The dining room was silent, save for the scrape of silver against china.

She wore blue. A pale, powder blue morning dress that Kenney had always claimed was his favorite. It made her look docile. Harmless. Like the perfect accessory he believed her to be.

Across the table, her mother-in-law, Lady Lloyd, was inspecting a strip of bacon as if it were a personal insult.

"Burnt," she muttered, dropping the fork with a clatter. She looked at Imogene, her eyes narrowing. "You're late, Imogene. A proper mistress of the house is seated before the tea is poured. Sloth is not a virtue."

In her past life, she would have apologized. She would have stammered about the nightmare, about checking on Emily.

Today, she didn't.

She pulled out her chair and sat down. Her movements were fluid, deliberate. She didn't look at Lady Lloyd. She looked straight ahead.

"Good morning, Mother," she said. Her tone was polite, but flat.

Kenney was hidden behind his newspaper. He didn't even lower it. "Jam," he commanded, extending a hand without looking.

She stared at his hand. It was soft, manicured. The hand of a bureaucrat who had never done a day of hard labor in his life. The urge to grab the heavy jar of strawberry preserves and smash it down on his fingers was so strong her arm twitched.

She took a breath. Inhale. Exhale.

She picked up the jar and placed it gently near his fingers.

"Thank you," he mumbled, finally folding the paper. He looked at her, his gaze critical. "You look pale. Put on some rouge tonight. We can't have you looking like a corpse at the ball."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, picking up her knife. She sliced into a sausage. The serrated edge cut through the meat with a satisfying resistance.

"And wear the sapphire set," Kenney added, spreading jam on his toast. "The big one."

She paused. The sapphires. She knew for a fact they were paste. The real stones, part of her dowry from her merchant father, had been sold by Kenney months ago to cover gambling debts, replaced with glass. Her father taught her to spot a fake at ten paces. Kenney never realized. But he needed the illusion of wealth.

"Of course," she said. "Whatever you wish."

Kenney took a bite of toast, chewing thoughtfully. Then, he dropped the bait.

"Rumor has it," he said, feigning nonchalance, "that King Alaric might make an appearance tonight. Incognito, of course."

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. He was testing her. He wanted to see if she would swoon, if she would show the appropriate amount of awe.

She kept cutting her meat. Scrape. Scrape.

"The King?" she asked, keeping her voice bored. "Why would a man like that care about a party like this?"

Kenney smiled. It was a predatory smile. "Because he gets bored, my dear. And when a King gets bored, he looks for... entertainment. If we could just catch his eye, Imogene. Just for a moment. Think of what it would do for us."

"For us," she repeated.

"Your waist looks thick," Lady Lloyd interrupted, pointing a crust of bread at her. "Lace that corset tighter tonight. Don't embarrass us."

She looked from Lady Lloyd to Kenney. They were discussing her like she was a prize heifer at a county fair. Check the teeth, check the hips, polish the coat.

Kenney reached across the table and covered her hand with his. His palm was warm and slightly damp.

"Imogene," he said, his voice dripping with fake sincerity. "You are my most precious treasure. You know that, don't you? You would do anything for our future. For Emily's future."

Her stomach turned over. It was a physical lurch, a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the food.

She didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her hand over and gripped his. She squeezed his hand, her grip surprisingly firm. She let her nails press just enough to leave a faint crescent mark, a promise he wouldn't understand until it was too late.

"Anything, Kenney," she said, locking eyes with him. "For our future."

He flinched, surprised by the sharpness of her nails, but he didn't pull away. He took it as passion. The fool.

Sophie entered the room, bobbing a curtsy. "Mr. Lloyd, the dress has arrived. The one you ordered."

"Excellent." Kenney wiped his mouth. "Go try it on, Imogene. It's the latest Parisian style. Off the shoulder."

"Off the shoulder?" Lady Lloyd sniffed. "Scandalous."

"Fashionable," Kenney corrected. "Go on."

She stood up. As she walked past Kenney, a scent hit her. It was faint, clinging to his jacket. Rosewater and musk.

It wasn't her perfume.

It was hers. The mistress he kept in an apartment in Chelsea. She hadn't known about her until years later in her first life. Now, the smell was like a neon sign.

She walked out of the dining room, her spine straight.

Upstairs, the dress was laid out on the bed. It was a deep, rich velvet, the color of a bruised plum. The neckline was low. Too low. It was designed to display, not to cover.

"It's beautiful, Madam," Sophie said uncertainly.

"It's a sales pitch," she muttered.

She walked over to the sewing table and picked up a pair of shears. The cold steel felt heavy and good in her hand.

"Madam?" Sophie gasped as she approached the dress. "What are you doing?"

"Making improvements," she said.

She didn't destroy it. She wasn't a child throwing a tantrum. She was a soldier preparing her armor.

She carefully snipped away the excessive lace around the bust. She altered the line of the shoulder, making it cleaner, more severe. She remembered the portrait she had seen once in the Royal Gallery-the portrait of Adella Lynn. Adella wore her dresses simple, letting her skin do the work.

If Kenney wanted to sell her, she would make sure she fetched the highest price. But the payment wouldn't go to him.

She looked at herself in the mirror, holding the altered dress against her body.

"Sophie," she said, her voice steady. "Pack the sewing kit away. We have work to do."

The Royal Opera House was a cavern of gold leaf and red velvet, humming with the murmur of London's elite.

Outside, the snow was falling in thick, silent sheets. Inside, the air was hot, perfumed, and heavy with secrets.

She adjusted her mask. It was silver, covering the upper half of her face, leaving her mouth exposed. It felt like a shield.

Kenney gripped her elbow. His fingers were digging in nervously. "Remember," he hissed in her ear. "Smile. Look lively. And if you see anyone of importance... well, the King's men are said to favor simple, dark masks to blend in. Stay sharp."

"I thought the King was incognito," she said dryly.

"People talk, Imogene. Just listen to me."

He steered her toward the edge of the ballroom floor, positioning her like a vase he wanted to show off. The altered dress did its job. She could feel eyes sliding over her exposed shoulders, lingering on the curve of her neck.

"Stay here," Kenney said abruptly. "I see Lord Halloway. I need a word."

He abandoned her. Just like he had two years ago.

She didn't wait. As soon as his back was turned, she moved.

She didn't stay in the light. She headed for the shadows. She knew exactly where to go. The east stairwell. It was drafty, poorly lit, and led to the private boxes. It was where he went when he wanted to escape the suffocating adoration of the court.

She slipped through the heavy velvet curtains and into the quiet of the stairwell.

The noise of the party faded to a dull roar. Here, the air was cooler. A single gas lamp flickered on the wall, casting long, dancing shadows.

She waited. She counted the seconds in her head.

One. Two. Three.

Above her, a door opened. Heavy footsteps descended the stone stairs. The sound of a velvet cape dragging against the floor.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. This was it.

A figure emerged from the gloom above. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed entirely in black. He wore a simple black domino mask that did nothing to hide the intensity of his presence.

King Alaric.

He stopped when he saw her.

She stood at the turn of the staircase, the light catching the silver of her mask and the pale expanse of her throat.

He looked annoyed at first. Another sycophant trying to corner him. His jaw tightened.

"I didn't realize this stairwell was occupied," he said. His voice was deep, rougher than she remembered. It vibrated in the stone space.

She didn't curtsy. She didn't speak.

She slowly lifted her head. She turned her face just slightly to the left, angling her chin down.

It was her angle. Adella Lynn's angle. She had practiced it in the mirror until her neck cramped.

Alaric froze.

His hand, which had been reaching for the railing, stopped in mid-air. She saw his pupils dilate behind the mask. The annoyance vanished, replaced by a shock so profound it looked like pain.

He took a step down. Then another. Faster this time.

"Who are you?" he demanded. The command was there, but beneath it was a thread of desperation.

She held his gaze for one heartbeat. Two. She let him see the fear in her eyes-not feigned, but repurposed.

Then, she ran.

She gathered her skirts and bolted down the stairs, past him.

"Wait!" he shouted.

She heard him lunge, but the stairs were narrow. She was smaller, faster. She burst through the curtain back into the ballroom.

The wall of heat and noise hit her. She didn't stop. She wove through the crowd, using the bodies of dancers as a barrier.

She glanced back.

Alaric had stopped at the edge of the curtain. He couldn't chase her. Not here. Not in front of everyone. A King does not run after women in public.

He stood there, a dark monolith against the gold, his chest heaving. His eyes were scanning the crowd, frantic, searching for the silver mask.

He raised a hand and snapped his fingers.

Instantly, a man appeared at his side. Sterling. The King's shadow.

She was far enough away to be safe, but close enough to see Alaric point in her direction. She couldn't hear the words, but she could read the lips.

Find her.

A shiver went down her spine. It wasn't fear. It was the thrill of the gambler who had just bet everything on a single card.

"There you are!"

Kenney grabbed her arm, spinning her around. "I told you to stay put. I've been looking everywhere."

She looked at her husband. He was sweating. He looked small. Pathetic.

"I needed air," she lied smoothly. "It's stifling in here."

"Well, fix your hair," Kenney snapped. "I think the King is leaving early. There's a commotion near the royal box. We missed our chance."

She looked over Kenney's shoulder. Up on the balcony, Alaric was still standing there. He wasn't leaving. He was hunting.

And she was the prey.

"I don't think we missed anything, Kenney," she said softly. "I think the night is just beginning."

The carriage ride home was a torture of silence and complaints.

The wheels rattled over the cobblestones, shaking her bones. The interior smelled of Kenney's cigar smoke and his disappointment.

"A waste," Kenney muttered, staring out into the dark, snowy streets. "A complete waste of a new dress. I didn't even get near Sterling."

She leaned her head against the cold glass. The vibration of the carriage triggered a memory, sharp and violent.

Flashback.

The same carriage. Two years ago. She was crying. Shaking.

"He... he forced me, Kenney," she had sobbed, clutching her torn bodice. "The King. He pulled me into the box. I couldn't stop him."

Kenney had pulled her into his arms. He had cried with her. "I know, my love. I know. It's the Crown. We are powerless. If we fight him, he'll destroy us. He'll hurt Emily."

She had believed him. She had wiped her tears and agreed to go back to the King, to protect her husband. To protect her family.

It wasn't until she was dying, until the smoke cleared the lies from her eyes, that she understood. Kenney hadn't been helpless. He had set it up. He had left her in that stairwell on purpose.

End Flashback.

She opened her eyes. The streetlamps blurred into streaks of yellow light.

She looked at Kenney now. He wasn't crying. He was annoyed that his bait hadn't been taken.

"Kenney," she said, her voice cutting through the rattling noise. "If the King had noticed me... what would you have done?"

Kenney blinked, pulled from his sulk. "What?"

"If he wanted me. Not for conversation. But for... himself."

Kenney shifted in his seat. He adjusted his cuffs. He didn't look at her. "I would defend your honor with my life, Imogene. Of course."

Liar.

She laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound. "Of course you would."

She reached up to her neck. She felt the cool, smooth surface of the pearl necklace-the fake one.

She hooked her finger under the string.

"What's so funny?" Kenney asked, frowning.

She pulled. Hard.

The string snapped.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The fake pearls cascaded down her bodice, bouncing off the seat, rolling onto the floor of the carriage like hail.

"Imogene! What are you doing?" Kenney shouted, scrambling to catch them. "Those are heirlooms!"

"They're glass, Kenney," she said coldly. "Just glass."

She kicked a pearl with the toe of her shoe. It rolled under the seat.

When they arrived home, she didn't wait for him to help her down. She walked straight up the stairs, past the confused servants, and into the nursery.

She sat in the rocking chair next to Emily's crib. This was her fortress. Her sanctuary.

Meanwhile, across the city, the gears of fate were grinding.

In the Royal Study, a fire roared in the hearth. But the room felt cold.

Sterling stood before the desk, a file in his hand. He looked weary.

"Her name is Imogene Lloyd," Sterling said.

King Alaric sat in a high-backed leather chair, staring into the flames. He still wore his black shirt, the collar unbuttoned. He looked like a man possessed.

"Lloyd?" Alaric turned his gaze to Sterling. "The Treasury clerk? Kenney Lloyd?"

"His wife, Your Majesty."

Alaric's hand tightened on the armrest. "Wife."

The word hung in the air. It should have been a deterrent. It should have been a wall. Instead, she knew exactly what it was to him. It was a challenge. It was a transgression.

"Is she happy?" Alaric asked quietly.

"Kenney Lloyd is a man of... moderate ambition and flexible morals," Sterling said diplomatically. "He has been petitioning for the Undersecretary position for months."

Alaric laughed. It was a dark, ugly sound.

"Give it to him," Alaric said.

Sterling paused. "Sir?"

"Give him the position. Give him whatever he wants." Alaric stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the snow that covered London. "And in exchange... I want her."

"She is a married woman, Sire. This could be... complicated."

"Make it simple," Alaric commanded. "Arrange a reading. A private gathering at the Lodge. Invite her. Ensure her husband understands the terms."

"And if she refuses?"

Alaric touched the cold glass of the window. He was seeing a ghost. He was seeing Adella.

"She won't refuse," he whispered. "She ran, Sterling. But she looked back."