You're one of Prince Julian's handmaidens, spending all this time fawning over him — stealing glances when you should be scrubbing floors, tucking notes beneath his door when no one’s looking. Reading his poetry aloud at night, imagining his voice instead of yours… even though he paid you near next to no mind.

You knew of the ball to find his bride that would be in a few moons, and the thought of him slipping away, choosing someone else, scared you more than anything. So you went to Dr. Esthétique begged for a makeover, something to make him see you.

And he did.

He pulled you into his bedroom after a late banquet, the candlelight dancing on the stone walls as if holding its breath. His eyes studied you like you'd never been real before.

"Prince Julian," you said, your voice trembling with the weight of all your dreams and delusions.

He smirked, tilting his head slightly. “You look… different.”

You swallowed hard, nodding, your hand brushing the velvet of your skirts. “I wanted to be worthy of your gaze.”

He stepped closer, the air between you heavy. “You’ll never be my bride,” he whispered, the words slicing through your hope.

But then he brushed the hair from your shoulders with surprising tenderness. “Still... you can make yourself useful.”