Warm light spilled softly through the curtains when Pillyse woke.
She blinked slowly, confusion tugging at her mind.
This room… wasn't hers.
The sheets were different.
The walls were different, and she shot upright.
The child.
Memory crashed into her like cold water: the filthy boy, the bruises, the limp body in her arms… the way her voice had broken begging the doctor to save him. She threw off the blanket and stumbled to her feet, her heartbeat pounding an unsteady rhythm.
"I fell asleep… then who brought me here?"
Heat rushed to her face as the answer became obvious.
The Duke… carried me? Again?
Her ears burned, but there was no time to dwell on that.
She dressed herself quickly, messily, but good enough, and hurried out of the room with a single thought (I need to see if he's okay.)
The boy was still there, still breathing, still sleeping, and still alive. The relief that washed over her nearly made her knees buckle. She approached his bedside slowly, the way someone might approach a fragile flower on the brink of breaking.
His small face, now cleaned, revealed delicate features beneath the bruises.
Golden hair peeked through the bandages.
His eyelashes trembled in sleep.
He looked so peaceful, and yet.... Pillyse's chest tightened painfully. She touched the edge of the blanket with trembling fingers.
No child should ever have to live like this.
A memory she didn't want slammed into her.
Her father's shadow looming over her classroom…
The slap that followed when she asked why he never smiled at her like he smiled at that other child.
It suffocated her.
Why was being born a crime?
Her hand shook. She swallowed hard, but the pain didn't disappear.
Voices drifted from the hallway.
"…but seriously, how did someone like her catch the Duke's attention?"
"Right? She didn't even have a proper debut!"
"And isn't she supposed to be Lady Denova? The ghost noblewoman? The one who never leaves her house?"
"Yes! That one! They say she went mad after her parents died and-"
"Silence."
The sharp hiss came from the head maid, who proceeded to scold them viciously. But the words had already entered Pillyse's ears.
She sat back slowly.
Denova Ravenscroft
Ghost.
Mentally.
Unstable.
Alone.
Her chest tightened, not from anger, but an unexpected sorrow.
Denova had locked herself away.
Not because she was strange.
But because she was hurting.
Isolated
Misunderstood.
Afraid to be seen.
Pillyse gently brushed the boy's hair.
Maybe I'm not the only one who knows what it feels like to live unloved.
Her eyes drifted to the small table beside the bed.
A pen.
A stack of papers.
And suddenly something inside her clicked. In her past life, before the pain, before the loneliness consumed her, she had always found one way to breathe...Designing.
Whenever her heart felt too heavy, she would open her notebook and draw gowns, skirts, sleeves, embroidery, silhouettes that told stories she could never say aloud. Art had been her way of screaming without making a sound.
She lifted the pen.
"If I can't choose my past… I can at least choose the gown I wear into my future."
And like that she began to draw.
Lines flowed like water.
Layers of fabric formed like clouds.
She sketched not with hands, but with emotion, longing, hope, pain, rebirth.
A voluminous skirt.
A sweeping train.
Light layers that looked like dreams.
Draped sleeves.
Colors of wine and lilac shades caught between dusk and dawn. A dress meant for someone who had suffered…but dared to shine anyway.
Elarion stepped into Pillyse's room, expecting to find her resting. She wasn't there.
His heart stopped. "…Pillyse?" Silence.
He checked the balcony, the hallway, and the bath. His pulse began hammering painfully.
"Kael! Knights search every corner of the mansion!"
Kael blinked. "My lord, perhaps"
"Now!"
Ten elite knights scattered instantly. His mind raced, What if she fainted again? What if she wandered outside? What if someone tried to…? Then he froze.
The child.
His steps thundered through the halls as he all but sprinted to the infirmary room.
He opened the door, And there she was.
Sitting by the child's bed, fully engrossed in her drawing, hair glowing in the morning light, lips pressed together in concentration. Elarion exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
She's safe.
Thank the gods, she's safe.
His shoulders slumped, all tension melting off. He watched her from the doorway for a long moment, the way she held her pen, the way her brows knitted, the way her heart was so gentle it could destroy him.
He backed away quietly and ordered a tray of breakfast prepared, then mobilized ten knights again.
"Guard her. No one disturbs her. Not a single soul."
"…Even you, Your Grace?"
Elarion glared. "I am not 'no one.'"
The knight saluted quickly.
He knocked gently. "Pillyse?"
She looked up, startled, Then embarrassed. "Oh….good morning, Elarion."
"I brought you breakfast," he said softly.
And also because I panicked like a lunatic when you weren't in your room, he did NOT say.
She stretched, revealing ink on her fingers.
He smiled. "You've been working hard."
"A little," she admitted shyly.
"What have you been doing?" She handed him the paper, and his breath.
Just.
Stopped.
This dress, this masterpiece, this dangerous, breathtaking creation.
It would make her look ethereal, irresistible, and unreachable.
Every man at that imperial ball would turn their head.
Every noble would whisper.
Every prince would stare.
His jaw tightened. I cannot let anyone else admire her.
But he couldn't say that so instead….
"It's…"
He swallowed. "It's the most beautiful gown I have ever seen."
She laughed softly. "Oh, you're exaggerating."
"No," he whispered. "I'm not."
"Would you like to walk with me in the garden?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
"You mean right now?"
"Yes."
She hesitated…..then nodded.
The garden was quiet, filled with sunlight and blooming flowers. Elarion walked beside her, hands clasped behind him, pretending to be calm, though his heart beat loud enough to shame a war drum.
"That flower," he said softly, pausing beside a delicate white camellia, symbolizes adoration… and the vow of eternal devotion."
Pillyse tilted her head. "Adoration, hm?"
She brushed the velvety petal with the tip of her finger. "It's beautiful."
He watched her for a moment too long.
"And this one?" she asked, stepping toward a cluster of purple heliotropes.
His breath hitched barely.
"That," he said, voice dropping, means devotion that never fades… and a longing that cannot be spoken aloud."
Her cheeks warmed, traitorously.
"Whoever planted these must be awfully dramatic," she murmured.
He swallowed. "…Perhaps."
She moved to the last bloom, its red petals curling like flame, a red spider lily, luminous and unsettling.
"And this?" she asked, glancing up at him.
He looked away, tension flickering across his jaw.
"In most cultures, it represents final goodbyes," he began quietly.
"But in ancient folklore… the red spider lily also means a love strong enough to defy destiny itself."
She blinked. "Defy destiny?"
He nodded once. "Some people loved so fiercely, so relentlessly, that even the heavens feared them."
Her breath caught because something in his eyes matched the flame of the flower.
"…Why," she whispered, "do you know all of this?"
He stiffened.
"Diplomatic studies?" he said far too quickly. "Symbolism, foreign customs—"
"Liar."
His ears went red instantly.
She crossed her arms. "No diplomat needs to memorize flower meanings that sound like poetry.
He coughed.
"It is… useful information."
"For courting?" she asked innocently.
He froze.
She burst into laughter, light and warm, like wind stirring petals, and he's looking at her as though she had single-handedly awakened spring, exhaled something soft and unguarded.
For the first time in a very long time, the garden, silent, forgotten, and still felt as though it finally remembered how to breathe.
The Duke's attention shifted when he noticed the butler striding toward them with his usual crisp urgency, the kind that said something important was about to be announced, and also the kind that said he hadn't slept in three days.
"Your Grace," the butler bowed, perfectly calm on the outside and probably panicking inside as usual,
"Lady Fhiore Whillor has arrived."
Pillyse blinked. "Fhiore… Whillor?"
"The Fhiore Whillor," the butler clarified, as if the name alone should cause the skies to split open.
"The designer who requires a one year reservation even to breathe the same air. She will be creating your gown, Lady Denova."
Before Pillyse could process the weight of that, Fhiore herself swept into view all elegance, silk, and sharp eyes trained like a hawk's on her newest muse.
And the moment she saw Pillyse, she simply… stopped.
Her jaw dropped a fraction just enough to betray her professionalism.
"My—" Fhiore whispered, stepping closer as though Pillyse were a masterpiece displayed in a museum.
"That hair… it catches the light like woven diamonds."
She circled slightly, stunned. "And those eyes blue like the calm before a storm."
Her gaze traveled, assessing yet undeniably enchanted. "Your frame… perfect proportions. Absolutely exquisite."
Pillyse stared back, unsure whether to thank her or hide behind a potted plant.
The Duke cleared his throat, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
"I will take my leave so Lady Fhiore may begin her work," he said, voice rich and composed.
Pillyse opened her mouth to object, but he only smiled a soft, reassuring curve of his lips.
"Don't worry," he added quietly, "she's merely taking your measurements, not your soul."
Fhiore nodded solemnly. "Only the measurements. The soul comes later during fitting."
Pillyse paled.
The Duke chuckled under his breath as he excused himself,
leaving Pillyse standing there, suddenly convinced that couture might actually be a mildly dangerous profession.