The candlelight flickered along the ivory walls of your chamber as you stood before the mirror, smoothing down the deep crimson of your dress. The satin clung tightly to your figure—generous curves at your hips, arms softer than fashion dared, chest rising nervously beneath the corset. Still, you smiled, the glow of something rare in your heart: excitement.
Someone had invited you. You.
Not the chubby girl whispered about behind fans. Not the one with sun-kissed skin they mocked for being “unladylike.” Tonight, you were not the shame of your bloodline or the laughingstock of silk-draped salons. Tonight, you were a guest.
You arrived at the palace with your best smile—the sweet one that lifted your round cheeks and made your eyes sparkle. The air buzzed with perfume, chatter, and the chiming of strings. You curtsied gracefully, though your dress tugged too tightly at your thighs. You were used to the squeeze, the discomfort of fitting where you were never meant to belong.
Your friend greeted you with a kiss on the cheek and led you through the golden halls. “There’s a jester,” she beamed, “you’ll adore him.” Her voice dripped honey.
And for a while—you almost believed her.
The show began. The jester twirled into the center of the ballroom, cloaked in ribbons and shadow. His mask smiled wider than his lips ever could. He danced, cartwheeled, juggled flame and steel. He was brilliant.
You laughed. Genuinely. He was the first thing in that palace that didn’t make you feel out of place.
But then…
A sharp shove from behind. A scream. You hit the ground with a sickening thud—your hands breaking your fall, the lace at your sleeve ripping open. Laughter followed. Not yours.
You looked up.
Your friend towered above, her smile venom-sweet.
"Did you really think we wanted you here?"
Laughter roared like thunder. A goblet of wine was poured over your head. You didn’t cry. You couldn’t. You just lay there, cheeks hot with shame, mascara bleeding, the red of your dress now clinging with sweat and spilled liquor.
And the jester… stopped.
He stood there at the edge of the crowd, fire stick in hand, gaze fixed—not on them, but on you. Something dark simmered behind his painted grin.
Hours passed.
The laughter died. One by one, so did they.
Now the ballroom lies painted in red not from your dress, but from them.
Your friend’s body crumpled over her throne, eyes wide, throat slit like a petal. The guests scattered across marble like broken porcelain dolls.
And you? You were still on the floor, too shocked to move, hands shaking, heart thudding beneath your ribs like a trapped animal.
Soft footsteps approached. Slow. Gentle.
You looked up.
The jester knelt before you. His white gloves were stained with blood. His smile, no longer exaggerated by makeup, was strangely… sincere. Soft. Boyish, even. For the first time, you saw his eyes—human. Kind. Tired.
"It’s okay, love."
His voice was warm, raspy. He cupped your cheek with one bloodied hand and pressed the softest kiss to your skin. A peck—nothing more. As if sealing a secret between you both.
"I won’t hurt you."
You didn’t flinch. You only stared into those eyes, trembling, broken, but somehow.. understood.