Later in the evening,
The corridors felt colder than usual.
Eliza could feel the tension, like a thread stretched taut through the halls of the palace. It wasn't just the chill in the stone floors or the rustle of hurried footsteps from unseen corners. It was something else. A presence. A pressure in the air.
She sat by her window, a cooling cup of rose tea at her side, her fingers absently smoothing the silk ribbon still looped around her wrist. A red one.
Her lips still tingled from thoughts of the kiss.
She closed her eyes, her head leaning back against the velvet cushion, and let the memory take her again: the scent of jasmine and green stems in the greenhouse, the calloused warmth of his fingers brushing her waist, the slow burn of his mouth claiming hers.
She had kissed him.
But Eliza was no fool.
She had watched him too closely, listened too carefully, not to notice the cracks in his mask.
The painter, Marek, though he never gave her a name, was not what he claimed to be. There was a stillness about him that didn't belong to an artist. A precision in the way he moved, the way his eyes swept a room. Not just searching for beauty, but calculating. Measuring.
Eliza had grown up in a palace of deception. She knew when a man was hiding something.
And yet… she let him touch her.
Let him press his lips to hers beneath the blooming vines, let his fingers slide along her waist, brushing the curve of her breast like a question he didn't dare ask out loud. Her body responded with terrifying eagerness, but her mind remained alert, sharp as a blade.
She had felt the tremor in him. Not nervousness. Conflict.
As much as he burned for her, something in him held back. And something in her, some instinct long-honed from growing up with power always watching, told her why.
He wasn't just a painter. He was something else entirely. And whatever it was, it was dangerous.
But Eliza wasn't frightened. Not yet.
She was curious. Wary. Watching.
She would not stop seeking his touch, but neither would she let her guard down again.
If he was hiding something from her, she would find it.
And when she did, she would decide what to do with the truth.
She opened her eyes again.
A knock startled her.
It was Elena.
"Eliza," she said, soft and composed. "The dressmaker's returned with your final fitting. She's waiting in your chambers."
Eliza blinked. "Already? It's still two days before the ball."
"She said she'd rather catch you now. The palace will be chaos the day of."
Eliza nodded. "I'll come."
As she followed Elena down the corridor, she watched her maid's posture,rigid, like a soldier holding a line. Her face, though calm, held something tightly restrained behind the eyes.
"Elena?" Eliza asked gently. "Is everything all right?"
Elena didn't meet her gaze. "Of course, my lady."
But Eliza's stomach tightened. Something was wrong. Something unspoken. She could feel it. The way the guards had doubled at the inner gates. The way the kitchen girls whispered and quieted when she passed. Even Elena, who had always been a calm harbor in the palace's storm, now seemed… different.
As they rounded the hall near the library, Eliza paused. She caught a flicker of motion, a figure disappearing through a side door. A familiar shape. Familiar stride.
Her breath caught. Was it him?
She turned quickly, but Elena stepped in her path.
"Your fitting," she said, her voice just a shade too sharp.
Eliza blinked. "I just thought I saw..."
"It was nothing," Elena said, and her voice dropped low. "Don't draw attention to shadows, Eliza. Not now."
It was the way she said her name. Not my lady, not princess. Just Eliza, in a tone half-warning, half-pleading.
And Eliza understood, dimly.
There was danger near.