The city of london was restless.
Every morning, newspapers carried scalding opinions about the infamous new novel
The tale dorian veyne"
Some hailed the writer as a genius who dared to expose the deepest darkness of men, others condemned the work as blasphemous, claiming it glorified a villain who deserved only damnation.
But no one knew the truth that the writer behind the pen name
*A.M. Harrow*
was none other than Lady Anna Whitmore, the seemingly untouchable daughter of a declining noble house, and daughter of duke ,who is also a heir . The untouchable lady , unmarried elegantady
Her students saw her only as a graceful teacher, a lady with calm eyes and steady voice. Her family regarded her as dutiful, though perhaps too quiet, too withdrawn. No one imagined that in the lonely hours of the night, she poured ink onto paper, giving life to a villain born from shadows and suffering.
Now, that creation had turned against her.
Letters arrived without seal or messenger, always placed where no one else could see on her desk, beneath her pillow, inside the folds of her cloak. The handwriting was jagged, feverish, alive.
" I hope I was a worthy villain to your story, my dear author.
Did you bleed when you wrote me?"
Anna burned the first letter. She buried the second beneath the cold soil of the manor garden. But each time she destroyed one, another appeared. And with each new arrival, the name *A.M. Harrow* grew louder across Ashbourne. Readers demanded to know the identity of the writer, and the more she resisted, the more the world seemed to conspire against her silence.
Still, in public, she wore her mask.
That evening,
The Whitmore name was invited to a grand ball at the Countess of Ravenshire's estate. The ballroom glittered with chandeliers that scattered gold across polished marble. Violins swelled with aching sweetness as nobles in velvet and silk danced with rehearsed grace.
Lady Anna stood among them, a vision in midnight-blue satin. Her gown shimmered like quiet constellations, her hair woven into an elegant braid crowned with pearls. She held a glass of champagne, its surface catching the glow of the chandeliers. To anyone watching, she was merely serene, perhaps too reserved, but nothing more.
Whispers surrounded her. Some admired her beauty, some pitied her family's dwindling fortune. None guessed that she was the ghostly author being praised and cursed in the same breath across the empire.
"Did you hear?" a lady murmured near the musicians. "This *A.M. Harrow* writes villains with such dreadful humanity it unsettles me."
"And yet, I cannot stop reading," another confessed, fanning herself. "Who could create such a monster? A man who suffers and sins, yet feels almost… alive?"
ANNA swallowed her champagne too quickly. The words clung to her ribs like thorns.
She turned away, intending to retreat into her usual silence, but then laughter cut across the hall. A jester had appeared, uninvited yet tolerated for his boldness. He was brightly dressed in crimson and gold, bells chiming with each movement. He spun tricks, juggled goblets, teased the nobles until even the Countess herself smiled.
The crowd adored him. He was foolish, loud, alive in a way none of them dared to be.
Anna tried to ignore him, tried to hide behind her glass. But then, as though sensing her distraction, the jester wove through the crowd until he stood before her. His painted grin widened as he bowed, bells singing.
"My lady," he said, his voice low enough that no one else could hear, "do you like how I play the fool? Or would you prefer me as the villain you wrote?"
Her breath stopped.
For a heartbeat, the ballroom blurred. The laughter, the violins, the chandeliers all melted into silence. The jester's painted face hovered near hers, but the voice that touched her ear was not of a performer, but of the shadow she had given birth to.
"You burned my letters," he whispered, his tone almost playful, almost wounded. "But I know your hands. I know the weight of your ink. You cannot hide from me, my lady
She forced herself to laugh faintly, as though he had merely teased her like the others. She lifted her chin, hiding the tremor in her lips. "You mistake me for another, sir."
The jester tilted his head, bells chiming softly. Then, with a flourish, he spun away, back into the crowd, where he once again became nothing more than a clown, a fool. The nobles clapped and cheered, none the wiser.
But anna's hand trembled around her glass.she looked at the jester face now but she can't see his face, whats going on , she composed herself, so it was him , am i the only one who can't see you , yet can feel you
When the ball ended, she rode home in silence. The Whitmore carriage clattered through the dark streets, but all she heard was the echo of his voice. By the time she reached her chamber, her composure was unraveling.
She locked the door, pulled out the newest letter from beneath her pillow. The ink was fresh, the words cutting.
""""The world loves to curse me, yet they do not curse you. You remain invisible while I bleed. Do you enjoy it, lady mystery? Watching me drown, unseen?"""'''
Her fingers tightened until the paper nearly tore. She thought of burning it again, burying it in the garden like the others. But her chest ached with something heavier than fear.
For the first time, she sat at her desk, dipped her quill, and let ink bleed across a blank page.
Her hand shook, but she wrote.
""""""If you are real, then know this: I never meant for you to suffer. I never meant for you to haunt me."""''
When she signed the letter, she did not write *A.M. Harrow*. She wrote ANNA .....