The news of Fatima's presence within the main estate spread like wildfire, reaching Duchess Gwendolynn before the hour was through. The moment the words touched her ears, fury coiled through her chest, hot and consuming. Her manicured nails scraped across the velvet armrest, leaving faint marks in the fabric as her hazel eyes flashed like storm-lit glass. Not only had that foreign girl ensnared Dimitriu, but even the crown prince had begun to dance to her silent tune. Every evening, Gwendolynn had watched both men abandon the dinner table, their meals cooling in place, slipping away like conspirators. Her curiosity became poison, and when she trailed after them herself, the truth struck her like a slap: they were dining with her—that brazen girl and her band of vermin. The thought made her stomach twist. How dare that cunning little temptress weave her charms right beneath my gaze?
The duchess' fury erupted in the violent shatter of porcelain as her teacup hit the floor. Fragrant bergamot tea spread across the polished boards in a sharp, citrusy sting. "Summon Dimitriu to the tearoom. Immediately." Her voice was low and strangled, her teeth grinding audibly as if to keep herself from screaming. "Right away, your grace," stammered a maid, bowing before scurrying out, skirts brushing desperately along the floor. "The rest of you," Gwendolynn hissed, pointing at the shards glittering like broken ice across the rug, "clean up this mess." "Yes, madam." The chorus trembled out of the maids' throats, only for their shoulders to sink in relief once her silken skirts whispered out the door, leaving behind the heavy trail of perfume and fury.
**
In the hushed study, the air was an entirely different world—thick with the musky perfume of old paper and polished oak. Fatima found solace in it. Dimitriu had tasked her with cleaning and arranging his bookshelves from now on, and the comfort of shadowed shelves and rich bindings made the labor feel like a stolen blessing. Her hands glided reverently across the spines of worn tomes, fingertips grazing the raised ridges of gold-lettered titles. She inhaled the scent of ink and parchment as though it might steady her quickening heart. She had already finished a shelf, and pride curled warm in her chest. But it wasn't only the books that made her heart quicken.
From her corner of the room, she stole glances at him. Dimitriu's golden hair caught the sunlight streaming in through tall windows, threads of light weaving into his crown as he bent over his desk. His brow furrowed with thought, his lips slightly pursed as his eyes traced the page in his hands. Each time she looked, her stomach somersaulted, her blush spreading so fast she buried her face in the crook of her arm, smothering the ridiculous squeals in her chest. "Shall we take a break?" His voice pierced her reverie. She spun, caught off guard, her hands snapping behind her back in a feeble attempt to look composed.
Dimitriu stood, his chair scraping faintly against the floor. His spectacles slid down his nose, and he lifted his head, his eyes widening when they landed on the neat rows she had arranged. "You sorted them in perfect alphabetical order and sequence." His voice carried a note of genuine astonishment. He trailed his fingers across the spines, slow and deliberate, his touch grazing each book as though acknowledging her work. The other hand slipped casually into his pocket, though the intensity in his gaze betrayed the composure. "Do you perhaps know how to read?" His tone was lower now, his question sharp but velvet-edged, pulling her toward him.
"Yes, I do actually." Her voice came softer than she intended, accompanied by a smile she tried to make casual, though her heart thundered inside her ribcage. Her fingers twined together behind her back, as if hiding their nervous tremble might conceal the tremor in her soul. His lips quirked, a half-smile curling at the corner, deepening as his gaze flicked from her face to the shelf, then back again. "A bond servant who knows how to read… You must be from a fallen noble household."
The air grew taut, his words grazing dangerously close to truths she had buried. Her chest tightened, her eyes darting, the room suddenly felt smaller, more suffocating. Dimitriu's chuckle came low and rich, breaking the tension with the warmth of an ember in winter. "Relax, Fati. I won't pry. Not yet. I can see you'd rather keep your secrets." He stepped back, but the playful gleam in his eyes lingered like fingertips brushing against skin. Fatima exhaled sharply, her sigh slipping out before she could catch it. Embarrassed, she slapped her hands over her mouth, wide-eyed. He laughed softly, not unkindly. "I honestly can't get enough of how adorable you are, Fati." He closed the small distance between them, leaning just enough to let his hand fall gently atop her head, his palm warm against her hair. His touch lingered a heartbeat too long—long enough to scatter her thoughts into a storm of impossible wishes.
Her mind betrayed her then: What are the odds he might fall in love with me? And if he did… what would I even do? "Young master." A firm knock rattled the door, followed by the maid's voice. "Speak!" Dimitriu snapped, irritation sparking in his tone, his hand falling away from Fatima as though the world itself had interrupted them. "Her grace requests your presence in the tearoom, my lord." The air shifted, the fragile moment between them crumbling like porcelain dashed against stone.
**
Soon after the maid's announcement, Dimitriu dismissed Fatima for the day, instructing her to return tomorrow. The words had stung sharper than she expected—like a door closing too soon—but she forced herself to smile, consoling her heart with the promise of tomorrow. The hours ahead suddenly felt endless, each minute something she would have to endure until she could see him again.
"Fati!" Clover's bright voice rang out before she even caught sight of her. The girl came barreling across the grass, her simple cotton skirt fluttering around her ankles, arms flung wide in relief. She collided into Fatima with such force it nearly knocked the breath out of her, clutching her as though she had been gone for days. "You have returned safely, thank goodness. How was it? Did anything happen?" Clover's hands immediately roamed over her, fussing over her shoulders, arms, even tugging lightly at her sleeves as if searching for hidden injuries.
Fatima chuckled at her concern, though her brows pinched together with another thought. "Have you seen Sir Nate? I didn't run into him once while I was inside the mansion." Her voice carried a note of worry, subtle but unmistakable. Despite his constant grumbling and short temper, she had grown used to his shadow trailing them, his sharp words often masking a strange sort of protectiveness. The quiet absence of his presence now gnawed at her.
Ivy, who had been lingering just behind Clover, shifted uncomfortably. "His hi—" she caught herself mid-sentence, biting her tongue. "I mean, he hasn't been here all morning. We thought he was with you and the young master the entire time." Her tone was careful, her eyes flickering toward the ground as though hoping Fatima would not notice her slip.
Fatima, however, only sighed and drew both girls closer with a sudden grin. "Have you two eaten? Come, I brought you some treats I received from a secret friend." Her voice dropped conspiratorially on the last words, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief as she hooked her arms around their necks and tugged them toward the shade of a tall oak tree. The branches stretched wide above them, dappling the ground with patches of shifting sunlight.
"You had us worried sick, and now you think you can quell our—" Ivy began, her voice rising into the familiar cadence of a scold. But before she could finish, Fatima reached up and pinched her cheeks, stretching them until Ivy's words slurred into an incoherent protest. "What do you think you're doing?" Ivy mumbled, her lips puckered against the pull, her brows drawn together in mock outrage.
Clover burst into laughter, her hair bouncing as she leaned sideways. With a mischievous grin, she slid her hand beneath Fatima's arm and wiggled her fingers. "Aahh! Clover, stop tickling me!" Fatima squealed, her laughter bubbling uncontrollably as she twisted and flailed on the ground, clutching at Clover's wrist but failing to stop her. Their giggles rose into the air, mingling with the rustle of grass and the distant hum of cicadas, until it seemed the whole field vibrated with their joy.
Ivy exhaled, shaking her head though a smile tugged unbidden at the corners of her lips. "What am I to do with the two of you?" she murmured, feigning exasperation. Yet as she watched the two girls roll and tumble, their laughter spilling as freely as sunlight, her stern expression softened. The sight eased something heavy inside her chest, replacing it with a fragile, unexpected peace. For a moment, she let herself simply breathe, the sound of their merriment wrapping around her like a balm.
**
Inside the Kartier tearoom, the air was heavy with unspoken venom. Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows, casting a golden sheen over the porcelain teacups and the floral-embroidered tablecloth, yet the warmth of the day seemed powerless against the icy tension coiling between Dimitriu and Duchess Gwendolynn. "I don't understand, mother." Dimitriu's brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. His green eyes, usually so composed, looked unsettled, and the tightness in his jaw betrayed his irritation.
The duchess, poised as a painting, sat with her back straight and her chin slightly lifted, her every movement calculated. Her emerald silk gown rustled faintly when she shifted, and though her outward demeanor was polished calm, her fingers dug into the delicate handle of her teacup with such force that her knuckles whitened. "I believe you heard me loud and clear, Dimitriu," she replied, her voice ringing through the chamber with the cool resonance of crystal. Raising the teacup to her painted lips, she inhaled the fragrant steam of bergamot before sipping with feigned serenity.
"That thing is never to set foot inside this house again. If you require assistance so badly, I shall find you the best aide in the region. Understood?" Her words fell like blades, sharp and final. With a pointed click, she set the cup back into its saucer, eyes glinting with satisfaction as she watched her stepson's expression sour from puzzlement to quiet disdain.
The duchess—Gwendolynn Kartier, once Gwendolynn Hertzman—was a woman who had always lived at the center of luxury and indulgence. The only legitimate daughter of Marquis Victor Hertzman, she had been spoiled from birth, adored by her parents and envied by society. Her father's ties to the emperor had secured her a place as one of the most powerful women in high society long before her official debut. Praise and jealousy alike had trailed after her, and she had learned to thrive on both.
Yet her grandeur had not erased the memory of Dominique's first wife—the fragile woman who had died ten days after giving birth to Dimitriu. Dominique had raised his son alone, faithfully cherishing a love cut short too soon. Only when whispers of a scandal with another woman threatened his reputation did the duke bow to pressure and wed Gwendolynn. For all her elegance, she had always known she was the replacement—an arrangement, not a choice.
"Dimitriu! Are you listening to me?" Her voice cracked with the sting of impatience, her perfectly arched brows drawing together into a scowl. "Yes, mother. You have my full attention." Dimitriu leaned back in his chair, exhaling a soft sigh that seemed to mock her severity. "Will you do as you're told for once?" she pressed, her tone sharp with the condescension of a parent to a wayward child. "That I cannot do, mother," he replied coolly, lifting his cup to his lips with studied nonchalance. The porcelain clinked softly against his teeth as he sipped, his eyes deliberately avoiding hers. "I am in dire need of assistance and cannot wait for the endless process of hiring an aide."
"What else can an illiterate bond servant do for you besides cleaning?" She gave a careless shrug, her jeweled earrings swaying as though even the question bored her. But Dimitriu's lips curved into a faint smirk, the amusement in his eyes betraying secrets she could not guess. Fatima was far from the helpless, ignorant creature his mother imagined. The thought of her intelligence—her sharp wit hidden beneath silence—stirred a private satisfaction in him that no one else shared.
"Fair point, mother," he said smoothly, setting down his cup, "but I decided you no longer get a say in my personal affairs. The girl will remain, and I will see to it that her presence does not interfere with yours. So, you may lay your worries to rest." With that, he rose, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the polished floor. His steps were unhurried as he strode toward the door, the calm in his movements a silent defiance that burned Gwendolynn more than raised voices ever could.
The duchess' composure finally cracked. As the door shut behind him, porcelain shattered violently against it, the fragments clattering to the floor in a cacophony that echoed through the chamber. Dimitriu paused in the hallway, a low chuckle slipping past his lips. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he walked down the gilded corridor with a spring of triumph in his step. "My dear stepmother must be fuming," he muttered under his breath, amused. "She's too used to dealing with nitwits and pushovers who lack the backbone to defy her."
The sunlight spilling through the high windows seemed brighter now, illuminating his smirk as he disappeared into the long stretch of the Kartier estate.
**
Five days had crawled by since Fatima began reporting to Dimitriu's study, yet every moment felt like years carved into her soul. Each sunrise brought her not relief but the weight of dread pressing against her chest. Her hands, still raw from handling dusty tomes and ink-stained scrolls, trembled as she whispered under her breath, "I've lost all motivation to report for duty in the young master's study. As pleasant as it is to be near him… the consequences are far too cruel." The memory of nearly losing her life inside the estate was still raw, echoing in her mind like a ghost.
Two mornings past, her voice had cracked under fear when Florette's shrill cry pierced the estate halls. "My diamond necklace has disappeared! Mother—my precious necklace is gone! Whatever shall I do?" The hysteria spread through the household like wildfire. Servants' hurried footsteps rattled the marble floors, the scent of burning incense and overturned perfumes clinging to the air as rooms were torn apart in search. Even the stables, where Fatima slept, were ransacked, and by evening, the missing jewel was "miraculously" uncovered within her own bedding— her place of refuge sullied by the lie.
The duchess' eyes, cold and venomous, burned into her as she decreed punishment. Two fingers. No trial, no chance to defend herself. Fatima's heart had thundered so loudly she could hear nothing else—until Dimitriu's voice cut through, firm but desperate, sparing her the mutilation at the cost of twenty lashes instead.
She still remembered the sting of the whip slicing across her back, the taste of iron as she bit her lip to silence her cries. Later that night, Dimitriu's hands had been unsteady, the wet cloth in his grip trembling as he dabbed gently at her raw wounds. "I'm sorry, Fati… I failed to protect you," he murmured, eyes clouded with helplessness. His warmth had cradled her as she wept herself into exhausted sleep against him. And yet, when dawn came, her body had betrayed her despair with a miracle—her skin had once again mended overnight, unmarred as if the ordeal had never happened. She grazed her fingertips now over her lower back, sighing softly. Only Sir Nate and Doctor Hayden must know of my healing abilities… no one else. She had faked winces of pain the next day when Dimitriu arrived with ointment, hiding the truth from him as well.
Shaking away the memory, she returned to the present, her hands moving automatically as she plucked another dust-heavy book from the shelf. The study smelled of old parchment, candle soot, and the faint musk of polished wood. She thought of Nathaniel then—his abrupt absence, his silence. The strangest thing was that no one seemed alarmed, not even Dimitriu. And yet, a basket of groceries had been delivered to them daily, as if his shadow still lingered in the estate.
She blinked at the title embossed in faded gold on the spine. "Little Bird by the Window," she murmured aloud but the sound of a low, familiar voice froze her blood. "What did you just say?" The book slipped from her grasp, crashing to the floor with a dull thud. Heart pounding, she spun around. Nathaniel stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, his red hair catching the daylight streaming through the latticed windows. His hands rested casually in his pockets, but his gaze—icy, narrowed, burning—was anything but casual. Her throat tightened. Did he hear me read that? And why is that book here, of all places?
"Pick it up," he ordered, his tone flat, sharp as a blade dragged across stone. "P–pardon?" Her voice cracked, eyes wide as she blinked up at him, confusion and unease mingling in her chest. "You dropped my book. Pick it up."
Realization hit her like a splash of cold water. Slowly, with unsteady hands, she crouched and retrieved the volume, brushing off the dust before whispering, "My apologies, Sir Nate—" She faltered, then her voice rose in disbelief. "Wait. Do you mean to tell me you own this book?" The slim poetry collection trembled in her grip. Her poetry—words she had bled onto parchment during her lonely nights in Syphus Palace, long before her divinity mark was discovered. Only ten copies existed, published under the secret pen name "Fatrose." The sight of it in his possession stole the breath from her lungs. Forcing a smile, she extended the book toward him. "Welcome back, Sir Nate," she said awkwardly. Though her lips trembled as she bit back the urge to ask where he'd been, it wasn't the moment to pry, not when his mood felt so perilous.
Nathaniel's expression darkened, his gaze raking over her like storm clouds gathering. "I see you've been doing well despite recent events." His words were a quiet jab, and Fatima's spine stiffened. She tried to mask the tension with a light giggle, pressing a hand to her lips. "The young master allows me to roam his quarters freely now. He even insists on escorting me each day—so, really, I cannot complain." Her laughter rang too sweet, too airy—and it scraped against Nathaniel's nerves like glass. His jaw clenched, his thoughts blackening with something he couldn't quite name. If you keep smiling like that, I may just snap his neck in two during training today. He thought to himself, his eyes falling on the book in Fatima's grasp.
He snatched it from her hand, fingers brushing hers for a fleeting instant. His frown deepened, his features etched with silent regret for ever leaving her unguarded. The maid he had ordered to quietly watch over her, reported every detail of her suffering; it haunted him that he hadn't been there. Emilia's letter had lured him away, and Fatima had paid the price. "Why are you frowning like that?" she asked suddenly, interrupting the storm in his mind. Rising to her toes, she hopped up, her small frame stretching comically to reach his forehead. Nathaniel raised a brow, puzzled. "What are you doing?"
"Lower your head, will you? You are far too tall for my liking. Taller even than the young master—might I add." She huffed, cheeks puffed, sweat beading faintly on her brow from the effort. With a reluctant sigh, he bent, his towering frame yielding to her playful demand. Then—smack! Her palm landed square on his forehead. "Keep frowning like that and your face will turn into an old, wrinkly potato," she declared, her lips twitching before laughter spilled from her in warm, tinkling bursts. Nathaniel froze, staring at her with a mixture of confusion and faint offense. But his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—refused to look away from her radiant smile.
**
Meanwhile, in Gwendolynn's chambers, the air was scented with roses and lavender oil as a maid carefully pinned the last floral hairpin into her mistress' elegant chignon. The duchess' reflection glowed in the gilded mirror, serene until another maid entered quietly, her voice low and tense. "Your grace… Princess Emilia has just been spotted in Alvarest. It appears she's heading this way." The words dropped like ice into the room. "What?" Gwendolynn's voice cut the air, cold and sharp, her hand tightening on the carved vanity edge as her expression hardened into a mask of frost.