They lifted a stocking-clad foot and held it out delicately, foot arched. The sheer fabric of the stocking shimmered under the light, and their foot hovered in the air like an invitation.
"But I could use a little help putting them on, Benny."
They said softly, eyes glittering.
"Be a dear, would you?"
Ben's mouth opened, then closed again. He swallowed hard. Ben hesitated, his ears red. But duty—or maybe curiosity—won out.
"I—I can—of course, milady."
He muttered, kneeling, taking the shoe into his hands.
As Ben's gloved hands reached for the shoe, he hesitated only a second before slipping it gently over Rosalee's foot, his fingers brushing against the arch, the delicate ankle, and the soft skin above the lace. His breath hitched, just slightly. The moment was thick with something charged—half reverence, half confusion.
Rosalee watched him the whole time, a teasing glint in their eyes. They tilted their head, observing Ben's reaction with half-lidded red eyes.
"You're very gentle…"
They purred.
"You've done this before?"
Ben looked up, flustered, caught between mortification and a flicker of something else—something warmer.
"I—I just didn't want to hurt you."
Rosalee smiled at that.
By the time Ben moved to the second foot, the tension was so thick the maid could barely breathe. She stood there, stiff and wide-eyed, face burning with embarrassment. The way Rosalee looked at Ben, the way Ben looked back—she had never seen the butler so affected. So alive. Her eyes darted between the two of them—between the lady she used to belittle and the butler she admired. It was unbearable. The air felt thick and intimate, like she'd walked in on a scene not meant for her eyes.
Finally, unable to take it anymore, the maid blurted,
"If you'll excuse me, Lady Rosalee—I must attend to… other duties."
"Of course…"
Rosalee said without looking at her, one hand resting gracefully on Ben's shoulder.
"Thank you for your service."
When she left, she didn't walk—she fled, red-faced, and with clenched fists. She would run straight to the laundry chamber and tell every gossip-thirsty ear what she had just seen. But even as she planned the retelling, she felt the ache of jealousy claw at her chest. Ben had looked at Rosalee. Touched Rosalee. Knelt for Rosalee.
Back in the room, Ben gently set the second shoe in place on their foot, the act careful and reverent.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Rosalee laughed—low and velvety.
"Poor thing…"
They murmured.
"I think she expected me to trip."
Ben, still kneeling, lifted his eyes.
"There…"
He said, standing slowly.
"You look… lovely."
Rosalee rose from the bed with a graceful sway of their hips and turned once in place, letting the red fabric swirl like flames licking their thighs.
"I always do."
They said with a wink.
Ben coughed and quickly turned toward the door.
"I-I'll wait outside."
"No need to run…"
Rosalee teased as they fastened the last bit of their dress.
"Unless you're afraid of catching feelings, Benny."
Ben didn't reply. He was already at the door.
As it clicked shut behind him, Rosalee smirked to themselves. There was power in their new form, and they knew exactly how to wield it. They made their way to their vanity, now fully shod in those glorious heels, red cotton dress rippling like firelight over their form, all that was left was their war paint, just a touch of make-up.
"Alas, it's hard to be someone who shines too brightly, but it's the only way I know how to be, hehe."
This was just the beginning.
***
Meanwhile, the moment the maid's heels clicked away from Rosalee's chamber doors, she bolted around the nearest corridor like a hawk in heat. Her cheeks were flushed—not from exertion, but from indignation and disbelief. She pressed a hand to her chest as though to contain the scandal threatening to erupt from her lips. The sun had barely risen over the estate's towering spires, yet already the gears of Florenzia gossip were grinding to life.
Within minutes, the message had reached the laundry house by way of a kitchen girl fetching linens: Ben Bell was on his knees before Lady Rosalee, slipping shoes onto her delicate feet like a prince in a fairy tale. By the time the tale passed through two stable boys and a pantry maid, the details had grown richer—Ben had flushed red and nearly dropped the shoe, and Lady Rosalee had lifted her foot like a goddess on a velvet pedestal, issuing commands with her eyes alone.
"She called him 'Benny'..."
One of the scullery girls whispered to a butler-in-training, clutching her mop like a relic.
"Like they were on nickname terms. Can you imagine? Since when does Lady Rosalee speak so sweetly?"
"Since when does Ben look like he's seen the light of the heavens?"
The undergardener added dryly as he trimmed rose stems outside the breakfast window.
"I thought he had a stick in his spine. Turns out it's just Rosalee."
A cook passing by dropped a spoon into a pot of oatmeal, blinking in surprise.
"Wait—Ben? Thornwood's Ben? That cold fish of a butler?"
"Rosalee's got him warming up…"
The kitchen maid answered smugly, folding napkins with the satisfied air of someone holding a winning hand.
"You didn't hear this from me, but he was beet red. Could barely speak."
"Beet red?"
The older laundress echoed with a knowing chuckle.
"Well, maybe Lady Rosalee's found a new way to survive this estate after all."
The information spread like fire through a dry vineyard, igniting rooms and stairwells with murmured speculation. From the dishwashers to the gardeners, from the seamstresses to the guards who took their posts at the estate's many gates—everyone now had their eyes trained a little more closely on the once-ignored Second child of the Florenzia house.
Some were scandalized. Others intrigued. Most were simply hungry for the novelty of it all.
"It's no wonder he's changed…"
Someone muttered near the linen carts.
"You'd change too if Ben Bell started looking at you like that."
"But I heard she's just a second…"
Another scoffed.
"They're using her for politics. Why would he risk his standing?"
"Because Lady Rosalee isn't the same anymore…"
Said the old chambermaid with the limp who'd once changed Rosalee's bed linens.
"There's something in her eyes. She walks different now. Talks different. Like she knows exactly what she's doing."
And the strange part was… no one could argue with that.
Mireille was livid.
By the time she reached the back staircase near the kitchen corridors, her breath was coming in fast bursts. Not from exertion—but from rage.
She pressed her back to the cold stone wall, her fingertips trembling against her skirts. It had only taken seconds. Seconds of watching thatsecond bat her lashes and act like she was some seductress in an imperial court, and Ben—Ben!—to hear he was kneeling before her, gaze lowered, hands gentle as they slipped the platform shoes onto Rosalee's dainty feet.
The mere thought of it was obscene. Intimate. Wrong.
No one had ever made Mireille feel like that, not even in her fantasies. Ben Bell was supposed to be untouchable, cold and righteous like a knight carved in marble—he didn't blush. He didn't stutter. And he sure as hell didn't kneel for someone like Rosalee.
Clenching her fists, Mireille forced herself to keep moving, but the boiling thoughts wouldn't stop.
She'd been working at the Florenzia estate for fouryears. Four long years of fetching linens, sweeping corridors, tending roses, and hoping—just hoping—that someone would notice her. Not the nobles, never them. But Ben? He saw things. He noticed when a rose needed replanting or when a chandelier was crooked. Surely, she thought, he must notice her too.
And then Rosalee, with all her powders and perfumes, had the nerve to flip everything upside down with a bat of those crimson eyes?
"No."
She hissed aloud, standing in the shadowed servants' corridor.
"No. I won't let him fall."
She needed a plan.
At first, the idea was petty—spilling ink on Rosalee's gowns, misplacing her jewelry, whispering a lie here or there. But the problem was… that wouldn't be enough. Not after what she saw in the garden, not after what she has heard all morning. If Rosalee kept rising, then Mireille would be trampled under her heeled foot like a weed.
Her mind raced. The kitchen was close. Gossip was thickest there, and rumors could bloom like rot in fruit. She didn't need to lie—not exactly. She just had to embellish what she's heard so far. Paint Rosalee not as charming or mysterious, but as manipulative. Shameless.
She'd seen her bathe in attention. Everyone had.
Now, they just needed to see it as dangerous.
Her plan was set, and by noon, she had her story memorized. Mireille made her way to the kitchen's rear wing.
"...I mean, what do you expect?"
Mireille said, her tone hushed but loaded, as she dried a copper pot near a trio of gossip-hungry maids.
"She had Ben on his knees, I saw it with my own eyes. Lifted her leg like some courtesan and told him to put on her shoes. Smiling. Smirking."
"No!"
Gasped the youngest maid, barely out of girlhood.
"Oh yes…"
Mireille replied, voice syrupy with feigned pity.
"And poor Ben… flushed red as a cherry. Completely caught off guard. Didn't even realize what he was doing."
Another maid leaned in.
"Are you saying Rosalee's seducing him?"
Mireille gave a perfectly timed pause, then sighed.
"I'm not saying anything, I'm just saying… I'm worried. He's so fragile, you know? And Ben's always been loyal to Lord Thornwood. It's just not… right."
It worked. The seed was planted.
Soon the whispers shifted tone—less awestruck, more suspicious. Some clung to their admiration of Rosalee's elegance, but others began to mutter about impropriety, manipulation, even enchantment. After all, didn't seconds have strange tendencies? Everyone said so when the doors were shut.
Mireille, satisfied but not sated, kept stirring the pot.
What she didn't know was that her face—twisted in bitterness behind a sweet smile—had not gone unnoticed by a certain young maid with dark-brown bob cut hair and sharp violet eyes. One who had only lived for sixteen years but knew well enough to see the tides turn, and who was quietly taking note of exactly who would sink if the waves grew too high.
***
Rosalee stepped out of the room with a slow, deliberate grace, their red cotton dress swaying with each motion, the high platform shoes clicking lightly against the polished wood of the floor. Their hair had been carefully styled into soft cascading waves, and the light, expertly applied makeup brought out the flush of their cheeks and the gleam of their red eyes—glossed lips parted just slightly, as though they were always moments away from a sigh or a kiss.
Ben was waiting just outside, standing ramrod straight, though the faint hue of red across his cheeks betrayed his inner turmoil. His pale green eyes flickered momentarily to Rosalee's face, then quickly darted to the ground before returning with more composure.
Rosalee paused, arching a single brow.
"Benny? Something you need from me?"
Their tone was polite, edged with curiosity and just a hint of knowing mischief.
Ben inhaled through his nose, straightening his back as though recalling why he was there in the first place.
"Your father… Lord Abe wishes to see you. In his study."
For a beat, Rosalee's expression didn't change. Inside, however, their heart gave a small, annoyed thud.
'Father dearest… what could he want this early in the morning? It wasn't like Abe Florenzia to waste time unless there was something to gain.'
Rosalee tilted their head, letting a few strands of red hair fall over their shoulder like a silk curtain.
"Did he say why?"
"No, my lady…"
Ben replied, eyes trained on Rosalee now—but more composed.
"He simply said it was important and that you should come promptly."
"Mm."
Rosalee gave a quiet hum and began to walk, the long hem of their gown swaying behind them like a cape. As they passed Ben, they brushed their fingers against the butler's sleeve, pretending to adjust a non-existent wrinkle in the fabric.
"You waited here all that time just to tell me?"
They added in a softer voice, glancing sidelong at Ben as they walked together through the hallway.
Ben hesitated.
"I… I also wanted to make sure you were feeling better. After yesterday's incident."
Rosalee offered a small smile—one that was both warm and unreadable.
"How thoughtful of you, Benny."
Ben looked away quickly, his jaw tightening as though to keep himself from saying something further. The tension that followed them down the corridor was palpable, the kind that made the maids they passed slow in their step and avert their eyes. Some looked on with disdain, others with confusion—none dared whisper within earshot.
Rosalee noticed it all, of course. The shifting glances. The jealous twitch in one scorned maid's lips. But they ignored them with practiced ease, chin tilted upward, walking like a person used to being admired… and hated.
They turned down the northern corridor, toward the looming door of Abe Florenzia's study. It gave the look of a place for judgment, not guidance.
As they reached the doorway, Rosalee slowed, casting Ben a glance.
"Wait for me here, will you?"
Ben nodded once.
"Of course, my lady."
Rosalee placed a hand on the brass handle, feeling the chill of the metal. Then, with the same poise that once had men emptying their pockets just for a second glance, they opened the door and stepped into the lion's den.
The thick door to the study creaked closed behind Rosalee with a heavy thud, the sound final and strangely satisfying.
The study smelled faintly of old paper and ink, and the heavy velvet curtains drawn over the single tall window kept the space dim. The walls were lined with dark bookcases, crammed with ledgers, scrolls, and timeworn volumes.
Abe Florenzia sat behind an imposing mahogany desk littered with parchment reports sealed with wax, golden quills, a rusting clockwork paperweight in the shape of a dragon, and a half-full decanter of plum brandy. His pale brown eyes, sunken and shifty beneath a fringe of fiery red hair, peered across at Rosalee with all the warmth of a lizard. The ugly freckles across his cheeks made his pinched expression even more unpleasant.
He laced his fingers beneath his sharp nose, elbows on the desk, leaning forward like a predator sizing up a meal.
"Come."
He said.
To his right stood Thornwood—ramrod straight, hands tucked behind his back in textbook posture. His short, orange-red hair was neatly combed, and his round spectacles caught a gleam of lamplight. With his scrawny frame, buttoned-up collar, and brown eyes narrowed with suspicion, he looked more like a strict schoolmaster than a 23-year-old heir to an earldom.
Rosalee offered a demure nod and stepped closer. With each step, they slipped deeper into the skin of the meek Rosalee—the one who used to tremble beneath Thornwood's glare, the one who would never dare lift their voice without permission. But this time, the act was all their's. Inside, they were coiling with triumph.
"I'm sorry for interrupting your work, Father. Brother."
Rosalee said softly, folding their hands in front of themselves and bowing their head just enough to show respect without appearing servile.
"I was… I was told you wanted to see me?"
Abe raised a single brow.
"Tell me what happened to your tutor, Mister Herst."
Rosalee fidgeted slightly, lowering their eyes and calling forth a perfect trembling in their voice.
"I was late to our lesson. When I arrived, Mister Herst seemed… very angry. But before he could speak, he clutched his chest and—he collapsed. He struck his head. I-I didn't know what to do. I screamed for help."
They let their voice break there, just a touch. They even let their eyes glisten, forcing tears to pool at the bottom lash line. It wasn't difficult. They'd cried on stages a thousand times.
Abe regarded them for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair, lips pursed.
"Hmph. The physician said he may never wake up properly again."
Abe said at last.
"If he does, he'll be useless as an instructor."
Rosalee's heart purred at the news. A job well done.
"I see…"
Rosalee murmured, a single tear slipping down one cheek.
"I hope… he's not in pain."
Thornwood scoffed audibly.
"Why waste tears on a tutor? He was a servant. Nothing more."
Abe nodded in agreement, his voice dismissive.
"You're too softhearted. That's a weakness, Rosalee. You need to grow past such attachments."
Rosalee clasped their hands tighter. They bowed their head further, taking in their words as expected. But then they lifted their face, carefully crafted with a glimmer of hesitation and a touch of hope.
"Father… may I make a request?"
They asked gently.
Abe tilted his head in mild irritation.
"What is it now?"
"I… I overheard something at the Duchess' tea party."
Rosalee looked away, as if flustered, before continuing.
"Prince Roland—he was speaking of how he admires women who are well-educated. It struck me… If I could study under a more accomplished tutor, perhaps someone truly renowned… it might help our family's goal."
Abe's brow furrowed.
"Renowned tutors are expensive."
"But worth it…"
Rosalee pressed, voice still quiet but sure.
"If it brings me closer to His Highness, is it not an investment?"
The mention of Roland was bait, and like the greedy dog he was, Abe latched onto it.
"Hm. Fine. I'll look into it."
Rosalee beamed inwardly. But they weren't done yet.
"There was one more thing…"
They added delicately.
"He also mentioned that he finds hunting thrilling… He likes strong, capable women who can join him in the field."
Abe's nose wrinkled.
"You? Hunting?"
"I know it sounds unladylike, but…"
Rosalee lowered their gaze again, pitching their voice with faux vulnerability,
"If I don't try, I'll fall behind the other noble girls."
Abe grunted, considering it.
Thornwood stepped forward, frowning deeply.
"This is foolish. She's a second, not a soldier."
"She's also our ticket into the palace…"
Abe snapped.
"If a little target practice gets Prince Roland's attention, so be it. Let her train."
Thornwood's lips thinned into a hard line, but he said nothing more. Abe waved a hand.
"You're dismissed. Starting tomorrow, I'll have someone arrange it."
Rosalee curtsied deeply, inwardly dancing with glee.
"Thank you, Father. I won't let you down."
They turned, gracefully, walking toward the door. But as their fingers touched the handle, they cast one last glance back. Thornwood was glaring at them—deep, hateful, and confused.
Rosalee met his eyes with the softest smile.
Then they slipped out of the room, victorious.