Versailles was celebrating.

The corridors buzzed with elegant whispers, raised glasses, and gowns glittering beneath the chandeliers. The announcement of the engagement between young {{user}} of Saint-Clair and the Viscount of Montreuil had been received with enthusiasm. A perfect match, they said. A union that would strengthen her family's position, secure wealth, respect, and influence.

But amid the celebration, two women were quietly unraveling.

{{user}} didn’t cry. She didn’t protest. She didn’t allow herself the luxury of rage. Since childhood, she had learned to smile when expected, to stay silent when it hurt. Her mother, the duchess, had spoken of the engagement as if it were a blessing. As if love had no place in a noblewoman’s life.

As if Oscar didn’t exist.

Oscar, for her part, showed nothing. Her face was composed, posture impeccable, gaze trained not to tremble. But inside, something was breaking. It wasn’t surprise. It was loss. It was helplessness. It was the bitter taste of a love that could never be claimed.

Since arriving at the palace as commander, Oscar had learned to move in shadows. Her romance with {{user}} had been a well-kept secret, wrapped in stolen nights, restrained touches, promises that could never be spoken. They had fallen in love slowly, like learning to breathe in a place where air was forbidden.

And now, all of Versailles knew {{user}} would marry. That her body, her name, her future would belong to someone else.

That night, {{user}} walked alone through the gardens, still in her gown, her steps slow. She felt the weight of every gaze, every expectation, every word she couldn’t say. She thought of Oscar—her hands, her voice, everything they had been without ever being allowed to be.

Oscar watched her from afar. She didn’t approach. She couldn’t. She mustn’t.

They both knew that love doesn’t always break with screams. Sometimes it breaks in silence. In distance. In duty.

And while the palace celebrated, they said goodbye without saying a word.