There she sat in jewels that carved her past and glittered her future, and she began to read.
Diamonds rested at her throat. Pearls adorned her wrists. Gold gleamed at her ears and along the bodice of her gown.
To any observer, she would have appeared every inch the lady society admired—a woman of poise, power, and unshakable grace. But appearances were often the most dangerous lies. The room was silent save for the crackling fire and the soft rustle of pages turning beneath careful fingers. The book resting in her lap was worn with age. Its leather cover had faded. Its corners were softened by years of handling. And yet it remained one of the most dangerous things she had ever held. A tear slipped down her cheek as she opened it.
Carefully.
Reverently.
As though she feared the memories trapped within might rise from the page and accuse her. She turned the first page and whispered into the quiet.
"What is the difference between love and lust? Right and wrong?"
The words lingered in the air. A question she had spent years avoiding. A question no priest, nobleman, or royal had ever truly answered.
Another tear followed.
Outside, the wind howled against the windows. Winter had painted the world in shades of white and silver. Snow drifted across the palace gardens like scattered lace. Beyond the glass, darkness stretched endlessly.
Cold.
Silent.
Unforgiving.
Her gaze lingered there for a moment before returning to the book. The ink had faded slightly with time, but the memories remained painfully clear. Slowly, she began to read.
I was no one before the Winter Ball.
The words struck her heart as fiercely as they had the day they were written. It had been the first ball of the season. The beginning of spring. A time when London awoke from winter's slumber, and society emerged once more in pursuit of entertainment, opportunity, and affection.
Families celebrated births. Newlyweds welcomed new life. Unsuccessful courtships were mourned with dramatic sighs. Empty marriages endured behind carefully practiced smiles.
And throughout the city, drawing rooms overflowed with speculation. Who would become the season's diamond? Who would capture the Queen's attention?
Who would win the heart of the young prince now that he had come of age?
New lovers.
Old flames.
Broken promises.
Fresh scandals.
London craved them all.
Society survived upon gossip almost as much as it survived upon tea.
Last season, however, had belonged to one story alone.
The newly made Viscountess Wycliffe had been discovered in a locked conservatory with her husband's closest friend, Lord Ashcombe—a gentleman with a thieving past, a polished title, and a smile that had ruined more than one respectable woman's judgment. The affair itself had been scandal enough. But it was not the affair that had made London gasp.
It was the fact that her own father had found them.
By breakfast, the tale had raced through Mayfair. By noon, it had become the story of the season. Mothers clutched their daughters closer. Husbands looked at their friends with suspicion. Wives pretended outrage while leaning in for every delicious detail.
London had not spoken of anything else for weeks. Her fingers tightened around the page.
The paper trembled. Then, with a soft rustle, a folded newspaper clipping slipped from between the book's pages and drifted silently onto the carpet.
She stared at it.
For a long moment, she did not move. The fire crackled. The wind howled.
And somewhere in the darkness beyond the window, the ghosts of seventeen years seemed to stir. Slowly, she lifted her eyes toward the snow-covered night. All she could see was darkness.
Cold.
White.
Endless.
Then she looked back down at the book.
Back to the beginning.
Back to the girl who had believed that a single night could change everything. She had been right. It had. And it had ruined her just as completely as it had saved her. Taking a slow breath, she reached for the fallen newspaper clipping. Her fingers hovered over the yellowed paper before she unfolded it.
The headline stared back at her like a wound reopened.
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Contemptuous hearts and willful minds are like pests. Love is dangerous, but lust will bring beasts to tame.
With his soft hands, he coupled me, and with even softer lips, words of a damned soul spoke.
"Let's see how a beauty can be broken. Romance is a dead language."
Then he forced my face to look at the lady's portrait, whom he had been courting.
In her very own house, he ripped my undergarment, which led to a small bruise on my body that no other had seen before.
And as I looked at her, with skin so smooth she looked like an angel, he whispered, she does not make me red, but blue with blood is my new obsession.