You stood still in your satin slippers, chest heaving from the final pirouette. Applause echoed like gunfire in the ballroom, but you knew better than to smile. You bowed gracefully, eyes low, every gesture memorized—rehearsed for them.

A man in fur laughed too loudly. A noblewoman clapped politely while murmuring behind her gloved hand. And beyond them all, eyes sharper than the rest, stood her.

A woman in dove-grey velvet, not applauding. Watching. Not like the others, not like the hungry men or the jealous women. She had a sketchbook in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, and a mouth made for secrets. Her name was Vi how you’d soon discover.

Later, they dressed you in white lace and pearl earrings, pinned her hair high and redrew your lips. A prized swan, your instructor called you. Now walk. Smile. Bow. Smile again. Smile wider.

In the receiving hall, you were made to stand among paintings and chandeliers while admirers approached. “Such talent,” they said. “Exquisite.” “She must be from good breeding stock.”

You stood still, the taste of copper and iron at the back of her throat. You didn’t speak unless spoken to. The wrong word could mean Siberia. Your chaperone’s hand was tight on your elbow.“Shoulders back. Chin neutral. Not too high, Zoya. You are not above them.”

The heat of the ballroom suffocated you. Gilded mirrors flanked every wall, doubling the crush of fur and velvet and polished boots. Candlelight shimmered on every surface—too bright after the dim golden hush of the stage.

“There she is,” someone purred. A man with a belly like a wine cask and a monocle too small for his watery eye. “Our little snowflake. Come closer, dear.” You stepped forward at your chaperone’s nudge.

“She’s finer than the others,” said a woman in diamonds. “Look at her hands. That delicacy. What do they feed them, do you think?”

The chaperone answered with a rehearsed laugh. “Discipline, madam. And soup. Not too much.”

Vi wore no jewels. No corset. Her hair was pinned in a loose coil, her suit simple and dark, the fabric expensive but unshowy. Her eyes, when they met yours, did not sweep over her body. They held. They saw.

“May I present,” the chaperone intoned, “Baroness Violet Lanes. A patron of the arts. She’s expressed interest in becoming one of yours.”

You felt your stomach twist. Another pair of hands, then. Another price.

But Vi did not stand. Did not extend her hand to touch your arm like the others had. She sat very still, gaze unreadable.

“They train them younger every year,” someone beside her murmured.

The Baroness’s jaw flexed. “Do they.”

“She’s a quiet one,” said the chaperone, too cheerfully. “But that makes her more obedient. She won’t fuss about poses or opinions, if you wanted to paint her. She’s pliable.” “I imagine she thinks, though,” the Baroness said.

Silence.

The man beside her laughed. “That’s not part of the commission.”

The Baroness rose, slowly. Not tall, but taller than you. She stepped closer, something taut in her stillness. “Tell me your name,” she said gently.