Days, then months, then years passed. Yet the veiled servant girl never left his thoughts. Edgar experienced splendid moments with Angela; their conversations were filled with charm, laughter, and unspoken understanding. But every time his gaze wandered a little too far, it inevitably fell upon her, that discreet figure withdrawn, half-hidden beneath a light veil. And instantly, his whole world crumbled.
He was furious.
This girl had grown up, her gait had become more confident, her figure had emerged gracefully beneath the simple fabric of the servant girl's petticoats. She eclipsed, despite herself, Angela's richest finery and even Camélia's. It was no longer just a face he glimpsed beneath the veil—it was an entire body he longed to see, to touch, to possess.
As with Angela, there was no question of letting his brother, or anyone else for that matter, take what was rightfully his. Regardless of their status, princess or servant, they would both belong to him. What Edgar wanted, he always got.
Or almost always.
For seducing this poor servant girl proved to be the most humiliating undertaking of his life.
Every time he tried to approach her, fate seemed to conspire against him. Either she wasn't alone—always clinging to Angela, or surrounded by gossipy servants—or she was busy with a thousand trivial tasks that made any intimacy impossible.
And on the rare occasions when he finally managed to isolate her, everything fell apart.
He, Prince Edgar, who wielded such charming words with the ladies, was transformed into an awkward teenager. He stammered, he mumbled, he uttered absurdities that meant nothing. One day, wanting to compliment her delicate way of serving tea, he got so tangled up in his sentences that he asked her… if the water obeyed him as if by magic. She tilted her head to the side, flustered, and murmured a small, "Pardon me, Your Grace?" which only uttered the final blow of her shame.
Another time, while she was shelving books in the library, he tried to impress her with a learned remark. But his eyes lingered too long on the curve of her neck, revealed by the movement, and what came out of his mouth was a pathetic:
"You… arrange these with great… grace… wood… well, care." She inclined her head toward him before simply replying, "Thank you, Your Grace." Then she left, leaving behind a subtle fragrance that haunted him for the rest of the night.
Why? Why did he suddenly become this intimidated, awkward, almost ridiculous boy in front of a simple commoner? A girl who, normally, should have prostrated herself at his feet, charmed by his mere presence. But no. It was he who found himself under her spell.
Her delicate scent, her supple movements, but above all, her voice. My God, her voice. Melodious, clear, sweet like a song one longs to hear forever. Even her hesitations possessed a grace. When, seeing him remain silent for too long before her, she dared to ask in a small, timid voice:
"Would you like... anything, Your Grace?"
...he felt his heart clench, his desire grow.
He wanted her. He wanted her so much that after each humiliation, after each failed attempt, he left frustrated, seething with rage against himself. So he threw himself into other arms—passing maids, young housemaids, it didn't matter—trying to stifle this obsession. Some had midnight-blue hair, others wore a perfume reminiscent of wood or the ocean. But none… none gave him the same intoxication.
And when he closed his eyes, it wasn't their faces he saw. It was her. Always her. The veiled maid. Vida.
Every clumsy mistake, every confused smile she gave him, every disgruntled pout when he said something foolish, ate him up inside. The more he failed, the more he desired her. The more she eluded him, the more he grew mad.
And he knew it now: it was no longer a simple distraction. It was an obsession. A burning hunger.
A hunger he would eventually satisfy.
The question remained: how would he ever get his hands on this mysterious servant, Edgar thought, letting his gaze wander into the distance, as if he were trying to weave a plan in the invisible arabesques of the air. His mind filled with strategies, approaches, stolen opportunities… but all crumbled before the image of that stubborn veil that masked the beauty he desired to possess.
"Edgar?!"
Angela's voice broke the silence, light yet full of impatience. Edgar blinked and sat up subtly, jolted from his reverie. The young woman clung to his arm with charming affectation, her slender fingers gripping the velvet of his sleeve as if to anchor him to reality.
He looked away.
His gaze fell upon her, and he couldn't ignore the brilliance of her dress: a sumptuous fabric of pale blue satin, even brighter than the azure of a summer sky. The skirt, full and billowing with petticoats, blossomed around her like a flower in full bloom. Delicate silver motifs, hand-embroidered, intertwined across the fabric, reminiscent of waves shimmering in the sunlight. The bodice, cinched at the waist, accentuated her bust with calculated grace, its puffed sleeves brushed with diaphanous lace with a pearly sheen. A necklace of white pearls, round and gleaming like tiny moons, adorned her neck, contrasting with the softness of her milky skin.
Angela, seated beside him on the large, crimson velvet-upholstered sofa, looked like a living doll. All around them, the drawing room reflected the opulence of the palace: high ceilings adorned with frescoes depicting mythological scenes, heavy curtains of gold and purple brocade, and, on the walls, mirrors framed in carved wood that reflected the soft light from the candelabras. A monumental fireplace radiated a gentle warmth, its flames mirrored in the polished marble, while the subtle scent of beeswax and fresh flowers filled the air.
"I've been talking to you for a moment, are you listening?" she said, frowning, her blue eyes raised to him, full of a moist, reproachful glint. "You seem lost in thought…" She pursed her pink lips and turned away, pouting. "Am I so uninteresting to you?" "She added with a sigh, crossing her slender arms over her chest before sinking further into the sofa, like a sulky child.
Edgar, instantly regaining his composure, offered a smile that was uniquely his: a mixture of seduction and self-assurance, almost a caress for the ego of the woman watching him. He extended his hand and, with a calculated gesture, placed it on Angela's satiny cheek, his fingertips lightly brushing her soft skin, then gently guided her face so that he could gaze at her.
She barely resisted, her eyelids fluttering for a moment before gazing into his eyes. But her expression remained closed, her lips pursed in a stubborn pout, both sulky and fragile.
"Don't say just anything, my darling," he whispered in a low voice, warm as velvet. "You're the only one who haunts my thoughts."
His words trickled out slowly, almost whispered, like an incantation. Edgar brought his face closer to hers, so close that his breath already brushed her lips. Angela felt her cheeks flush, but refused to give in; she remained motionless, her eyes fixed on him, unwavering.
"Your sweet, deceptive words don't work on me," she retorted sharply, looking away, her large blue eyes rolling toward the ceiling in a grimace of annoyance.
A wry smile played on Edgar's lips, half amused, half provocative. That was what he loved about her: her naiveté mixed with haughty pride, her ambition hidden behind a childlike air. She was like him: insolent, proud, a touch cruel.
"How insolent…" he murmured, feigning hurt, a sadness that fooled only those who wanted to believe it. "My words are entirely sincere… But you're right, words aren't enough."
Angela, intrigued despite herself, frowned slightly and raised her head to look at him, perplexed. Her parted lips betrayed her curiosity.
It was then that Edgar smiled more broadly, revealing the gleam of a predatory confidence. With a fluid gesture, he slid his hand behind the young woman's delicate neck, his fingers digging into her silky locks, and drew her to him with an abruptness softened by desire.
He sealed their lips with a passionate, languorous kiss that left little room for hesitation. Angela's eyes widened in surprise, her breath catching in her throat… then, after a suspended second, her slender arms wrapped around Edgar's neck. Her resistance melted like snow in the sun, and she returned his embrace, her cheeks flushed crimson.
The kiss ignited, their lips pressed together with even greater fervor, and a small moan escaped Angela, trembling, almost stifled. It wasn't their first kiss—there had been others, sometimes tender, sometimes devouring—but they had never gone further. And yet, each time, Angela felt transported, as if Edgar were elevating her to the rank of an angel, lifting her from the weight of the world.
She had known for a long time that the prince was madly in love with her. It had been her plan for years, and she had succeeded: she had him bound to her. But despite this triumph, all was not perfect. A shadow remained.
Her delicate hands rested on the prince's broad shoulders. She gently pushed him away, not roughly, but with clear resolve. They parted.
A shared gasp, short of breath, cheeks burning. Angela, her lips still red from the embrace, tried to catch her breath, her moist eyes shining with a troubled gleam.
Edgar watched her, one eyebrow arched, perplexed, almost irritated that she was breaking the momentum.
"Your Highness…" she continued, her voice trembling but firm, "this kind of passion will not appease me." She straightened her dress with a sharp gesture, adjusting her bodice, then raised her suddenly icy eyes to him. "Rumors are circulating… They say you've been in the arms of your maids lately."
Silence fell in the drawing room like a leaden weight. Edgar blinked, taken aback. The very air seemed to grow cold under that gaze which, just moments before, had pleaded with him for love. He pressed his lips together, but a soft, mocking smile soon split his face.
"Why?" he said in a low, almost amused tone. "Are you jealous?"
"Yes."
The answer came sharply, directly. Angela stared straight into his eyes, without the slightest hesitation. Her blue pupils burned with an almost painful intensity.
"Yes, I am," she repeated, her voice trembling. "As if I didn't already have to endure not having you all to myself—you always slip through my fingers, because of that duchess who thinks she's superior—now you stoop to associating with hussies, and you don't even bother to hide it!"
She jumped to her feet, her skirt rustling like a wave, and took a few nervous steps in front of him. Her hands trembled, her breath came in short gasps, but her words flew, harsh and relentless.
"I am humiliated! Humiliated to be compared to Camélia, your fiancée, that cold statue you tolerate out of duty… And humiliated to be weighed against your pathetic affairs, your… pleasure trips with low-born girls." Her voice rose, torn by emotion. "And what about me in all this? Where am I, Edgar? What use am I to you?"
Her eyes filled with tears, which rolled down her pale cheeks without her wiping them away.
"I am not good enough for you, that's the truth, isn't it? My family has become the laughingstock of high society. We have lost everything—our lands, our titles, our glory—to an illegitimate child! I am constantly compared to her, and you…" She swallowed hard, her voice breaking. "You don't support me. You remain silent." "While I'm struggling to keep from collapsing, you're off fraternizing with those whores!"
She burst out, her voice rising in a scream that echoed against the gilded ceiling of the drawing room:
"I'm not on Camélia's level, nor on that hussy who came out of nowhere... And now I discover I'm even lower than common servants!"
She stopped in front of him, breathless, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks.
"Are you thinking about your reputation, Edgar?" Her voice was now just a broken whisper. "About mine?"
Edgar froze, his heart pounding with the harsh force of her words. Shit... I've screwed up, he thought, unable to tear his eyes away from the broken gaze, the wet cheeks of the woman who, just moments before, had moaned against his lips.
Edgar felt his chest tighten. Every word Angela said had struck him like a blade, and his pride roared at the accusation. A dark, arrogant part of him wanted to lash out harshly, to remind her who he was: the prince, the heir, the one she had begged to look at her. But that same part knew that one word too many would be enough to destroy her.
And the thought of losing Angela… that thought alone made him dizzy.
He rose slowly, as if to calm the storm, and walked toward her. She took a step back, but he didn't let her escape. His gaze had softened; his usually burning red eyes seemed dulled by a pain he never showed.
"Angela…" His voice was no longer arrogant or seductive, but low, almost pleading. "Forgive me."
He took her in his arms before she could pull away. She stiffened for a moment, but her sobs broke her, and her tear-soaked cheek pressed against his chest. Her slender hands gripped his shirt, as if she wanted to both strike him and hold him back.
Edgar buried his face in her fair hair, inhaling its scent, and tightened his embrace.
"You mean everything to me," he breathed, with a sincerity that surprised even himself. "You are my only light. Nothing... nothing matters more than you."
Angela shook her head against her chest, her tears continuing to stream down her face. "Then why... why do you let me believe I mean so little?"
He gently lifted her face from her hands, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. Then, without waiting for an answer, he seized her lips in a feverish, desperate kiss, a mixture of guilt, the thirst to hold her, and tenderness.
a rare gift he had never offered to others.
Angela moaned against his mouth, her salty tears mingling with the passion of their lips. She kissed him in turn, as if she wanted to believe his words, as if this kiss could erase her wounds.
In this richly decorated salon, beneath the mirrors and gilding, there was no longer a prince, nor a ruined girl. Only a man ready to do anything to keep the woman he had sworn to keep by his side, and a broken woman who allowed herself to be consumed by the illusion of being loved.
Angela, motionless at first, finally responded with studied gentleness. But, against his shoulder, where he couldn't see her, a discreet smile appeared. Her eyes, still glistening with tears, crinkled with mischief, and a fleeting spark of triumph flickered across them. She had just gotten what she wanted: attention, tenderness, and above all, control.
She rested her cheek against him, sighed with the air of a consoled young girl, but her smile remained, invisible to the prince, like a silent victory etched at the corner of her lips.