The car rolled through the palace gates without fanfare. No crowd waited this time. No velvet ropes. No cameras or distant music drifting on the air. Just the hush of manicured gardens in the early afternoon, the faint crunch of tires on gravel, and the soft sweep of sunlight across pale stone walls.
When the car stopped, Isla stepped out, smoothing her dress with damp palms. The building loomed ahead—elegant, familiar in shape but suddenly unfamiliar in its stillness.
A steward in dark livery awaited her, offering a shallow bow before speaking in a calm, practiced tone. "Miss Reed. This way, please."
She followed, her flats clicking softly against the polished floors. The corridor stretched long and high-ceilinged, lined with oil portraits whose painted eyes seemed to follow her. Outside the tall windows, gardens spread in tidy symmetry, dotted with statues and trimmed hedges that caught the light like green glass. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and something floral she couldn't place—orchids, maybe, or lilies.
Her steps slowed when the steward turned down a smaller hall. No gilded arches here, no sweeping staircases. Just cream walls paneled in quiet detail, as if this part of the palace existed slightly apart from ceremony.
At last, he opened a door.
The room beyond was calm, curated—tall shelves filled with books, a scattering of armchairs, soft afternoon light pooling through wide windows. A space meant for conversation, not display.
And there, near the window, sat the Queen.
She wore slate-gray silk that shimmered faintly as she shifted, though she didn't rise when Isla entered. A single cup of tea rested untouched on the table beside her.
The steward bowed again and slipped out, the door closing with a muted click. For a moment, Isla stood in the stillness, feeling the weight of her own heartbeat.
"Miss Reed," the Queen said at last, her tone level, smooth. A simple gesture of her hand invited Isla to sit.
"Your Majesty." Isla moved forward and lowered herself into the chair opposite, spine straight, fingers laced tightly in her lap. Her mouth felt dry, though she told herself not to fidget.
The Queen regarded her without hurry, one brow arching ever so slightly. "I imagine this week has been... an adjustment."
Isla's lips twitched, unsure if she was allowed to smile. "That's... putting it mildly."
A faint hum of acknowledgment. The Queen's gaze dipped briefly to the tea service between them—neither cup disturbed—before lifting again.
"Your dance," she continued, "caused quite a stir."
Heat prickled at the back of Isla's neck. "That wasn't the intention."
"No." A pause, soft but pointed. "But you handled it—" her head tilted slightly, as though she were inspecting a gemstone under light, "—without embarrassment. That is... rare."
It wasn't exactly praise. More like a statement of fact, cool and carefully measured. Isla found herself holding her breath and forced it out in a slow exhale.
The Queen's attention didn't waver. "Scandal," she said, as if discussing the weather, "is a kind of gravity, Miss Reed. It can pull you down... or teach you to find new footing."
Isla's fingers tightened in her lap. Her voice, when it came, was quieter than she expected. "Am I in trouble?"
The Queen's lips curved—not quite a smile, but close enough to send a ripple of unease through Isla's chest. "Not yet."
A silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint tick of a clock somewhere beyond the door. For the first time, Isla let her gaze wander briefly—to the bookshelves, to the pale afternoon light on the floor, to the untouched tea cooling in delicate porcelain.
The Queen's gaze drifted briefly toward the window, where the afternoon light caught on the garden paths. "You understand, Miss Reed," she said softly, "that in certain circles, perception can be more powerful than truth."
Isla hesitated. "I'm... starting to."
"When you step into a room now, people will watch you differently. They will weigh what you wear, how you speak, whether you flinch under their scrutiny." The Queen's eyes returned to hers, sharp but not unkind. "If you wish to endure this... new attention... you must decide how you wish to be seen."
Isla straightened, heartbeat quickening. "And if I'd rather not be seen at all?"
A faint curve touched the Queen's lips—a shadow of something wry. "Then you should have danced less beautifully."
They spoke of appearances, public impressions, responsibility and perception—each topic winding neatly into the next, never lingering too long but never shallow either.
Dorian's name never left the Queen's lips, but Isla felt him between every line, a shadow that hovered close enough to taste.
Time slipped, unmeasured, until Isla realized the conversation had ended—not with ceremony but with a small, decisive nod from the Queen, as though she had seen enough for now.
Isla rose when the Queen inclined her head. Her legs felt unsteady, though she kept her posture firm.
"Thank you for your time, Miss Reed," the Queen said, tone unreadable, eyes sharp as polished glass.
Isla bowed slightly. "Your Majesty."
The steward appeared as if summoned by thought, opening the door once more to guide her out. As Isla stepped back into the corridor, the air felt cooler against her skin, and the distant sounds of the palace returned—faint footsteps, the rustle of curtains in the breeze.
She couldn't tell if her heart was lighter or heavier as she followed him back toward the waiting car.
But someone else was already there.