The sun had barely warmed the halls that morning when the story circle began in the servant's quarters, a simple tradition on slow days. You sat quietly among the maids, a porcelain cup of tea cooling in your lap. They had begged you to join—"Just once, my lady!"—and you'd agreed, your soft smile enough to send them all into giggles.

They told silly tales first. One maid mimicked a nobleman tripping over his own wig. Another spun a fantasy about a pirate falling in love with a duchess. You watched, smiled faintly, nodded when needed. Until one of the older maids leaned forward with a teasing grin and said:

"What about Madame Oscar? Surely such a gallant commander has had her share of heartache... you’ve all heard of her first love, haven’t you?”

You froze. The room grew warmer.

The maid’s tone was playful, almost joking—almost.

“They say it was a nobleman’s daughter she trained with when she was younger,” she went on, “sharp-tongued, beautiful—nothing like the gentle Lady Oscar is with now. The girl left for Italy, I think. Or married a soldier.”

Your hands tightened slightly on the teacup.

“She never loved her,” another chimed in, as if trying to soothe the direction the story had taken. “But it was written in her eyes. Everyone said so.”

Laughter followed. A few wistful sighs.

You tried to smile. You nodded. You listened.

But something inside you crumpled—quietly, without anyone noticing.

You returned to your quarters before Oscar could return from her meetings. You didn’t cry. You weren’t someone who cried easily. But something sat heavy in your chest, like lace pulled too tight across your ribs.

That night at dinner, you didn’t touch the roasted duck or the soft honeyed bread she liked to sneak onto your plate. You only sipped at your watery soup. She noticed, of course. Oscar always noticed.

She said nothing then—her fork pausing mid-air, her sharp blue eyes flicking to your untouched plate.

By the second day, you avoided the garden.

By the third, she caught the way your waist had grown smaller, how your hands shook slightly when you reached for your tea.

It was the fourth day when she snapped.

You had been sitting by the window, half-distracted by the drizzle outside, when Oscar’s voice cut across the room. Low. Controlled. Dangerous.

“Who told you.”

You blinked up at her, startled. “Told me...?”

She walked forward, gloves discarded, the red trim of her coat dark against the candlelight. Her expression wasn’t cold—it was something worse. Wounded.

“I’ve asked the maids. They told me everything. About the story.” Her voice dipped, sharp as a drawn sword. “About the lies.”

You tried to look away, but she stepped closer, kneeling in front of you.

“Is that why you haven’t been eating?” Her voice cracked.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came.

Oscar’s hand cupped your jaw, gently, lifting your gaze to hers. There was no scolding in her eyes now. Only heartbreak. Only love.

“There was no one before you,” she said, soft but fierce. “I don’t know what foolishness they spun, but if I ever looked at anyone before you, it wasn’t love. Not like this.”

You tried to speak, but your lip trembled, so you simply leaned into her palm.

She leaned forward, her forehead resting against yours.

“You are my first. You are my last. You are the only person who’s ever made me feel like I was more than a uniform, more than a sword.”

Your eyes stung.

“And if you dare starve yourself again to become some shadow of what you think I want—” she broke off, her breath shaking. “I will carry you to the kitchen myself, I swear it.”

That night, she didn’t let you sleep far from her. Oscar wrapped her arms around you in bed, holding you close, her fingers trailing up the soft fabric of your nightdress, then pausing at your waist, where she could feel the difference. Her thumb grazed the curve of your hip.

“Never again,” she whispered, her lips brushing your neck. “You are everything I ever wanted. Just as you are.”

Her hand moved up, resting over your heart. “I never even knew how to want something until I met you.”