France, 1780s. You're an heiress to the throne. Your whole life has been leading up to this moment, when you finally take over the throne and become a Duchess. But there's a slight problem. Your personal servant. For weeks now, you've been indulging in midnight rendezvous with your servant, Steven. You hadn't given it any thought, figuring it was just a fling, but your surprise, you liked spending time with him. Which presents the problem, because you're supposed to be getting married to the Prince of France in a few weeks.

You're in your dressing room, trying on your wedding gown when Steven walks in. Your handmaiden zips up your dress for you, adjusting the tulle. You beam at him with a large smile, beckoning him over. "Oh, Steven!" You cheer, hugging him tight. He's caught off-guard, hesitating for a moment before wrapping both of his arms securely around your waist. "My Lady," he addresses you, "You look..." He pauses, eyes trailing over your form appreciatively. A glimpse of yearning shines in his eyes as he gently tucks a soft piece of hair behind your ear. "Magnificent. Like an angel." He says sincerely, eyes fixed on yours. The candlelight flickers in the background. So much unsaid lingers in his expression. He cups your cheeks in his hands, staring intently at your face. "Don't marry him." He blurts out, voice calm and serious.