The gown fitting turned out to be far more memorable than the duke had prepared himself for. He expected elegance, perhaps refinement… but certainly not the violent, breath stealing kind of beauty that made his heart forget how to function.
When Denova stepped out of the dressing room, he genuinely felt like something inside him had short-circuited. Her steps were slow, unsure, and the soft rustle of fabric followed her like a whispered spell. The gown, Fhiore's masterpiece did not merely fit her. It adored her.
The lines of the bodice flowed like water drawn toward the shore, smooth and unbroken. Layers of sheer fabric floated upon each other like pale clouds stacked lazily across a lavender sky. The skirt was full and voluminous, so airy it moved as though the wind itself breathed for it. And the train long, sweeping, trailing behind her like a dreaming shadow drifted with every step she took.
The sleeves draped off her shoulders, soft and ethereal, as though someone had taken strands of early morning mist and wrapped them around her arms. And then there were the colors, those impossible shades blending between wine and lilac, like the sky caught at the exact moment between dusk and dawn. Not night. Not day. Just that quiet, breath holding in between.
Denova stood there, hands nervously clasped, cheeks warming because she could feel his gaze. Oh, she definitely noticed that he was staring. Anyone would. He looked like he'd been struck by lightning.
"Your Grace… does it suit me?" she asked softly. He blinked.
"It's beautiful," he said, eyes still fixed entirely on her. Just like the way he looked at Pillyse before as if there's no difference until now. He really do adored Pillyse, even now with that different body. He just keep staring at her.
Then, after an unbearably long pause, as if the words dragged themselves out on their own.
"…You're beautiful."
Denova blushed harder, she could practically hear her heartbeat trying to escape her chest. Every time the duke spoke to her like she was the only woman in existence, she felt overwhelmed, terrified, delighted, and utterly unprepared. She liked it…maybe a little too much. Which only frustrated her more because the duke still hadn't made a single move after that kiss under the willow. It's not that she liked it, it's just that she can't forget about it.
So she smiled because what else could she do? and returned the favor.
"You look good in your suit too," she said casually.
He straightened immediately, like a soldier receiving an award, ears turning red.
Everything was calm… almost perfect… until the duke abruptly turned his head and called. "Patricia."
Patricia, the head maid, arrived with a speed that suggested she had been lurking nearby with the intensity of a general awaiting orders.
"If you don't mind? She will teach you etiquette," the duke announced, sounding far too pleased with himself.
Denova smiled politely, though her eyes screamed I am not ready for this emotionally, physically.
This is it, she thought dramatically. This is where i have to break few of my bones.
Patricia escorted her to the north wing. A place quieter than the rest of the manor, and suspiciously perfect for long, exhausting lessons.
"Sit comfortably," Patricia said, placing a stack of documents on the table. "We'll begin with the basics."
Comfortably? Denova sat like a student about to take an exam she didn't study for.
Patricia flipped open the top paper and began reading.
"Denova Ravenscroft. Twenty-two. Born August fourteenth, 1754. Daughter of Deresia and Vacerzo Ravenscroft."
She paused. "There are more personal details here, but I will not mention them."
Denova's disappointment was immediate and visible. She wanted….no, needed to know more about herself, or should she say about the past owner of this body. Everything had been happening so fast, and every fragment of her identity mattered.
Patricia wasted no time whatsoever, no warm-up, no small talk, not even a courtesy sip of tea. She dove straight into high society training with the precision of a general preparing a soldier for war.
"Walk like this," she instructed, demonstrating a glide so smooth it looked like her feet weren't touching the floor. When Denova tried to mimic it, she somehow drifted too far left and nearly collided with a vase worth more than her soul.
"Sit like that," Patricia continued, lowering herself into a chair with such elegance it could've been choreographed. Denova followed only for her back to stiffen into a shape that felt medically concerning.
"Don't gesture too wide," Patricia reminded, tapping Denova's wrist whenever her hands moved more than two inches. "You are a lady, not a bard telling a dramatic tavern story."
Denova nodded, trying her best not to look offended on behalf of all tavern bards.
Patricia clasped her hands and smiled. "And when you smile, it should be gentle, pleasant, warm."
She pointed at Denova's current expression.
"Not like that. You look like you're plotting murder."
Denova exhaled sharply through her nose. "I'm not plotting murder."
"Your eyebrows disagree."
Then came the speaking drills.
"Speak like a noble," Patricia said, enunciating every syllable with the confidence of someone who could talk a dragon into paying taxes.
"Not like someone preparing to duel over a slice of bread."
Denova's jaw dropped slightly. "I would never duel over bread," she lied.
Patricia gave her a long, slow stare that said. You absolutely would.
And thus began the relentless hours of refinement, adjustments, corrections, and Denova's internal screaming.
Denova tried, truly but exhaustion crept in fast. She missed Lowen terribly, and the duke… well, the duke kept disappearing with Kael. They were searching for something, though he never said what. He'd stop by for a few minutes, ask if she was doing well, then leave again like he was on a secret mission. It was sweet… and also infuriating.
Still, Denova learned quickly. Her past life as a model student finally paid off. Within a few days, she had mastered nearly all the etiquette expected of a noble lady. She should have been proud, but instead, she was trapped in the horrors of pre-ball preparation.
Denova became, in every possible sense, a human punching bag for beauty preparations.
It started innocently enough with a shoulder massage meant to "relax her posture." Except the woman massaging her had hands forged from the gods of warfare. Every press felt like it was coaxing ancient trauma out of her spine. The next masseuse came in with oils that smelled like crushed mint, lavender, and renewed suffering. Then another entered with hot stones, which were placed on her back so suddenly she thought she'd been ambushed.
Skincare came next. Creams, serums, toners, mysterious liquid for good skin they say, each one smelling like herbs, and flowers. One mask tingled. Another burned. A third felt like a polite slap delivered by a forest spirit.
Then came the hair treatments. They washed, rinsed, brushed, curled, combed, and braided like they were performing sacred rites. Her scalp felt both pampered and personally attacked.
Next is the nails. Her fingers were taken hostage by two very determined maids who buffed, polished, shaped, filed, and buffed again until her nails gleamed like gemstones under candlelight. She tried to admire them but was too exhausted to lift her hands.
And then…the corset.
The cursed, infamous, possibly demon forged corset.
It wrapped around her waist with deceptive gentleness, then tightened like it had a personal vendetta.
Denova gasped, grabbing the bedpost. "Are you… are you sure this is my size?"
One maid cheerfully replied, "Of course, my lady! It's supposed to hug you."
"It's eating me alive, ouch! please slow down." Denova wheezed.
Another pulled the strings again. Denova saw a brief flash of her ancestors every single one of them laughing in the afterlife. The more the maids tugged, the more she mentally insulted the duke, using every word she normally wouldn't dare say aloud.
"Selfish, tall idiot."
"Self stealing willow kissing coward."
'Walking jawline."
"Who does he think he is! Fuck this corset, my ribs are about to be broken."
The maids mistook her twitching eye for pain. In truth, she was plotting the duke's symbolic murder, lovingly, affectionately, but murder, nonetheless. And then the ultimate betrayal.
They offered her food.
One.
Single.
Piece.
Of bread.
"For aesthetic purposes, my lady," a maid said with a serene smile, as if delivering a blessing.
Denova blinked slowly, fighting the urge to flip the nearest table.
"Aesthetic purposes. Aesthetic purposes?! "
She was two seconds away from leading a revolution against the entire noble beauty system. Her suffering had reached biblical levels. Then… the door creaked open. Little Lowen peeked inside. His eyes brightened instantly when he saw her. "Sister Denova!"
Just hearing his voice made the exhaustion fall off her shoulders like loose dust. Her tension eased, the corset felt a little less suffocating, and the world suddenly became breathable again. She reached for him as much as the corset allowed, offering a smile she didn't think she still had in her.
Lowen rushed into her arms, well, into her limited range of motion and hugged her tightly.
In that moment, the massages, the herbs, the torture corset, the starvation… all of it faded.
Seeing him felt like medicine for a wound she didn't know she carried
After they ddi her make-up for what felt like an eternity though the servants insisted it had only been one hour. Denova finally opened her eyes and looked into the mirror, and froze.
In pure, unfiltered horror. Her foundation was so thick it looked like it could withstand a hurricane, a battlefield, and possibly the fall of an empire. Her skin no longer resembled skin, it resembled porcelain armor.
Her lips were crimson, aggressively crimson, like she had bitten into a beet and decided to commit to the aesthetic.
Her eyebrows… Oh heavens.
Her eyebrows were drawn. Bold, sharp, and striking enough to lead their own army.
Denova blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
"…Lovely," she managed, voice cracking like a dying violin.
The servants beamed proudly, blissfully unaware of her inner meltdown. Denova placed a gentle hand over her chest, as though steadying her soul.
"May I… prepare mentally? Alone?"
The servants, thinking she needed time to treasure her beauty, nodded earnestly and left with the delicacy of angels. The second the door clicked shut, Denova sprinted.
She flew to the bathroom with the desperation of a woman escaping fate, grabbed a cloth, and began wiping. Scrubbing, erasing, purging the catastrophe from her face.
Foundation, gone.
Crimson horror, gone.
Warrior eyebrows, gone.
Left with her bare face, she took a deep breath and started again.
Slow.
Precise.
Her own style.
A soft, natural base that looked like velvet under candlelight. A gentle contour, barely there but enough to sculpt. Her eyes, lined cleanly with a subtle smokiness. Her lips, tinted with a muted rosy shade that brought life without overwhelming.
When she finally stepped back and saw the result, she inhaled sharply.
It was simple.
It was elegant.
It looked like her, only touched by starlight.
Her skin glowed subtly, her features looked refined but not masked, and every angle of her face appeared naturally captivating, as if she had woken up dipped in moonlight.
Satisfied, she called the servants back in.
The reaction was immediate.
They gasped.
Not politely, not softly but dramatically, like noblewomen fainting in scandalous novels.
One hand flew to a chest.
Another covered a mouth.
A third whispered, "By the heavens…"
A fourth stared like Denova had just walked out of a divine painting.
Denova blinked at them, confused. "Can I… get dressed now?"
They snapped back to life like puppets pulled by strings.
"Yes, my lady!"
"Of course!"
"Right away!"
"Apologies!"
They scrambled forward, now treating her with the kind of reverence usually reserved for royalty touched by fate.
The accessories the duke had chosen, delicate gems that looked like crystallized dusk were placed gently along her neck and wrists. They shimmered faintly with each movement, as though responding to her heartbeat.
Then came the gown.
The moment they slipped it over her shoulders, it was as if the dress recognized her. The fabric draped along her body not just perfectly, but intimately fitting as though it had been designed by listening to her soul.
Soft lilac fading into wine, layers flowing like liquid twilight, a skirt that moved with the grace of drifting clouds, everything melded into her so naturally she didn't feel dressed.
She felt complete.
Radiant.
Effortlessly.
Like she had stepped into the version of herself she'd always been meant to become.
When Denova appeared at the top of the staircase, the manor seemed to inhale.
The duke looked up… and his face turned bright red, as if someone had set him on fire, but then he noticed the male servants staring and instantly snapped.
"Back to work."
Everyone scattered.
He extended his hand toward her. She placed hers gently in his, and he swallowed hard.
His eyes stayed on her, unmoving, unblinking, almost reverent.
"Your Grace…?" she whispered. "Are you alright?"
He exhaled shakily.
"You just look… too beautiful," he admitted.
Denova's heart flipped, dipped, and immediately staged a coup inside her chest.
And for the first time that day, the suffering felt worth it.