The corridors of Versailles had quieted for the night, but Geneviève moved like a phantom through its golden veins, her silks whispering secrets against marble floors. In the privacy of her chamber—draped in crimson velvet and the scent of expensive betrayal—she leaned over her writing desk, quill in hand, and began to ink a letter.
Not to the Queen. Not this time.
No, this message was meant for someone more dangerous: the Vicomte d'Aubray, a man who thrived in the filth beneath court decorum. A collector of rumors. A seller of ruin. She had used him before—and he had proven both effective and delightfully discreet.
"Marie Delacroix," she murmured as she signed the page, the ink curving like venom. "Let's see how brightly you shine in disgrace when the right tongues begin to wag."
But this time, Geneviève wasn't only dealing in scandal. She was preparing a trap layered with law, forged documents, and whispers of foreign correspondence—enough to brand Marie as a traitor to the Crown. It would not only ruin her; it would eliminate her.
A servant appeared as if summoned by thought. Geneviève folded the letter, sealed it with her signet, and handed it over with a chilling smile. "To d'Aubray. Immediately. Tell no one."
As the servant departed, she moved to her mirror, smoothing down her hair. Her reflection stared back at her—composed, lethal. "You should've stayed in the servants' wing, little girl," she whispered. "You've no idea the price of playing pretend with the nobility."
—
Beneath the sleeping wings of Versailles, in a crumbling greenhouse long forgotten by the nobility, Marie stepped through the shadows of midnight. The moonlight danced across the panes, broken and dusty, casting fractured halos over the floor. Vines curled like secrets around iron beams. The place smelled of damp earth and old roses.
Montmorency was already there, cloaked in a dark coat, his face half-lit by a lantern resting atop a rusted table.
"You came," he said softly, his voice barely louder than the wind.
"I couldn't stay away," Marie replied, drawing near. "Not when there's so much we don't yet understand. And so little time."
They had learned of a new slander in circulation—that Marie was communicating with sympathizers of the Revolution. Ludicrous, but dangerous. She didn't need to ask to know Geneviève was behind it. This was no longer about reputation. This was survival.
Montmorency extended his hand, and she took it. In silence, they studied a set of documents he'd acquired—letters intercepted, rumors marked in red ink, names circled and crossed out.
"She's working through d'Aubray," he said. "He trades in mud and sells it to kings."
"Then we'll use it," Marie whispered. "Let him think he's the spider. We'll be the fire."
Montmorency gave her a look—half proud, half wary. "Are you certain about this? If we move against Geneviève, truly move, we could both lose everything."
"I already have," Marie replied. "All that's left is the truth—and you."
He brought her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss against her fingers. "Then we act as one."
In that ruined greenhouse, they laid the bones of a counterattack. They would gather proof of Geneviève's illicit correspondence, her manipulation of the court, her quiet alliance with enemies of the Queen. They would feed whispers of her duplicity into the very channels she once used—through courtiers, through the gossip-wracked salons. They would turn her own tools against her.
But it required precision. Patience.
And trust.
—
At dawn, Geneviève stood before the Queen, feigning concern.
"I hesitate to speak ill of another woman, Your Majesty," she said sweetly, "but I've heard troubling whispers. I fear your court may be compromised."
The Queen's eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued. "By whom?"
"Marie Delacroix," Geneviève said, lowering her eyes. "There are...letters. Her movements are odd. She has grown bold, and those closest to her—well, they're not of sound reputation."
The Queen pursed her lips. She had no love for scandal, particularly among the servants. "Bring me the proof, and I shall act."
"Oh, I will, Your Majesty," Geneviève replied, bowing low. "I only want what's best for the Crown."
As she left the chamber, her face hardened. The game had begun. The Queen would be her weapon, and Versailles her battleground.
—
In a dim corner of the palace archives, Marie met with Léonie, her closest ally among the staff. The young maid had overheard a conversation between Geneviève and d'Aubray's courier—something about coded messages and a payment hidden in a book of poetry.
"It's in the library, I'm certain of it," Léonie said breathlessly. "I can get you in."
"You've done enough," Marie said. "If they suspect you—"
"They already do. I might as well earn it."
They exchanged a brief, fierce hug. That night, dressed in a borrowed noble's cloak, Marie slipped into the library. Her hands trembled as she traced the shelves, her heart pounding. At last, she found it—a slim volume of Rousseau. Inside, tucked between the pages, a folded note and several gold coins.
Proof.
As she exited, she nearly collided with Montmorency.
He took one look at her face and whispered, "You found it."
"Enough to start," she replied. "Enough to burn her."
—
Geneviève, unaware of the trap closing in, summoned d'Aubray once more. This time, it was to arrange an arrest.
"I want her removed before the next moon," she hissed. "Quietly. Discreetly. No blood—but no return."
d'Aubray raised an eyebrow. "Exile, then?"
"Exile. Ruin. Disgrace. I care not how. Just make her vanish."
He nodded, lips curling into a predator's grin. "As you wish, Duchess."
—
Two nights later, the Queen hosted a private supper. Marie, under Montmorency's protection, attended disguised as a distant relative from the provinces—a minor guest with no claim to attention.
But attention she received.
Because Montmorency played his part flawlessly: dropping hints about forged letters, unnamed enemies within the court, and "loyal servants falsely accused."
Geneviève froze, wine halfway to her lips.
"Are you implying treason, Your Grace?" she asked coolly.
"I imply nothing," Montmorency replied. "But I am assembling evidence. Should I find that a certain member of court has attempted to manipulate Your Majesty... I will act accordingly."
The Queen's eyes flicked between them. Her interest had shifted.
—
Later that night, Marie and Montmorency met again in the greenhouse.
"It's working," he said. "She's nervous."
"She should be," Marie replied. She took out the note from Rousseau's book and laid it on the table. "We bring this to the Queen tomorrow."
Montmorency hesitated. "It's dangerous."
"I've been in danger since the moment you first looked at me," she said with a smile. "But I'm not afraid anymore."
He looked at her then, really looked—at the strength in her spine, the fire in her voice. He stepped closer, brushing a loose curl from her cheek.
"You've become something extraordinary."
"I've always been this," she whispered. "You just see it now."
He kissed her—not out of passion, but reverence.
Then, hand in hand, they prepared for war.
—
Geneviève, pacing in her chamber, received a final message from d'Aubray. The carriage was ready. Marie would be taken that very night.
She exhaled, triumphant. "At last."
But as the bell tolled midnight, it was not d'Aubray's men who arrived—but the Queen's guards, summoned by Montmorency himself.
The Queen had read the note.
She had seen the coins. The signatures. The dates.
She had made her choice.
And it was not Geneviève.
—