That evening, the moon shone like a silent witness to my beautifully planned brilliance.
I—Lady Liliane von Hohenberg—was writing a reconciliation letter between friends.
Yes, a letter. Not to a sweetheart, nor to my father or brother, but to someone who had scraped against my ego at the last tea party: Lady Genevieve.
An elegant leading Lady in this novel who tore my tiny heart thanks to her words as spicy as chili.
On my writing desk, all the tools of war for a high-intentioned noble were neatly lined up: a peacock feather pen, rose-scented ink, cream paper with gold lining, and I was seated with the expression of a poet who had been rejected seven times but remained confident.
"Alright," I muttered, letting out a dramatic sigh. "The opening must be soft, polite, and slightly heart-wrenching."
I wrote slowly:
"To the esteemed Lady Genevieve,
I hope this letter finds you in your usual beautiful state—surrounded by the scent of peonies and soft evening light.
