Marco opened the door to Room Seven with a soft knock, balancing a stack of fresh towels on one arm. The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving the air cool and damp. He expected Colden to be asleep — or at least groggy.
Instead, Colden sat upright on the edge of the bed, hair damp from a recent bath, dressed in a loose shirt and trousers. His gaze was distant, cheeks slightly flushed, as if caught in a thought too tender to speak aloud.
Marco paused, unsure.
Colden blinked, startled, then quickly straightened. "Oh—morning."
Marco nodded, keeping his voice neutral. "Just dropping off towels. Thought you might need them."
He placed them gently on the dresser, avoiding eye contact. Colden opened his mouth to say something — anything — but the words didn't come.
Marco gave a polite smile and turned to leave.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Colden stared at it for a long moment, heart thudding quietly.
The castle buzzed with motion. Maids flitted between rooms, arms full of fabric and pins, voices low but urgent. The Everhart engagement was a week away, and every corner of the manor felt like it was holding its breath.
Carmine stood in the dressing wing, half-undressed, her shift folded neatly beside her. A red dress lay across the chaise — not part of the official order, but something she'd stitched herself from leftover silk. It was bold, elegant, and hers.
She reached for it, fingers brushing the fabric.
The door slammed open.
Elaine strode in, heels clicking, eyes sharp. Her gaze swept the room, landing on Carmine — bare shoulders, flushed cheeks, and the red dress beside her.
"What is that?" Elaine demanded.
Carmine stepped back. "It's mine, my lady."
Elaine's eyes narrowed. "That color. That cut. It's wasted on you."
"It's not part of the order," Carmine said, voice steady. "It's personal."
Elaine walked forward, snatching the dress from the chaise. "Then consider it a gift. To me."
"My lady, please—"
Elaine turned, already halfway to the door. "You'll wear what you're given. This is mine now."
She left without another word, the red silk trailing behind her like a stolen flame.
Carmine stood frozen, fists clenched, heart pounding.
Colden stepped into the dining room just as Marco was wiping down the counter. The air smelled of cinnamon and fresh bread.
"Morning," Colden said, voice softer than usual.
Marco looked up. "You're up early."
"I have to get back to the castle," Colden replied. "Preparations."
Marco nodded. "Big week ahead."
Colden hesitated. "Thanks for yesterday. The tour. It meant a lot."
Marco smiled faintly. "Glad you liked it."
Their eyes met — brief, quiet, full of something unspoken.
Then Colden turned and walked into the morning light.
The castle was chaos. Florists argued over centerpieces, cooks shouted about menus, and tailors darted between rooms with measuring tapes flying.
Colden arrived breathless, dodging a footman carrying a tray of crystal goblets.
"Your Grace," someone called. "The garden arrangements—"
"Later," Colden said, brushing past.
He made it halfway to the grand staircase before a familiar voice stopped him.
"Your Highness."
Colden turned.
Francis stood near the marble column, dressed impeccably in a dark waistcoat, silver hair swept back, eyes sharp and unreadable.
"Francis," Colden said, trying to sound composed.
The butler stepped closer. "His Majesty asked me to check on you."
"I'm fine."
Francis raised an eyebrow. "You weren't in your quarters last night."
Colden swallowed. "I—needed air."
"Air," Francis repeated, voice smooth. "In town?"
Colden nodded, too quickly.
Francis tilted his head. "You're aware the engagement is days away. Your absence could be… misinterpreted."
"I wasn't avoiding anything," Colden said. "I just needed time."
Francis studied him. "Time with someone?"
Colden's breath caught.
Francis didn't press. He simply smiled — a quiet, knowing smile — and stepped back.
"Be careful, Your Grace," he said. "Not all secrets stay hidden."