Noémie’s room was the furthest in the residence, in a small cottage detached from the main house. The only person attending to her was Aimée. 

Getting ready for the ball took some time. Her stay had been laced a bit tighter this time. As Aimée stood, tugged, and tied the silk cords, it was the first time that she dressed for an event with the grim dedication of a soldier preparing for battle. Her clothing, her armor.

“I wonder if the younger mademoiselle will stop by again.”

“Maxi is probably getting ready herself, Aimée.”

Noémie knew if she went to the ball, she’d see PRincess Charlotte. Well, wouldn’t the princess be there? Of course she’d be at a ball held by her family. Who she wasn’t sure she’d meet was the male lead whose face she couldn’t even imagine in her head.

Monsieur Sévère Dieudonné de Bellefleur. The Duke of Bellefleur.

The male lead of the novel found herself in.

The novel’s male lead, someone Noémie has not met, rather she knew him from rumors she heard trickling from servants’ mouths. 

He was sort of a figure of legends, almost inhuman-like, said to have beheaded 1,000 men during his last battle alone. Other than assisting Marquis Isaac and essentially being what won the country the war, not much else was known about him. It had been as if he weren’t human, and rather made by alchemy—or so the rumors say. 

No soul has seen him and rumored that anyone who gazed upon his figure in battle has met their savage demise.

Even she, a reader of the novel he was in, can’t remember what his face was described as. He could be some monster wearing human skin and flesh that turned into a human with the power of pure love, for all she knew.

Her baby sister was eager to marry him when she found out. I suppose if she were her age too, she’d be excited at anything or anyone who could provide some sort of independence from their traditionalist house.

But Noémie knows they’ll never marry, that Maximilienne will die before the engagement takes place in ten years’ time. After the death of her sister, the duke’s fiancée, he’s approached by the favored princess of the empire. At her funeral, they fall in love. A month later, the two were wedded together by the emperor. She teaches him how to be human and what it’s like to be loved.

Maximilienne, a steppingstone for their romance.

Thinking about that ticks her off terribly.

The silk fabric of her evening dress clung to her hips like 

Noemie stood in front of her bedroom mirror, attempting to look tall despite her short stature.

Her gown, a dark crimson affair with a low, square neckline that fit her like poured velvet. Her mother’s old gown that with altered with additional black silk and lace. Her breasts rose high, her waist cinched. Her dusky skin glimmered in the bit of moonlight that shone in from her bedroom window. She’s much of one for dressing up—she avoided it when she could.

Do you think it’s too much?” Noémie asked, although mostly to herself.

Aimée shook her head quickly. “No, no. Mademoiselle, you look like a queen.

Noémie smiled briefly before inquiring with a raised brow. “Like one who will be executed shortly?”

Their conversation was interrupted as the door to her bedroom slammed open, and the culprit seemed to be her older brother. 

“Gods,” he said. “You look like a cherry trifle. All whipped cream and—”

Her younger brother, Étienne. Tall, with her father’s hazel-brown eyes and their mother’s pale-blonde hair. He wore a gaudy, powder-blue coat with silver embroidery. Even his cravat tied snugly around his neck showed his level of garishness. His lips curled as his eyes raked over her. His snide face is good-looking enough that noble women look at him as a marriage candidate. 

Noémie pities the next Marquise of their house.

She frowns, glancing at his appearance in the mirror, snapping, “Do you ever knock, Étienne?”

“Why should I? It’s not as if you’re plotting anything important in here,” Étienne’s voice was dripping with condescension. “God knows you’re not preparing for a marriage proposal.”

Noémie’s fists are clenched at her sides. She managed to keep her face calm—barely.

“Hard to miss you, sister,” he said, voice dripping with false fondness. “Dressed like that, at least. Is it a costume? Or are you finally trying to make yourself useful?”

Aimée froze by the mirror, eyes widening. Noémie remAiméed still, spine straightened. “Say what you came to say and get out.”

“I want to know how long you plan to leech off this family,” he replied, pacing the room now, his boots clicking against the polished wood floor. “You’re thirty, Noémie. Thirty. A thornback with no prospects, no dowry worth speaking of, and no claim to this family save for my mother’s misguided charity.”

Noemie’s nails dug into her palm as she trembled. As he continued to spit his venom, she attempted to calm herself down. 

Étienne was the first child their mother had after the death of her first child, a stillborn daughter whose tragedy led her to adopt Noémie. He was the family’s heir, their pride and joy. 

How can the outcast fare against someone like that?

Étienne stopped pacing, turning to her fully. He steps further and closer to her, fingers trailing along the edge of her vanity. “You know, you could be pretty. Exotic, in that dark, smoldering way men like before they come to their senses.”

The way he held her gaze made her ill. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he continued, “when I marry, I’ll have to keep a mistress. Paramount for a man of my status. Discreet, of course. But Loyal. A sow to keep me entertained. It’s perfect, a way to pull your weight and to keep me satisfied.”

Noémie’s anger flared behind her ribs like a struck match as she trembled. Her breath caught in her throat, not out of shock but sheer rage. 

“Pull my weight?” her voice hisses, her low voice falls against a poisonous tongue. “You mean degrade myself further than this family already has by parading me around as some sort of pet? You think I’d lower myself to become your mistress?”

Étienne’s smirk flattered, but once he quickly recovered, he made it a point to run his mouth again. “You should be honored. I’m practical. You’ve taken our name, our house, our mother’s affections. The least you can do is open your legs to the next head of this house.”

That rage that has been simmering in her finally boils over—she jumps up from her seat and does something that could be disastrous for her.

She slapped him; the sound crackled through the air. Hot tears fall down her face as she holds her fidgeting hands.

“You filthy, ungrateful savage—”

“Say that word again,” Noémie shouts. “And I will show you how wild I can be.”

Then, from the hallway, another voice interjected—low, tired, and sharper than any blade.

“That will be enough.”

Their father, Marquis du Cœur, stood in the doorway, his face drawn and his hazel-brown eyes burning into her.

“Father, she struck me,” Étienne said, rubbing his swelling cheek. “She—”

The Marquis moved fast. Much too fast for Aimée or Noémie to process.

His hand cracked against Noémie’s face—she stumbled, hitting the vanity behind her. Perfume bottles topple, her she’d only been using a few moments earlier.

Silence follows his words. 

 The Marquis stepped further inside; his gaze fixed on Noémie as if she were an excrement under his boot.

“You,” he says with the same tone that was both flat and terrifying, “You ungrateful wench. You struck a nobleman; you struck your brother.” She didn’t cry, she didn’t scream. She only stood on stumbling feet, using her dresser as leverage.

“He’s your son, so you’d know more than I that he deserves worse.”

He frowns. 

“You bruised his face when you knew that tonight was important. The emperor himself will be represented. The eyes of this court will be on our house. Are you that hellbent on causing scandals?”

He fiddled with his hands. Aching to use it, with or without justification. He finally raises his cane, Noémie

“Stop, mademoiselle, please don’t hit mademoiselle!” 

Aimée’s scream causes Noémie to stand up abruptly—the gravity of the situation she’d found herself in makes her stomach turn.

She tosses the compact in her hands and turns her attention to the young red-headed maid practically in the corner. She should’ve sent her away earlier than this, but everything went so fast—she had no accounting for how quickly things around her began to fall.

The Marquis didn’t look at the child. He tapped his cane again.

“Aimée, leave. You’re excused for the night.”

“Mademoiselle, I—”

“Aimée, go. Now.”

Aimée sobs, but obeys, fleeing.

“The next head of the march, lusting after his older sister. You’re worried about the scandal I’ll cause when you have an incestuous rat for a son!”

The cane, made of malacca, ivory, and with the house’s emblem, struck down on her as if it were the hand of a spiteful god. Again. And again. Across the clothes expand of her back, her ribs, her hips. Places where it wouldn’t be visible. Noémie doesn’t cry out. She knows better not to. She grits her teeth and stares at the floor beneath her.

The Marquis grabs her arm and hisses, “If not for that damned ball, I’d have you whipped. You will not embarrass this house tonight, understand?” Noémie stares at him for a moment before nodding reluctantly. She was a woman in her thirties, but talking to the Marquis, she felt as if she was still that child who the 

At her reply, he threw her to the floor and stormed out.

Finally, Étienne gives her a final poisonous look before he turns on his heel and storms out, slamming the door behind him.