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."

The next morning, the devil came to knock.

She was upstairs, hovering at the top of the landing. She had sent the maids to the kitchen. The house was quiet enough that voices carried from the study below.

Sterling had arrived at ten o'clock sharp.

She pressed her ear against the banister.

"Mr. Lloyd," Sterling's voice was smooth, professional. "The King has been reviewing the staffing for the Cabinet."

"Yes?" Kenney's voice cracked. She could imagine him leaning forward, greedy and desperate.

"He is impressed with your... dedication. The position of Undersecretary is yours. Pending a probationary period, of course."

"Oh, thank God," Kenney breathed. "Thank you. Please convey my eternal gratitude to His Majesty."

"There is one small matter," Sterling continued. "His Majesty is hosting a literary retreat at the Royal Lodge. A small, private affair. He was quite taken with the... aesthetic of the masquerade. He wishes to invite Mrs. Lloyd to attend."

Silence.

The silence stretched so long she thought the floorboards might snap. Kenney wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what "literary retreat" meant. He knew what the Royal Lodge was. It was where the King kept his mistresses.

"Imogene?" Kenney said, his voice wavering. "She... she is of delicate health. And propriety..."

"The Undersecretary position requires a man who puts the Crown above all else," Sterling said. His tone dropped the temperature in the room by ten degrees. "It is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Mr. Lloyd. For both of you."

She heard the scrape of a chair. Kenney was pacing.

"She will be honored," Kenney said finally. The words came out fast, like he wanted to get them over with. "It is an honor for the family."

She closed her eyes. Even knowing it was coming, hearing him sell her for a desk and a title felt like a physical blow to the stomach.

She stood up and walked back to her room. She sat on the sofa and picked up her embroidery hoop. Her hands were steady. Cold, but steady.

Ten minutes later, Kenney came in.

He looked flushed. Excited. But as soon as he saw her, his face crumpled into a mask of tragic despair. He deserved an award for this performance.

"Imogene," he sighed, collapsing onto the ottoman at her feet. "We are undone."

She didn't look up from her needlework. "What is it, Kenney?"

"I have made a terrible mistake at the office. A clerical error. The King... he is furious. He threatens to ruin us. To throw us into the street."

He grabbed her hands. His palms were sweaty.

"There is only one way to save us," he said, tears welling in his eyes. "He has summoned you. To the Lodge. To plead our case."

"Me?" She widened her eyes, feigning shock. "But why me?"

"Because you are charming. You are innocent. If you go, if you read to him, if you entertain him... he might forgive me. For Emily's sake, Imogene. I cannot let our daughter starve."

He was using Emily. Again.

She pulled her hands away, covering her face to hide her expression. He thought she was sobbing. She was trying not to vomit.

"Must I?" she whispered.

"Please," he begged. "I promise, if you do this, I will buy you the real sapphires. I will give you anything."

She lowered her hands. She let him see her red-rimmed eyes.

"Fine," she said. "I will go. For Emily."

Kenney exhaled, a massive rush of relief. He hugged her. She sat rigid in his arms, staring over his shoulder at the wall.

"You are a good wife," he murmured. "The best."

That night, she packed.

Sophie fluttered around the room, nervous. "Madam, the Lodge... people say things. About the King."

"Let them talk, Sophie," she said.

She wasn't packing her modest woolens. She was packing silk. She was packing the dresses that showed skin.

She reached into the false bottom of her sewing box and pulled out a book. It was a biography of Adella Lynn, unauthorized and scandalous. She had sent Sophie to a back-alley bookshop for it just last week, a piece of armor she knew she would need.

She opened it to the illustrations. Adella had a way of tilting her head. A way of holding her hands.

She stood in front of the mirror. She tilted her head. She lowered her eyelids.

She looked like a tragic heroine. She looked like a woman who needed saving.

"From today on," she whispered to the glass, "Imogene Lloyd is dead. Long live the King's nightmare."