All I need to do is keep my promise to Iansa. That vow—the one I swore under candlelight and sealed with a signature I cannot recall without a pang—is the only tether that holds me here. Nothing else matters. No warmth. No loyalty. No sentiment. The grand canopy of this royal bed feels less like luxury and more like a gilded cage, and I am nothing but a reluctant inhabitant, trapped by obligation.
I remind myself constantly: this is merely duty. A calculation. A transaction. The world outside may expect me to care, to indulge, to act human—but I am bound only to what I agreed to. To that girl, the so-called "true owner" of the Serenity Hotel, my responsibilities are simple, clinical even. Twice a week I dine with her, a pretense of civility. Twice a week I listen to whatever trivial updates she deems important. Beyond that, I send work logs, meticulous and dry. Nothing more. Nothing personal.
Teaching her to run the business was not an act of generosity. Far from it. It was convenience—a means to ensure the hotel would not crumble beneath her inexperienced hands and thereby create complications for me. Anything beyond that is an annoyance. Anything beyond that is a waste.
Her laughter echoes faintly through the halls, and I note it without emotion. Her tears stain her cheeks and leave traces on silk—an observation, nothing more. Her happiness, her suffering, the men she trusts, the whispers she indulges in about me… all irrelevant. I am a ghost in her story, a shadow cast merely by my own commitment.
To disclose myself, to reveal the faintest fragment of what stirs beneath this practiced indifference, would be absurd. Why should I? What purpose could it serve other than to give her comfort or understanding she has no right to demand? Preposterous. The thought is laughable in its audacity.
And yet… there is a friction I cannot name. A shadow in the periphery of my mind whenever she looks at me, curious or frustrated or naive. It is maddening, this twinge, because it defies the rules I have set for myself. My emotions are a ledger, balanced and precise. They are not meant to betray me with the pull of concern or the flicker of interest.
She doesn't mean anything to me. Not her smile. Not her faltering steps in a world that overwhelms her. Not even the faint scent of jasmine she leaves in passing. She is merely an obligation, an inconvenient chapter in my otherwise meticulously ordered life.
And still… when she glances at me with those wide, searching eyes, I catch myself wondering—just for a fraction of a heartbeat—what it would be like if any of it did matter.
So why would I do such a thing? Why, damn it? The memory gnaws at me, a persistent thorn. I can still see the confusion, the hurt, the flicker of something like hope in her eyes. I had vowed to myself, carved it into my mind like a rule of law, that I would never reveal my true feelings, my history, the fractures that made me who I am.
Yet… there I was. Words spilling over the dam I had worked so hard to build, reckless, unthinking.
I never told you this… since I know you wouldn't believe me anyway, but…
My mind reels back to that moment. The words left my mouth before my mind had a chance to veto them. So why on earth did I speak them aloud? What recklessness possessed me, what fatal impulse made me lay bare a truth that should have remained buried?
"I don't know what happened between you and my family to make you detest them so… But whatever the reason, your hatred of the Grayan family name… isn't something that sets us apart. It's something we have in common."
The words lingered, heavy, almost suffocating in their weight. I remember the hesitation in her breath, the flicker of surprise, the dawning realization—like she had glimpsed a facet of me that was never meant for her eyes. A crack in the carefully constructed fortress of my indifference.
A sigh slips from me, barely audible in the stillness of my room. My hands clench so tightly that the fabric under my fingers creases. The anger at my own weakness, the frustration at this unwelcome vulnerability, the self-reproach at letting a fragment of truth escape—it's all a boiling storm I cannot quiet.
Goddammit.
How preposterous.
She doesn't mean anything to me…
And yet, the lie tastes bitter even in my own mouth. That moment—the shared recognition of resentment, the mutual understanding of unspoken pain—had felt like a bridge. Dangerous. Forbidden. A bridge to someone I was bound to keep at arm's length.
I close my eyes, trying to erase the image of her—the wide, questioning eyes, the slight furrow of her brow, the way her lips trembled almost imperceptibly. This wasn't part of the plan. This wasn't part of the promise I made to Iansa. This wasn't strategic. This wasn't for me.
No. It was… reckless. And dangerous.
And somewhere deep inside, where I refuse to admit anything, that recklessness feels… disturbingly familiar.
Master Suite, Serenity Hotel.
I can't sleep... BA-BUMP. BA-BUMP.
My heart pounds so violently I can feel it in my throat. I clutch the small teddy bear, pressing its soft head against my cheek, but even that familiar comfort is powerless. The room is silent, yet every shadow seems to pulse with memory, with sensation. Why won't this damn heart of mine settle?
I should've just asked him what that phone call was about… instead of twisting myself into knots over something I knew he wouldn't answer! DARN! I throw the sheets aside in frustration, shivering despite the warmth of the covers.
I've tried reasoning it out. Two possibilities circle my mind like vultures over carrion: either Eiser truly is at odds with his own family, using ours as pawns for revenge… or, under that pretense, he's maneuvering to seize control of mine entirely. That phone call I overheard… it points to the latter. But what is the truth? Which side of him is real?
And then, the memory. That moment keeps replaying, relentless:
"I don't know what happened between you and my family to make you detest them so… But whatever the reason, your hatred of the Grayan family name… isn't something that sets us apart. It's something we have in common."
Those words loop endlessly, echoing in my skull. And worse, the touch that accompanied them—the metallic tang of blood on my lips, the deliberate press of his thumb, the maddening, possessive slide across my mouth… the memory of his fingers brushing my tongue.
My cheeks burn. My chest tightens. That touch, intimate yet so dangerously calculated, leaves me untethered. I cannot distinguish fear from something else entirely. Something… wrong, and yet… intoxicating.
Eiser's Perspective – Interlude
SIGH.
CLENCH.
Goddammit.
Why did I say that to her?
What possessed me to lower the walls I have spent years building?
The words echo in my mind, heavy with their own absurdity.
How preposterous.
She doesn't mean anything to me…
And yet, why does her startled gaze haunt me? Why does the sound of her rapid heartbeat, the way her lips trembled, replay over and over in my head?
No. Stop. She is nothing. She is a complication. A nuisance of circumstance.
Back to Serena
I bury my face into the teddy bear, trying to slow the pulse, but the images of him linger. That bridge he hinted at… the shared understanding of hatred, the closeness in our unspoken pain—it shouldn't exist. Not in the confines of duty, not in the sterile world of obligations he promised himself to follow.
And yet… it does.
I close my eyes, trembling. I cannot untangle my racing thoughts from the vivid sensations of that touch. From the truth in his words. From the dangerous pull of something I shouldn't feel… yet do.
I don't understand it. And I am terrified by it.
The sheer inability to focus is maddening. My thoughts are scattered, tumbling over one another like runaway marbles. I have so much to consider, so much to plan, yet all my mind offers is the relentless replay of him: the swipe of his thumb across my aching lips… the deliberate, possessive slide inside my mouth… the way he dared to touch my tongue…
I pull my hand away, instinctively pressing my fingers against my lips. The memory is vivid, visceral, and utterly disorienting. I feel as though I've done something wicked… something shameful. My pulse spikes again, heat flooding my cheeks, my chest tightens, and I shiver despite the warmth of the bed.
No. Stop it.
I bury my face into the teddy bear, clutching it like a lifeline. It didn't mean anything. Yes, nothing… It was a mistake.
And yet, the heat won't dissipate. The memory keeps clawing back, refusing to be silenced. My thoughts spin, chaotic and unrelenting, like a storm with no end. I need… something. Anything. A distraction. A tether to the present.
Then I remember the gift Uncle Logan gave me, tucked away on the small table by the bed. The ivory music box. Perhaps… perhaps listening to it will soothe me, ground me, and chase away the storm inside my head.
I rise carefully, my bare feet brushing against the cold hardwood floor, and approach the table. The key turns with a soft CREAK, delicate but certain. I hold my breath as the ballerina springs to life. Tiny arms raised, spinning, poised… ethereal. The crystalline melody spills gently into the suite, winding around me, enveloping me in its fragile, perfect world.
Watching her dance, I feel my thoughts drift—softly at first, then more clearly. A memory surfaces, fragile as porcelain: the night I went to see a ballet with my parents when I was a little girl. The stage glowed in soft blue light, the dancers moved like ghosts of light, and the ribbons in their hair, on their waists, on their ankles, shimmered like dew. I remember the awe, the pure, uncomplicated joy of being a child in a world that seemed infinite and safe.
The memory is bittersweet. Before secrets. Before hostile hotels. Before Eiser. Before the chaos and confusion that now crowd my every waking thought.
The ballerina continues to spin, her small ivory body a constant, reassuring rhythm in the quiet room. The music, delicate and crystalline, anchors me. I wish life could be this simple, predictable… the gentle, endless turning of something so small and delicate, impervious to heartbreak, impervious to the danger that lurks in the very air around me.
For a moment, I let myself breathe. Let myself drift. The world beyond the music box—the deals, the whispers, Eiser, the impossibly complex tangle of emotions—is temporarily paused. For a fleeting, precious moment… I am a little girl again. And the dance goes on.
The music box's melody carried me away, far from the suffocating confusion of the Serenity Hotel, far from the relentless thoughts of Eiser and that impossible touch, back to the day the ballet first enchanted me.
The ballerinas on stage… their movements were poetry in motion. Ribbons danced along with them—through their hair, around their waists, along their ankles—and every twist and spin seemed to weave a spell around my young heart. I remember staring, wide-eyed, mesmerized, feeling as though the entire world had suddenly narrowed to that single, glowing stage.
After that performance, ballet became more than a fascination—it became an obsession. And ribbons… oh, ribbons became my signature. My shoes, my hair, my clothes—everything bore a ribbon. I was a small vision of childish delight, dark hair tied up with bright ribbons, a favorite dress adorned with silk bows at the bodice. I moved through my days wrapped in color and motion, imagining myself gliding across a stage, spinning endlessly in a world of music and light.
By the time I turned eleven, my mother relented, finally allowing me to study ballet at La Tassaint Royal Academy of Arts.
The academy building was magnificent. Red-bricked, with towering windows that caught the afternoon sun and made it gleam like a palace of art, it promised all the grandeur and discipline I had ever imagined. My pulse raced as I approached the gates, excitement and nerves entwined. This was it—my dream.
A few days later, I, eleven years old, navigated the vast, echoing halls of the academy, still trying to understand where I fit among so many other young dancers. I clutched my bag tightly, ribbons fluttering against my shoulders, when two older girls approached.
"Hello! I'm Lise and this is Esther. Nice to meet you," Lise said cheerfully, waving. Her smile was warm, genuine.
"I heard we just had someone major enroll. Is that you? The daughter of the Serenity family… you are major, all right," Esther added, her tone sharp, her gaze critical. She was less welcoming, her every movement carrying the weight of experience and scrutiny.
Lise seemed kind, almost instinctively protective. Esther… she radiated bluntness, seasoned confidence, and a touch of arrogance. Both girls were five or six years older than me, experienced, their skills honed through years at the academy, living and breathing ballet long before I arrived.
Lise stepped closer, a gentle invitation in her voice. "Tell us if you're having any difficulties or if there's anything you don't know, and we'll help you."
Esther immediately scoffed, eyes narrowing. "Difficulties? I doubt a privileged girl like her even knows what that is. Anyway, we're here because the director told us to look after you. You understand what that means, right? Or maybe you don't, being just a kid and all. Basically, it means we have to be… real good friends from now on." Her voice dropped into a whisper, sharp and fierce. "I'm already having trouble keeping up with classes! Now I have to play nursemaid to a rich, spoiled princess too?"
I turned, small but unyielding, feeling a sudden prickly heat of defiance rise within me. Their assumptions, their quick judgment… I refused to let them define me.
"I don't need anything from you," I declared, voice small but firm, my hands balling into fists at my sides. TURN. "If there's anything I don't know, I'll ask an instructor."
Even then, my dream—so pure, so intoxicating—was already tinged by the weight of my family name. The Serenity legacy wasn't just a name… it was a lens through which everyone would view me, prejudging, sizing me up, labeling me before I could show who I really was.
And still, despite the prick of arrogance in Esther's glare and the cautious warmth of Lise, something within me stiffened with resolve. I would dance. I would learn. I would carve my own path. Ribbons in my hair, ribbons in my soul, a tiny rebellion against a world that seemed determined to put me in a box.
Master Suite, Serenity Hotel
My heart pounds against my ribs—BA-BUMP. BA-BUMP. Sleep is impossible. I squeeze the teddy bear tighter, trying to anchor myself, but it's useless. I shouldn't have confronted him. DARN! I should've just asked about that phone call instead of twisting myself into knots over something I knew he wouldn't answer.
The lingering confusion about Eiser weighs heavily on me. I once theorized there were two possibilities behind his deal with my grandmother: either he was genuinely estranged from his family, scheming revenge using ours as pawns… or, under the guise of revenge, he was planning to seize control of my family entirely. That phone call I overheard… it leans toward the latter. But what is the truth? Which version is real?
And then there's the memory—the words he spoke, and the touch I can't forget:
"It's something we have in common."
The swipe across my aching lips… the slow press inside my mouth… the touch of my tongue.
I can't stop thinking about it. My cheeks burn, my chest tightens. The sensation loops endlessly, taunting me with a thrill I don't understand.
La Tassaint – Flashback
Even at eleven, I faced hostility for pursuing my love of dance. The lockers smelled faintly of chalk and sweat, the air thick with discipline and ambition.
"Hey, look! That girl's a newbie, yet she's already been assigned a locker between yours and mine! I can't believe the director did that… she's so transparent!" Esther's sharp voice cut through the excitement I had felt for the academy. My locker—marked 'Serena'—was wedged between Lise's and Esther's.
Esther's muttering was venomous. "I'm sick of the culture of hypocrisy in ballet, where poverty and extravagance coexist. I hope I get into the National Ballet Company soon so I can leave this world behind."
Lise, the gentler of the two, tried to mediate. "Cut it out, Esther. You know what you said would upset her."
But Esther didn't relent. "I envy her, being born rich. She doesn't need to worry about money or sponsorships. Probably just a hobby for her. She's living in a different world than us, who need ballet for survival. We've seen too many spoiled princesses like her."
Lise sighed, whispering, "…I want her to stay. Let's be nice so she doesn't quit."
And so the two girls watched over me, differently. Lise patient. Esther resentful. She groaned at my cheerful attempts, hoping I'd fail, that I'd leave.
But I didn't quit. I faced her down. "I told you, I'm not quitting!"
Every sharp word, every frustrated groan, only fueled my stubbornness. I was fighting for my place then… just as I fight for the Serenity Hotel now.
Eiser's Quarters – Interlude
Meanwhile, I am bound by duty—a promise to Iansa that chains me here. My obligations to that girl, the true owner of the Serenity Hotel, are minimal: dine with her twice a week… share the daily work logs… nothing more. Teaching her how to run the business was for my benefit alone. Anything beyond that would be a bothersome chore.
Her laughter, her tears, her happiness, her suffering… None of it matters. What she thinks of me… irrelevant. I have no reason to disclose anything about myself except for her sake, and even that is merely functional.
SIGH. CLENCH.
Why… why did I say that to her?
"I don't know what happened between you and my family to make you detest them so… But whatever the reason, your hatred of the Grayan family name… isn't something that sets us apart. It's something we have in common."
GODDAMMIT.
How preposterous. She doesn't mean anything to me…
And yet, the image of her—the wide, searching eyes, the faint heat in her expression, the way her pulse raced when I touched her… it refuses to leave me. I am supposed to be detached, impartial, a man of duty and calculation. And yet… every fiber of me rebels against that vow, haunted by a bridge I should never have allowed myself to cross.
The next afternoon, the three of us—Lise, Esther, and I—stood before the long, polished practice room mirror. I tried to concentrate on mastering my turn, but my thoughts were scattered, fragments of last night's exhaustion and lingering resentment toward Esther weighing me down like invisible chains.
"Esther, I told you to stop going off on your own!" Lise scolded, her tone firm but patient, attempting to reel her volatile friend back into the choreography. Lise always tried to maintain order—both in the dance and in our tiny, uneasy group.
Esther muttered under her breath, barely audible but sharp enough to cut. "A privileged girl like her doesn't even know what hardship is." Her gaze flicked to my reflection, dripping with disdain.
I turned away from the mirror, my eleven-year-old voice tight but resolute. "I already told you, I'm not quitting!"
Esther let out a frustrated HISS, like a cornered cat. Her bitterness radiated toward me, and for a moment, I felt the sting of her resentment as if it were a tangible force pressing against my chest. But rather than faltering, I dug my heels in. Her anger, her jealousy… it only strengthened my determination. Ballet was mine. My passion. My refuge. No one, especially not her, could take it from me.
"You're doing great! Why are you so against her leaving? She told you she isn't quitting, didn't she?" Lise's voice carried a subtle edge, a quiet reprimand aimed at Esther. She was protective, yet firm, and I felt a wave of relief at having someone