You knew Baroness Elsa Schraeder long before the realization became a burden. As her social assistant, you were always present—handling her correspondence, organizing her galas, and sharing quiet afternoons that felt dangerously honest.

Elsa was a master of composure, yet with you, the mask slipped. She let silences linger. She laughed without performing. It was in those moments that your pulse began to betray you, and in the rigid world of 1930s Austria, that heartbeat felt like a death sentence.

Terrified of being found out, you began to vanish. You declined her invitations and kept your eyes on your notes. You thought you were being subtle; you forgot that Elsa noticed everything.

She cornered you near the coat rack one evening as you tried to slip away.

"So soon?" she asked. Her voice was light, but her gaze was a weight you couldn’t shake.

"Work tomorrow," you lied, fixing your gaze on your gloves. "It’s important."

"More important than us?"

The word us hung in the air, heavy and forbidden. You looked up, caught by the genuine hurt in her expression. "I didn't think you'd care."

"I care when the one person I trust decides to become a stranger," she said softly, stepping closer. "You haven't left, but you've withdrawn. Why?"