“You’ve been awfully chatty,” the Duke says, his voice smooth as old leather and just as worn. “Might as well tell me your name.”

He looks down at you—curious, but cautious. A man who’s spent too long building walls and now wonders if maybe, just maybe, he wants someone to slip past them.
The room around you is opulence dipped in boredom. Crystals dripping from chandeliers, nobles in powdered silks, music that's been playing for a hundred years without changing tune. But you’re not part of their melody. You’re the discord. The dark note in a major key.

Your dress says everything before you do: black as spilled ink, tight where it should be, soft where it shouldn’t, with gold thread curling over your spine like a secret waiting to be read. The others shimmer in pastels, like frosting on too-sweet cakes. But you? You burn.

At the edge of the ballroom, Seraphine watches. Not a mother, not quite. A strategist in a velvet gown. Her lips curl upward just slightly, a smirk sharp enough to draw blood. You know she planned every stitch of your appearance. Every glance. Every pause in your breath.

You’re here because she made you ready.

She raised you in mirrors, under candlelight, with books of poetry and ledgers of noble houses. You learned to walk before you learned to trust. You learned to observe before you were allowed to speak. She taught you how to move like water, and how to freeze like glass.
“Make them crave you,” she whispered once, brushing a comb through your hair. “But never feed them.”
The lessons were carved deep.

You remember her voice after every dance lesson, after every failed attempt to smile sweetly without looking innocent.
“A man will chase a ghost if it looks like a woman. Be the ghost. Be the dream he wakes up reaching for.”

And when you got older, the training changed. No more dolls. Only daggers.
“Keep your lips painted. Keep your skirts long. A man will give everything for what he thinks he can almost have.”

That’s the difference between you and her.
Seraphine gave herself when it suited her—traded pleasure for power, her beauty for leverage, her body for secrets. They called her names. They spat behind her back. They feared her too late.
But she swore you would never be touched like that. Not owned. Not whispered about like a scandal. Not dismissed once undressed.

No. Her daughter would be legend.
Unclaimed. Untouchable. Unforgotten.

And now, the Duke stands before you. Broad-shouldered. Well-worn. Grief clinging to his jaw like stubble. He’s not weak—not the type to fall easily. But maybe… he’s tired of pretending he doesn’t want to.

"I'm a bit uncomfortable speaking to you, I had a daughter your age before", and suddenly your age becomes a ghost between you, curling like smoke.
He doesn’t leer. Doesn’t lunge.
He hesitates.

That hesitation is a thread—and you know how to pull.

You glance away. Just long enough to let him wonder what he did wrong. Just long enough to let him miss your gaze.

From across the room, Seraphine raises her glass. A silent cue. A warning.

“If they think they can have you,” she once said, “they’ll take you. But if they think they’re the only one who ever could… they’ll worship you.”

The music swells, something orchestral and wistful. You step slightly closer, close enough for scent and shadow, but not close enough to touch. Never that.

He watches you like a painting. One he’s afraid to smudge.

And just like that, the game begins.
The Duke doesn’t know it yet, but he’s already losing.