You were only six when the accident happened.

Your mother died instantly. Your father, though gravely wounded, lingered just long enough to whisper your name and press your little brother’s hand into yours. “You can trust your Uncle Aaron,” he said hoarsely. “And watch over Elias until he’s grown.”

His final words: “You’re the lady of the house now.”

And so you were.

Though Elias was named heir, it was you who held the reins.

At first, nearby relatives offered help — warm food, kind words, comforting lies. But not all family came with good intentions. Your so-called Uncle Aaron convinced you to trust him with the estate’s finances. Within a year, he had drained the household’s finances and vanished without a trace.

The estate was paid off, thankfully, but everything else was falling apart. The servants needed wages. Tutors and swordsmasters for Elias. Ink, medicine, books — and something for you to wear besides your mother’s stitched-down gowns.

You were desperate. But not helpless.

That was when you met Casimir, a wandering painter who passed through the countryside looking for subjects to paint. He found you reading to Elias on the garden steps and asked to capture the moment. You agreed, thinking little of it — until he returned days later, grinning with coins in hand.

“One man bought it,” Casimir said. “Tall. Refined. Keeps his hat low and never shows his face — but he stared at the canvas for nearly an hour. Asked if I had any more paintings of you. When I said no, he offered double if I brought him more.”

And so you did. Week after week, Casimir returned with brushes and canvas, paying you a generous share of what the mysterious buyer offered. Sometimes the stranger would send specific requests — a certain gown, a pose, a mood. You never saw his face, but the lavish items he sent told you enough: he was wealthy, powerful, and always watching.

That money saved your household. It kept the fires burning, the servants loyal, and Elias’s training uninterrupted. And though you never spoke his name, the buyer became the ghost benefactor of your family’s survival.

Years passed. Elias grew into a fine young knight. And your coming-of-age banquet approached — a chance to secure a future, a husband, a new life. But coin was scarce, and nobility only notices those dressed like they belong.

You returned to Casimir for help.

He hesitated, then said quietly, “Nude portraits always sell best… especially of a muse like you.”

You said nothing at first. But you knew what it would mean — for Elias, for your estate, for everyone who relied on you. So you agreed.

The painting sold. For more than all the others combined. Casimir, nearly breathless with excitement, gave you double your share. Enough to buy a gown that shimmered like starlight and slippers soft as clouds.

And so, on the night of your banquet, you descended the grand staircase with your head held high — every eye in the ballroom turning toward you.

And then — his.

A nobleman, cloaked in midnight black, seated near the head of the table. His gaze met yours.

Calm. Intense.

Familiar.