#btsfic

In a court governed by tradition and etiquette, a noble debutante and a cold, disillusioned prince become unwilling participants in a slow-burning connection shaped by tension, silence, and defiance. As tension simmers beneath polished civility, their connection begins to test the boundaries of duty, pride, and the roles they were born to play.

pairing ᯓ prince!jungkook x nobel!female reader

genre ᯓ very slow burn, enemies to lovers, angst, drama, romance

warnings/tags: emotional repression, emotional distress, power imbalance, heavy angst, emotional abuse, mutual pining, royalty, bridgerton like, court drama, explicit language, smut, social pressure, classism/social hierarchy, unhealthy coping mechanisms, slow burn frustration, miscommunication, cold and dismissive jk, the oc is very critical of herself, mentions of death, suicide thoughts, family issues, mature themes, emotional realism, mentions of ed. word count ᯓ 18k+

status ᯓ ongoing

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𓂃 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘶𝘮 ─

Traditions have always moved through our lives like a soft, unspoken current—never loud enough to demand attention, yet powerful enough to steer the course of entire destinies. 

They intrigue us precisely because they are so rarely questioned.

They draw invisible borders between what is deemed proper and what is quietly condemned as other, guiding our choices with such delicacy that we scarcely notice their hand upon our backs. 

Who first breathed life into them? 

What fears or hopes shaped their earliest forms?  

What quiet intentions allowed them to survive, unbroken, as they passed from one generation to the next?  

These questions linger unanswered, suspended somewhere between memory and myth. 

We are simply raised to accept them as immutable truths— silent pillars holding up the world we know. 

They exist not as declarations, but as assumptions. 

They seep into the past, anchor themselves in the present, and stretch their shadows far into the futures we dare to imagine 

Ever-present, ever-watching, they remain dormant in the back of our minds, waiting patiently for us to decide whether we will carry them forward… or let them dissolve into time. 

In romance, its weight is heavier. 

Here, tradition dictates the shape of affection, the choreography of gestures, the boundaries that must never be crossed too soon—or at all.  

It insists on restraint, on reverence, on a careful balance that must not be bent, tainted, or reinvented.  

It stands firm, immovable, guarding its essence with quiet stubbornness. 

Some say that love should exist without instruction—free of scripts and inherited expectations. 

A vast, open landscape where two people chart their own course, inventing their language of devotion as they go. 

And perhaps they are right. 

Romance, after all, is wide and pliable, shaped uniquely by those fortunate enough to experience it. 

But there are others—those born with nostalgia in their bones. 

Souls who long for love as it once was imagined: marriages that endure, stories repeated across generations, devotion witnessed in the lives of parents and grandparents and those who came before them. 

For them, romance is not meant to surprise or deviate. 

It is meant to be steady, straight, and unwavering. Predictable not because it lacks passion, but because it is built to last.     And you believed in that kind of love with your entire heart. 

“She’s always there, she never moves.”  

The voice cut through the air—shrill, thin, unmistakably childish—slicing the room with the same familiar sharpness it always carried. 

Despite the constant noise of the household, you had long since learned how to let it pass through you, as though it were nothing more than the distant flutter of restless birds beyond the windows. 

Perhaps it was a strength. Perhaps a flaw. It was difficult to tell.    Your hands, which had been resting idly on the windowsill, slipped down into your lap. You smoothed the fabric of your baby-blue dress with slow, absent-minded care.  

White symbols curled delicately along the length of the skirt, lending it an almost ethereal quality—as though it belonged more to a painting than to the present moment. 

A sigh escaped you, soft yet heavy with boredom.  

The gentle breath stirred your long black hair, lifting it briefly from your face and revealing the faint impatience etched into your expression as the conversation unfolded exactly as you had anticipated. 

“That is enough,” Your mother’s voice emerged firm as she straightened herself in her white-and-blue chair, lifting a bowl of rice to her lips, the movement precise, habitual.  

“You must respect your sister. She bears responsibility for you in ways you do not yet understand.”   When she finished speaking, her gaze drifted upward toward the ceiling, lingering there for a moment as though chasing an old memory.

Then her eyes returned to the daughter seated across from her.

“And you know, ‘’ she added ‘’It is expected that you show respect to those who stand above you.” 

You sensed it before it happened—the inevitable roll of your younger sister’s eyes, executed with dramatic subtlety. 

“Yes, Mother… sorry, sister.” she replied, her voice carefully measured, polished to resemble sincerity yet failing to fully embody it. 

You averted your gaze, allowing it to drift across the vast room with quiet detachment. 

Your eyes were drawn first to the blue flowers resting near the window, freshly watered, their petals still crowned with trembling droplets. 

The light caught them gently, and for a moment they shimmered as though alive—fragile jewels breathing in the morning air. 

They were exquisite. Almost unbearably so.  For a fleeting instant, you wished—truly wished—that you possessed the talent to paint. That you might sit there before an easel and a blank canvas, brush trembling in your fingers, attempting to capture that precise hue of blue, that brief communion between color and light.  

To preserve something beautiful before time, inevitably, altered it. 

But beauty, you had learned, rarely stayed. 

Your gaze moved on, settling upon the enormous table dominating the center of the room—too long, too wide, too empty. 

Chairs surrounded it in quiet submission, many of them untouched, standing like mourners frozen in time. Once, they had been filled with voices and movement, with laughter and disputes, with life.

Now they bore witness only to absence. 

And you knew it, deeply: half that table served no purpose anymore. It was occupied not by bodies, but by voids—spaces heavier than any solid presence could ever be. 

At the far end stood your father’s chair. 

It was imposing, disproportionately large, carved with authority and expectation.  

Even unoccupied, it commanded the room.  

It had always done so.  

It was the silent emblem of his role as the “head” of the family, exactly as tradition dictated. Yet such a chair carried a cruel weight of its own. 

It was not its size that unsettled you, but its emptiness.  

The way it remained untouched day after day, a constant reminder of his absence—an absence that echoed through the walls, into the quiet corners of the house, into the hearts of those who lived within it. 

Perhaps that was the true wound. 

Not that the chair existed—but that no one truly wished to fill it.  Besides it sat your mother, poised in her long white chair, her back always straight, her brows perpetually drawn together in concentration.

Her sharp eyes scanned every dish laid upon the table, every detail of the banquet, as though vigilance alone could keep misfortune at bay. 

Though your family was noble, you were not royalty. 

There were no official tasters, no rigid protocols guarding your meals.  

And yet, your mother had assumed that role herself—quietly, discreetly, as though it were a secret known only to you. 

Before anyone dared lift their chopsticks, she would taste each dish, feigning idle curiosity.  

But you had always known better. 

You always noticed. 

Next to her should have been Yuna. 

The firstborn. The one destined to lead, to be observed, to be emulated.

And for thirteen years, she had sat in that chair faithfully, fulfilling her role with a grace that now felt almost mythical. She would have continued to do so, too—had illness not claimed her with cruel haste. 

It had stolen more than her life. 

It had stolen the structure of your home. The balance. The future you had grown up believing in. 

Her chair remained. 

Small, unassuming—yet it screamed louder than any other. 

Whenever your eyes found it, your chest tightened with a pain no object should have been capable of carrying. The weight of that absence pressed down on you relentlessly, unyielding. 

And the role that should have been hers had passed to you — the second oldest. 

You remembered how your childhood was spent seated beside her, watching, learning. 

Since her passing, you had remained in the same place—only now, you sat beside a void that followed you everywhere. 

Responsibilities that never meant for you, had settled onto your shoulders with cruel inevitability, as though the world had simply decided you would bear them next. 

Across from you sat your twin brother—the heir. 

Always distant, always chasing the ghost of your father, clinging tightly to the belief that he must do better, must be more. It was a belief you shared, though it manifested differently within you. Where he chased achievement, you chased perfection. 

And then there was Yeri. 

Seated across from your mother, the youngest of you all—only eleven, too small for the weight of the world she already carried. 

Fierce in her opinions, sharp-tongued and stubborn beyond her years, yet still easily bribed with sweet treats and warm bread.

She watched everything with bright, curious eyes, absorbing more than anyone realized. 

With a quiet sigh, you rose from the sofa beside the window—the one that overlooked the vast garden and remained, unquestionably, your favorite refuge. You smoothed your garments, composed yourself, and approached the table heavy with food and heavier still with silence. 

“Aren’t you going to have breakfast?” Your mother asked, her worried eyes examining you from head to toe, as though your paleness might reveal secrets your mouth refused to share. 

“It’s the day of the ball. You should eat,” She reminded you the second she saw your hand reach for a piece of plain white bread and bringing it to your lips for a bite. 

Oh, that’s right. 

The day you would present yourself to noble society—not as a daughter, not as a sister, but as a prospect. 

The day you would be made available for marriage.  

The day flowers would arrive bearing unfamiliar intentions, and sealed letters marked with crests you did not yet recognize. 

The day courtship would begin—careful, calculated, deliberate.  

Or at least, that was how you had always imagined it. 

But there was more at stake than yourself. 

From this day onward, your reputation would no longer belong solely to you. 

Every gesture, every word, every misstep would ripple outward—for Yeri. 

She would follow you into society one day, and she would bear the consequences of your choices. 

There couldn't be room for mistakes; you had to be an example in every aspect so that your sister would one day be well perceived for a good marriage. 

You would need to become what Yuna once was. 

An example. A shield. A path made smooth. 

You wanted to be for Yeri what Yuna would have been for you had she lived—the sister who guided gently, who cleared obstacles before they could wound, who softened the sharp edges of the world. 

No matter the cost. 

“I’m fine, Mother,” you said softly, your voice sweet and reassuring—so very like you. “Please, don’t worry about me.” 

She looked unconvinced, her lips parting to insist further, when suddenly the great doors swung open.  

Your mother’s governess entered hurriedly, bowing deeply before speaking, her excitement barely contained. 

“Madam… news,” she said breathlessly. “Word is spreading throughout the entire kingdom—the prince will be attending tonight’s ball.” 

Your mother froze mid-motion, chopsticks suspended, her expression sharpening instantly. 

“The mothers are in a frenzy,” the governess continued, eyes sparkling. “Mrs. Chung’s dress shop has clients lined up from dawn.” 

You chewed slowly as you absorbed the information the governess delivered nearly out of breath. 

Your thoughts drifted backward, searching through memory for the prince’s name. You had studied the royal lineage thoroughly as a child—you were certain you knew every branch, every alliance. 

Besides, all your life—since you were old enough to understand stories—you had heard of them. Always spoken of in reverent tones, always wrapped in praise.

No one would dare utter a single unflattering word about the royal family.  

To do so would not merely be improper; it bordered on treason.

Criticism, in your kingdom, was a dangerous luxury. 

The Jeon royal family was presided over by King Jeon—beloved by the people. 

He was a man carved from authority itself. Firm, commanding, unyielding. A wise ruler whose presence inspired both loyalty and a quiet, ever-present fear of disappointing him.  

You had seen him only a handful of times in your childhood, when nobles gathered at the palace for events hosted in his honor.

Yet those brief encounters had etched themselves into your memory. 

You remembered how his eyebrow would arch almost imperceptibly whenever words unfit for palace walls reached his ears.

How his face remained unreadable when admiration was lavished upon him, as though praise were something he neither needed nor desired.

He listened more than he spoke.

You also remembered how much your father admired him. 

How evenings had been spent listening to stories of the king’s triumphs—of how he had saved the kingdom from ruin time and time again.

Whether those tales were exaggerated by devotion or grounded firmly in truth, you never questioned them. 

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t have dared. To doubt the king felt dangerously close to doubting the world as it was meant to be. 

As for Queen Jeon, very little was known. 

She rarely showed up in public, she always carried that distant aura of queens who feel more like a myth than woman.  

A queen who existed more in whispers than in sight. Still, you had heard she was kind—meticulous to a fault—someone who found comfort in order, who demanded perfection not out of cruelty, but conviction. 

And then there was the prince. 

Prince Jeon—their only child. The heir to everything. 

The prince showed up even less than the queen. 

But when he did, people always remarked upon the same details: the coldness of his expression, the persistent look of boredom in his eyes, the sense that his thoughts were perpetually elsewhere.  

As though the world before him failed to hold his attention. 

It was common knowledge that he favored hunting and combat—activities that allowed him distance from courtly obligations. 

Equally well known was how difficult it was to reach him, how nearly impossible it seemed to establish any meaningful connection. Nobles who saw him often complained of his detachment, his unwillingness to engage. 

Many claimed it was long past time for him to marry. To settle. To prepare himself for the throne waiting patiently in his future. 

And yet, an insistent rumor followed him everywhere—that the prince fled from tradition, particularly those bound to matrimony. That he resisted the very expectations his birth had imposed upon him. 

“Prince Jeon Jungkook?” your mother’s voice shot up suddenly—shrill, startled, uncannily similar to Yeri’s when she was overwhelmed. The sound made you clap your hands over your ears in shock. You were not expecting that pitch. 

You could already envision the ball turning into chaos, filled with debutantes desperate to catch a glimpse of the prince’s attention. 

Surely your mother did not want you to be one of them — yet deep down, you knew she wouldn’t mind the thought of you receiving a bit of royal attention. 

“A prince is going to the ball?!” Yeri sprang to her feet so abruptly her chair nearly toppled over. She stood atop it, bouncing with barely contained excitement. “I want to go too! Pleaaase!”  

She leapt down and raced toward your mother, clutching the satin of her dress as though her fate depended on it. 

“Yeri, darling, you’re far too young,” your mother laughed, brushing her cheeks affectionately. “You’ll stay home with your governess. Enough of this nonsense.” 

Yeri instantly released her dress, pouting dramatically before throwing herself onto the sofa as though she had just received the worst news imaginable.  

If only she knew. 

She was still blissfully unaware of how heavy the role of debutante truly was. How suffocating the expectation. How painful it could be to exist under constant scrutiny. 

Truthfully, you could hardly imagine the balls yourself. You had never attended one. Yet already, you felt the pressure coiling tight around your chest. 

The demand for perfection. 

A burden Yeri was spared—because of you. 

When her time came, she would be allowed to stumble. Allowed mistakes. That freedom was hers because you would go first. With no successful marriages preceding you, your family’s reputation rested squarely on your shoulders. 

You were meant to be the example. 

And society, was always kinder once someone else had paved the way. 

“Yes, Madam. Prince Jeon Jungkook,” the governess confirmed, nodding thoughtfully. “They say His Majesty is forcing him to attend every ball of this season until he finds a wife.” 

She paused, then leaned closer conspiratorially. 

“The Min household’s governess claims the prince rejected every princess the king proposed to him. So this…” She smiled. “This is punishment.” 

You quickly slipped the last piece of bread into your mouth, stifling the laugh that threatened to escape. 

The thought that a prince’s punishment consisted of… attending balls, surrounded by noble young women who would die for his attention — it was so absurd it nearly made you choke. 

There was something deliciously ironic about it. 

“Do you think the dress we prepared will suffice?” your mother suddenly asked, pacing the room. “Or should we choose another? Mrs. Chung still owes me favors.”

Her eyes swept over you with calculating precision, assessing, measuring—before darting back to the governess. In that moment, you felt less like a daughter and more like a porcelain figure to be displayed. 

You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but closed it in a heartbeat later. 

It wasn’t worth it. Trying to interfere with your mother’s enthusiasm would be like trying to stop the rain from falling. 

Besides, changing dresses solely to catch the attention of a prince — a prince who would most likely not even bother to notice the color of your hair, let alone the fabric of your dress— felt a little drastic. 

“I think something more extravagant would be wise,” the governess chimed in. 

In that moment, her and your mother looked like two giddy adolescents in their long gowns, standing side by side as they plotted the next great events of your life, all while you stood right there listening in silence. 

“A white dress!” the governess exclaimed. “It will highlight her purity—her innocence. And it suits her so beautifully.” 

Mother lit up. 

Her smile wasn’t one of simple approval — it was triumph. 

You could almost see the dress reflected in her eyes, already imagining you wrapped in layers of white fabric, a perfect contrast to your long black hair. 

“What a brilliant idea. We absolutely must have the whitest dress of all,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands as though thanking the heavens for a divine revelation. “Heavens, hurry — go get ready so we can head to Mrs. Chung’s shop!” 

────────────────────────────────

Mrs. Chung’s dress shop resembled a true jungle — not the calm, lush kind, but one brimming with hungry predators searching for the finest piece of meat, ready to devour it within seconds. 

The moment you crossed the doorway, you were swallowed by a vibrant, almost deafening chaos. 

Sound assaulted you from every direction, colliding into a single, overwhelming roar: shrill squeals pitched far too high, nervous giggles teetering on hysteria, muffled sobs pressed into gloved hands, and the shallow, frantic breaths of women drowning beneath clouds of expensive fragrance. 

The mothers, impeccably dressed yet on the verge of emotional collapse, moved back and forth like generals at war, armed with fans, hairpins, and deadly critiques. 

Their daughters—poor, trembling things—stood elevated atop pedestals like offerings.

Some blinked rapidly, fighting tears that threatened to ruin carefully painted faces.

Others had already surrendered, staring blankly ahead as though dissociating from the ordeal entirely. 

You were quite certain that had someone opened your bedroom window that morning—even from the farthest corner of the manor—you would have heard them.

Every absurd, melodramatic declaration now echoing through the shop rang with such theatrical exaggeration that you had once believed such lines could not possibly exist outside of satire. 

And yet— 

“This pink is most unfortunate — it makes me look as though I have just recovered from a long illness.”  “This blue is absurd. I resemble a decorative fountain, and that belt makes me look ridiculous.”  “Gold? I asked for yellow. Am I to assume precision is no longer in fashion?” 

Every shriek seemed to shake the shelves, rattle the racks, and pierce straight through the skulls of the poor seamstresses who, at this point, were surely reconsidering not only their career choices, but every life decision that had led them to this morning of stitched chaos. 

Even so, amid all the chaos, the snip of scissors cutting fabric and the whisper of measuring tapes gliding through hands were like tiny islands of sanity — fragile, almost invisible, but still present. 

Those sounds grounded you, thin threads pulling you back to reality whenever the chaos threatened to swallow you whole. 

Your mind struggled to concentrate on locating your mother in that pandemonium. 

Minutes earlier, you had seen her with the governess in the section of the white dresses — but the moment Mrs. Chung approached, both vanished like smoke. 

Had you not known your mother’s tactics so intimately, you might have believed she had been kidnapped. Swept away. Dragged into some back room where no one could hear her protests or commands. 

But you did know her. 

Which meant the far more likely victim of this so-called “kidnapping” was Mrs. Chung herself — spirited away by your mother into a strategic corner of the boutique where she could lecture, negotiate, and lament uninterrupted, free to unleash her full repertoire of persuasive theatrics. 

You exhaled slowly, letting your fingers drift along the racks until they found the only refuge of sanity in that chaos of silk and chiffon: the section of black dresses. 

The forbidden color. 

Your hands — slender, precise, searching — slid over velvet, satin, chiffon.

Black, the unspoken taboo of the evening.  Black, the opposite of everything the mothers wanted their daughters to project tonight: innocence, purity, fragility, sweetness — whatever combination of lacquered lies made a debutante appear more “desirable” on paper. 

Black did not whisper those lies.  Black told the truth. 

And perhaps that was why it was forbidden. 

Tonight, all daughters were expected to appear as youthful and innocent as humanly possible — a parade of soft colors and softer expressions, all crafted with one singular hope in mind: to catch the prince’s wandering attention. 

Purity was the theme

And desperation, though unspoken, was the undercurrent humming beneath every lace ribbon and jewel. 

But once again, your thoughts drifted — the black dresses were calling you. 

They were like fragments of the night rendered into fabric. 

Their dark folds glimmered faintly under the shop’s warm lights — a mysterious sheen, a quiet, self-assured elegance untouched by the frantic theatrics around you.

They reminded you of the night sky — the only place where you ever felt truly free, where heaviness fell away, and breathing became easy. 

And for a moment, you silently cursed whatever so-called “genius” had once declared black improper for debutante.  

Impure. 

Unfit. 

As though purity could ever be captured in a shade of white or pink. 

If purity ever had a color, you thought,  it certainly wasn’t any of the ones being worn here. 

“I should have brought condolences — I did not realize this was an occasion for mourning.” The voice cut cleanly through the chaos — not loud, but sharp, slicing through the room like a thin blade, followed by a muffled laugh.

You lifted your head just enough to meet the eyes of Dahyun — a girl who had grown up with you, and who, like you, would debut that night. 

A childhood acquaintance. 

A “friend,” in the social sense of the word. 

Society had a talent for constructing habits and demolishing them in the same breath. 

Genuine female friendships rarely survived within its walls — not when every smile could hide a blade, and every word might be dressed as a compliment while carrying a veiled competition. 

“Dahyun, darling, I found the most perfect blue dress. Come see.” The voice behind her stretched across the room with polished authority, as sharp as the woman’s gaze. 

Lady Lim — a tall, elegant, woman with a thin face shaped by discipline, and eyes so narrow and penetrating they seemed to weigh and judge the entire shop with a single glance.

Everything about her felt honed, sharpened, and precise. 

The kind of gaze that pierced straight into one’s skull if you weren't quick enough to look away.

But you didn’t look away. 

You never did. 

It was a matter of honor, of pride, of invisible survival. 

“Oh, you’re here with your friend.” Lady Lim’s laugh was soft, polished, yet tinged with that thin shard of mockery only experienced women could deliver without moving a single muscle of their face. 

A weapon hidden behind perfect lipstick. 

Deep down, you wanted to ask why. 

Why, even in those moments where you felt diminished, were you the one expected to maintain composure?  

Why did you have to remain perfect, polite, unbroken — when all you truly wanted was to roll your eyes, scoff, and demand they stop treating you as though you existed several steps beneath them? 

But you swallowed it all. You always did. 

Those thoughts were forced aside as you lowered your head in a gesture of respect — one your body performed automatically, even as your stomach twisted with a quiet humiliation you refused to show. 

Lady Lim gave acknowledged you with a brief nod. 

Just enough to indicate you were present; not nearly enough to imply you were equal. 

Then her eyes drifted downward — to your hands, to the forbidden color they hovered over.

The shift in her expression was slight, nearly imperceptible to anyone else — but you saw it.  

You always saw everything. 

You saw the corner of her lips threaten to curl into a laugh she suppressed with aristocratic discipline. And then, with chilling precision, her eyebrow rose — slow, controlled, dripping in silent irony.

The kind that didn’t need words to stab. 

Before you could gather the irritation rising in your chest, your mother’s voice swept through the shop — clear, melodic, and utterly impossible to ignore. 

The sound made you recoil, your hands releasing the dresses you'd been gripping so tightly, as though someone had pulled your shoulders back with invisible strings. You cast one last glance at the two figures before you. 

“If you excuse me, it was lovely seeing you here, Dahyun. Best of luck finding your perfect dress.” you bowed slightly, polite to the very limits of your fraying composure. 

If you hadn't turned your back so swiftly, you would have seen the expressions of blatant disdain shared between Lady Lim and her daughter as they leaned into each other whispering behind manicured hands: 

“Did you see that? Looking at black dresses, pfftt…” 

Their laughter was a soft, poisonous thing — but you didn’t hear it.  Not directly, at least.  Somehow, you still felt it. 

You quickened your steps, heading toward the place where your mother’s voice had echoed — where the shimmering satin of her dress peeked out from behind an enormous curtain of deep red velvet. 

Yet your mind kept replaying your last encounter with Dahyun, making you let out a faint, irritated huff — both at Dahyun’s unwelcome remark and at your own inability to respond the way you wanted to. 

Inside you, your sister Yuna’s words rose like a memory pulled from a calmer time:  

You need to ignore people like that. 

A lovely sentiment.  Harder to live by. 

Especially in a world where ignoring something didn’t make it disappear — it merely taught you to swallow it quietly. 

And with a deep breath — one long enough to steady your pulse, but not long enough to truly calm you — you pulled open the red curtain. 

Determined not to dwell on Dahyun’s remark or Lady Lim’s stare, you stepped into the small fitting room where your mother, the governess, and Mrs. Chung stood waiting with two long white dresses draped over their arms. 

For a moment, despite your abrupt entrance, none of them noticed you. 

And you immediately understood why. 

The floor was littered with white dresses — dozens of them — strewn about like fallen soldiers, casualties of your mother’s relentless pursuit of perfection.  

Each one had been dismissed, discarded, tossed aside without the slightest hint of remorse.  

It was clear that Mrs. Chung had shown her everything short of her shop's roof tiles, and none had passed inspection. 

Your mother had taught you the trick years ago, whispered in confidence as though sharing a state secret: 

Reject everything she brings you. Reject it loudly. Reject it dramatically. Make a face so dissatisfied she fears losing her reputation.  And then— only then — she’ll bring out the true treasures: the limited editions hidden in the back like secret jewels. 

You could almost hear your mother’s triumph simmering beneath her breath as she lifted the two remaining dresses — the survivors — and held them up in front of you like offerings to some silent deity. 

“I believe this one will suit her—no, wait. This one. Or perhaps... this one,” she muttered, switching between the dresses so quickly you felt like a mannequin being inspected for shelf placement.

The governess behind her subtly pointed at the one she favored, her gestures small but precise, like a backstage director guiding an actress. 

You stood there quietly before the mirror. 

An image of docility. 

A model debutante. 

It was easier this way — surrendering to the storm rather than attempting to fight it. 

Once your mother’s mind was made up, nothing short of royal intervention could alter it. 

“Why doesn’t the young lady try on both, and then we decide?” Mrs. Chung’s voice slipped through the tension like a gracious blade. Pratical. Sensible. 

Your mother turned at once, latching onto the idea with renewed vigor, as though it had been her own suggestion. 

“Yes! Yes, of course!” she exclaimed, and before you could blink, she placed one of the dresses into your hands — reverently, almost ceremonially, as if entrusting you with relics of divine importance. 

“These dresses are limited edition’’ Mrs. Chung added softly, her smile warm and reassuring. “I’m certain you’ll look beautiful in both.” 

Her gentleness was a small anchor amid the swirling demands of the room. 

You felt no embarrassment as you began to undress — not in front of Mrs. Chung, nor the governess, nor even your mother.  

Modesty had long since been stripped from you, replaced by routine.  

Your body had never truly been yours.  

Not when it was measured, evaluated, adjusted, perfected since childhood. 

Mrs. Chung knew every inch of you — every line of your shoulders, every shift of your growing form — from the dozens of dresses she had crafted throughout your life. 

Your mother’s governess knew even more: the freckles hidden beneath fabric, the soft curve of your back, the marks time had etched long before you had learned the meaning of scrutiny.  

She had seen you through fevers, tantrums, scraped knees, and quiet afternoons among the flowers your servant Hun planted in your garden. 

Even your own governess, Jane — well, you were fairly certain she saw your bare body more times in one day than she ever saw her own. 

It was ironic — almost comical — to think of the countless outfit changes you underwent daily. 

The first dress slid over your body with the cool ease of water gliding over stone — smooth, cold, almost startling.  

You turned toward the trio, watching them watch you.  

Their eyes narrowed, their brows furrowing in silent calculation. Artists studying an unfinished sculpture, deciding what must be added, cut, reshaped. 

You could tell from the hesitant smiles what they were thinking: it was pretty — lovely, even — but not enough.

This was the kind of reaction you expected for a Sunday dress, not a debutante ball gown. 

Without hesitation, you slipped out of it in a swift, practiced motion, letting the fabric fall into the arms of the governess as you stepped into the second dress. 

This one was far more detailed. 

You knew it from the first moment it embraced your waist — not with the clumsy squeeze of an ordinary bodice, but with the delicate precision of a French corset hidden within the lining.  

It cinched you subtly, sculpting your silhouette with the intimacy of a whispered secret. 

The fabric molded to you in a way you had never experienced, as if it had been waiting for your body specifically. 

It was long, flowing, and adorned with tiny diamonds that captured the light like tiny frozen breaths, radiating elegance and innocence. 

You realized your opinion wasn’t yours alone when you turned and heard three soft gasps burst from their lips in identical astonishment — the sound so synchronized it made you laugh to yourself in quiet satisfaction. 

“That one! That’s the one —you look absolutely radiant.'' your mother pratically glowed.

She sounded like she had just discovered her favorite sweet in the world, speaking with a delight so pure it softened her entire face.

Her long fingers traced the dress, inspecting its details up close in search of a flaw she already knew she would not find.

One glance was enough — defeat came instantly. Something crafted so beautifully could not possibly have imperfections. 

“The young lady looks like a princess,” Mrs. Chung murmured, her voice filled with gentle awe as she peered at you over the glasses eternally slipping down her nose. 

You turned again, slowly this time, feeling the full weight and movement of the skirt. It followed you like a ripple of moonlit water, each step coaxing another wave of softness from the fabric.  

You felt yourself float — a sensation so unfamiliar yet so achingly welcome. 

Yes.  A princess.  This must be what a real princess feel like. 

When you stepped closer to the mirror, your breath escaped in a soft, involuntary sigh. 

It was no secret you adored dresses — adored them with the same fervor some reserved for poetry or music — but in all your eighteen years, you had never encountered a gown quite like this. 

It was beautiful. 

Devastatingly beautiful. 

And if there was one thing that thrilled you nearly as much as watching the loveliest flowers bloom in your garden, it was discovering a dress that ensnared your heart at first sight. 

On those days, the world grew smaller, kinder. 

Your mind would wander into soft daydreams: where you would wear it, how you would sit, how you would move, how the skirt would brush against your legs, how the bodice would shape your posture into something graceful, regal. 

Your father, of course, always grumbled when the monthly invoices arrived with Ms. Chung's name printed boldly at the top. 

Endless complaints about “that absurdly large wardrobe” that grew faster than you did. 

And you — serene, unbothered, perfectly devoted to your own self-indulgent fantasy — would calmly explain that one day, that wardrobe would be an inheritance for your future daughters. 

Who knew?  

Perhaps one of them would love dresses as fiercely as you did. 

You knew it was shallow. You knew it better than anyone. 

But it was these little things — these sparkling, delicate moments — that brought you back to yourself.  

To the girl you used to be.  

To an essence carved into your soul long before life had reshaped you with loss. 

The essence you lost the day your sister died. 

As a child, you knew exactly who you were — what you loved, what you despised, and what you despised with so much passion that the entire world simply had to hear about it.

You were dramatic in your loyalties, ruthless in your dislikes.

If you hated something, the heavens knew. Loudly. 

And you thanked god — truly, thanked every star in the sky — that you had not been born the eldest daughter. 

Worries, expectations, traditions — all those words once felt like the bars of a gilded cage built by someone else’s hands. You couldn’t bear them. 

You didn’t even wanted to think about debuting. You spent hours complaining to Yuna, how it felt like a marketplace of young women being evaluated like livestock — girls dressed like delicate packages waiting to be purchased by whichever nobleman made the highest offer. 

Yuna, horrified, would cut you off every time, silencing you with a stern look — a look that protected not only propriety, but the dangerous truth she was forced to swallow. 

As time stretched onward, you began to understand her. 

Deep down, she agreed with every word you said.  She simply wasn’t allowed to voice it.  Not as the firstborn.  Not with the entire weight of tradition pressing upon her shoulders. 

And now — how fate twisted things. How cruel, how ironic, how painfully poetic its sense of humor could be. 

Your life had changed so drastically that it no longer felt written by your own hands at all.  It felt edited. Revised. Scraped clean and rewritten by someone else — by absence, by duty, by grief. 

The traditions you once despised no longer lived in the chamber of hatred within you. 

You had learned to respect them. To follow them. At times, to cling to them with almost blind devotion. 

You liked to believe that this respect came from maturity — from growth, from acceptance, from understanding the weight of responsibility. 

But you knew the truth. You knew it as clearly as you recognized your own reflection. 

Every tradition fulfilled was, to you, a smile from Yuna. 

And you lived to collect them — even if only in memory.

────────────────────────────────

When you arrived at your residence, the commotion struck you like a blow to the stomach.  For a brief, suspended moment, even the air seemed to freeze in place. 

Your gaze was immediately drawn to the carriage at the entrance — your father’s carriage. Imposing. Heavy. A presence that altered the rhythm of the world around it. 

Servants moved with tense precision, their motions stiff, almost ceremonial, as though the act of tending to it required a level of reverence no one dared question. 

The brown horse — majestic in stature yet visibly drained — stood quietly, chewing a carrot offered by a servant. 

The man stroked the animal’s muzzle with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the suffocating weight of the visit. 

And it struck you, as it always did: whenever that carriage was near, the garden seemed to shrink. The trees withered just slightly. The flowers bowed their heads.  As though nature itself recoiled from the weight of the man who would soon step through your doors. 

A short, restrained throat-clearing made you turn. 

Your mother, rigid as a porcelain statue on the verge of cracking, adjusted her dress with the help of the governess.

Minutes before, she had been radiant and energetic; now her expression was severe, almost somber — as if the mere sight of the carriage had drained every trace of joy from her. 

“We must go. Your father is waiting for us,”she said, her voice firm, though her hands betrayed her, trembling faintly against the delicate fabric of her gown. 

You wished you could say you were excited to see him after so long, but that would have been a lie — and your stomach twisted at the very thought of lying — especially the kind of lies spun solely to keep the illusion of a flawless family intact. 

Deep down, you knew he would come today. 

It was inevitable. 

For the debutante ball, it was crucial that noble families present themselves as united, solid, and unbreakable. 

A single absent parent would cause whispers. Two would spark scandal. And a scandal or whispers were something your father would never allow to tarnish the family name.

You wondered whether your brother had arrived with him. 

Being a man was an unquestionable privilege in your world: he could choose when to marry, whom to marry, and under what circumstances.   He had the freedom to refuse, delay, select, and shape his destiny — a luxury that, for women, was little more than a distant, nearly a forbidden dream. 

You had always envied him for this effortless freedom — a freedom he carried without ever acknowledging its weight. 

He walked through life unburdened, while you carried responsibilities so heavy they pressed into your bones. His obligations were few: marry, inherit everything, and continue the lineage. 

All of that… only after your father died. 

The path to the front door seemed to stretch farther than usual, as if the house itself wished to delay the moment of confrontation. Every step dragged a thread of tension behind it, weaving a slow, suffocating web around your chest. 

Each breath weighed in your chest; every movement felt too deliberate, almost choreographed by a silent, unwavering dread. 

When you finally reached the main entrance, the sound of the doors beginning to open echoed like a contained thunder.

That sound alone led you to straighten your back, but it was the announcement from the servant — firm, clear, and full of ceremony — that made you snap your posture even straighter if that was even possible. 

You set your spine as if you were once again in Madame Beaux’s class, that severe woman who believed elegance was born within suffering. 

You remembered her classes vividly — painfully: 

Balancing books on your head until your neck burned. Her cane tapping your shoulders back into alignment. Walking in a perfectly straight line, one foot before the other, as though you were a living statue.

You remembered how the pain settled days later, slow and deep, like roots embedding in your spine — and how now, instinctively, you adopted that same impeccable, almost rigid carriage. 

The long corridor felt colder than usual. 

The air could cut your skin. 

Even though your dress had sleeves reaching all the way to your wrists, they seemed nothing more than decoration — not nearly enough to shield you from the cold sighs that slid through the corridor like invisible blades.

Each one brushed your skin and made a quiet shiver ripple down your spine, delicate but undeniable. 

The enormous portraits that lined at the corridor walls seemed to tremble, even if only slightly; 

The long hallway rug, which earlier had been flawlessly aligned, now lay crooked, edges skewed, as though someone had stomped across it without the slightest regard for what lay beneath their feet. 

You didn’t have to guess who had caused it.  You already knew. 

Your father’s voice reached you before you even saw the doorway — deep, projecting, filling the corridors with its commanding resonance.  

It reverberated through the wooden walls, through the very bones of the house, through the bodies of those who stood in its path. 

It was less a voice and more a presence — something that took up space, pushing everything else aside. 

Before you advanced forward, you instinctively nudged the edge of the rug into alignment with the tip of your high heel. 

A small gesture. 

Silent. 

But entirely, unmistakably you. 

In your world, nothing would be out of place — not even here, in a space that had never truly belonged to you. 

Your governess noticed you before you even noticed yourself.  

It had always been that way. 

She knew the tiny tremors that ran up your spine, the way your gaze flickered when something unsettled you, the almost-invisible gestures of your hands when you tried to impose order on your surroundings — or on what you felt. 

You had grown up under her watchful eyes.  Words were unnecessary. 

When she saw the tension rising within you, shaping itself in the rigid line of your shoulders, she inclined her head in the smallest, most controlled motion. The gesture of someone trained for decades to communicate in silence. 

Discreet. Elegant. Years of rehearsal. 

A servant, attuned to her unspoken command, stepped forward immediately. 

Within seconds, the scene that had made you shrink inward began to change. 

Your father’s long coat — thrown carelessly over the chair by the door, heavy and still smelling of cold wind and absence— was retrieved and folded with meticulous care, as though it deserved the respect it had been denied upon its arrival. 

His shoes, discarded in the entryway with dried earth crusted into their soles, were lifted away before the dirt had a chance to spread further across the pale flooring. 

The rug was straightened.  Order quietly restored where his presence had disrupted it. 

For years you tried to convince yourself these were nothing but common slips. 

A lapse in attention. 

A thoughtless habit, 

A simple domestic oversight. 

But you knew better. 

Deep down — and for far longer than you cared to admit — you understood exactly what they were. 

Not accidents.  Not carelessness.  Not the messiness of someone in a hurry. 

Every item out of place, every footprint of mud on the pale runner, every door left half-open behind him were signs. 

Calculated gestures. 

Deliberate neglect. 

A quiet way to assert dominion over the house and all who lived in it, a reminder that nothing escaped his shadow. 

Power displayed in detail.  And power shown like that becomes even more suffocating. 

“Lord Kim.” Your mother’s governess was the first to break the silence as the three of you entered the room.  She bowed deeply, her face low, her body perfectly disciplined. Yet you could have sworn you heard the faintest breath of dissatisfaction escape her — a sigh swallowed before it could take shape — even as her gaze remained dutifully fixed on the floor. 

Your gaze locked onto a single point in the room—the chair that had always belonged to your brother. 

It was no longer empty. 

He was there. 

He sat as though the chair had been carved for him alone, as though he had finally grown into the space destiny had prepared for him.  

His posture was immaculate, back perfectly straight, shoulders squared with a deliberate calmness that emanated quiet authority.  

There was nothing forced about it; it felt earned, as natural as breathing. 

A teacup rested lightly between his fingers — not held, but inhabited, as though it were an extension of him.  

The gesture, poised and elegant, clashed painfully with the sensation swelling inside your chest: the sense that you didn’t belong there at all, that you were an intruder in your own home. 

He was different.  Older.  Taller — you could tell even from the way he sat, as if the chair was suddenly too small for him.

His hair, once unruly and boyish, now fell with immaculate precision, each strand arranged almost obsessive discipline. 

And then, you felt it. 

The weight of his gaze.  Not a casual glance. 

A measured look.  Quiet.  Deliberate. 

A gaze that seemed to reach into you, slipping beneath fabric, posture, and composure. It searched you, probed you, as though trying to understand not just who you had become — but what had shaped you while he was gone. 

He studied you the way one evaluates something fragile, precious, and unpredictable all at once — an artifact easily damaged but impossible to ignore. 

And it struck you that you were doing the same.  Examining him silently, but precisely.  Trying to reconcile the boy you remembered with the man now before you. 

Then the inevitable happened. 

Your attention — unwilling, reluctant — shifted to your father. 

You did not want to bow.  You never had. 

Every instinct in you screamed for stillness, for defiance, for the smallest refusal.  But you bowed anyway. 

“Father.” The word left your mouth like a breath caught between respect and resistance, barely audible under the oppressive quiet that followed. 

Your body inclined with practiced grace, mirroring your mother’s gesture. Your long black hair slipped over your shoulders, veiling part of your face — a welcome shield for the expression you struggled to suppress.

Behind your lowered gaze, you bit your lip, punishing yourself for the rebellious thoughts pulsing beneath your ribs. 

Your father’s gaze cut through you. 

It traveled slowly —  your shoes,  your dress,  your posture,  your hands,  your silence. 

He measured you with the precision of a surgeon assessing a specimen, unblinking and cold.  

The room seemed to shrink with every second he did not speak, the silence thickening until it felt almost solid, pressing against your lungs, your spine, your very heartbeat. 

You heard your heart pounding in your ears — slow, heavy, matching the dread saturating the air. 

“Hmph…”  

A simple sound.  Dry. Short. Dismissive. 

Recognition, perhaps.  Condemnation, absolutely. 

A sound that made even your own shadow feel too bold to exist. 

And in an instant — absurdly, bitterly — you almost laughed inside at how effortlessly he made you feel smaller than Lady Lim ever had. He only needed to breathe to diminish you. 

“Our daughter has already chosen her gown for tonight’s ball, my lord,” your mother said as she stepped forward. The wooden floor creaked beneath her feet — a timid protest, a warning, a reminder of her own tension. 

“I believe she is ready to be presented to society this evening.'' she paused, turning her head just enough to offer you a small smile.

It was maternal, yes, but also restrained — measured, as if she too were trying to gauge whether her words would land safely in this volatile room.

It felt like she was handing you the thinnest possible lifeline, fragile, and almost translucent. 

Your father looked at you again. A straight mouth, rigid brows — an indecipherable mask. 

His silence was heavier than any scolding. It dripped with unspoken expectations; a demand wrapped in stillness. 

And you could not tell — not then, perhaps not ever — whether your presence pleased him… or irritated him beyond expression. 

“I can see you’ve grown,” he said at last, his hands clasped behind his back in a stance that seemed carved from stone. His voice carried no warmth — only weight, only edge. “But growing is not enough. Have you been attending all your etiquette lessons?” 

The words did not simply reach your ears; they touched your skin.  They seeped in slowly, like cold water poured into your bones, observing your breath, your posture, the faint movements beneath your eyelids. 

It was not a question.  It was a silent test. 

“Yes, Father.” your voice was steady — miraculously — though every muscle in your body felt coiled like a drawn bow. 

Your thoughts, however, spiraled in every direction.  A frantic tangle.  A wild urge to run, to scream, to laugh, to cry — all suppressed beneath the porcelain mask you had perfected over the years. 

 “Madame Beaux makes the lessons quite enjoyable with her teaching methods. She demands perfection, but she is fair.”You forced a smile that hovered on your lips like a painted expression — delicate, hollow, held in place by invisible strings that tugged every time you tried to move. 

The air in the room thickened, heavy enough to cling to your throat.  Every shift in posture, every breath, every blink seemed amplified — as if the walls themselves were watching. 

Silence sliced through the space like thin, deliberate blades. 

Your father’s gaze.  Your brother’s gaze.   Both circled you like twin satellites, attentive to every micro-gesture — the angle of your chin, the way your fingers rested against your skirt, the slight lift of your shoulders, the rhythm of each breath. 

You felt as though you were balancing on an invisible tightrope stretched across the room.  

One misplaced word, one misaligned smile, one tremble in your fingers, and the entire fragile structure of your debut — of your identity — might shatter. 

You stood before an invisible judge.  Not one, but several.  Judging not simply whether you were ready for society… but whether you belonged in your own family at all. 

Your heart beat in quiet, controlled thuds — as though trying to match the pace of the room’s oppressive rhythm.

“You understand, young lady, that from the moment you are presented to society, perfection will be expected of you…”he murmured slowly, as though each word were too heavy to be released all at once. “The image we project must be impeccable. Every gesture, every choice must reflect not only our house, but the respect it commands.”

You swallowed hard. 

If it weren’t for the years of discipline and etiquette lessons, you would have trembled. 

You would have shrunk.  Cried.  Collapsed. 

A childish impulse clawed at your chest — to fall to your knees, hide in your mother’s lap, beg for a story, for reassurance, for a corner of safety untouched by scrutiny or expectation. 

You hated unpredictability. You hated uncertainty. You hated chaos invading the order you so painstakingly created in your mind. Life, in your eyes, should always have a script. 

“She has always been diligent, Father, ‘’ your brother said suddenly. 

It was the first time he had spoken since you entered, yet he did not rise or shift. His posture remained regal, his voice composed. His eyes, however, scanned you — every detail, every flicker — as though mapping the entire scene in real time. 

“I’m certain she understands the weight of the occasion and will know how to conduct herself as expected.” 

Your father turned to you again.  His stare lingered. 

An unreadable expression. A cold patience belonging to someone studying an unfinished sculpture — waiting to see whether it would take the shape he desired, or crack beneath the pressure. 

“Diligence is only the beginning,” he said. “The true measure lies in one’s ability to maintain grace and composure under scrutiny. It is a balance between presence and modesty. Without it, even the finest attire is rendered meaningless.” 

Your stomach tightened.  Not enough to show — never enough to show — but enough to ring inside you like a distant bell. Still, you inclined your head. Polite. Controlled. Flawless. 

“I understand, Father,” you spoke in a restrained voice — steady, soft, and obedient.. “I will do my best to honor our family and the occasion.”  Your mother made a subtle gesture with her hand, as though smoothing the edges of what had just been said without lessening its weight. “You have always known how to carry yourself with grace, my dear. I am sure you will maintain that tonight.” 

Your brother’s lips curved into the faintest smile — refined, almost teasing, yet unmistakably protective in its own distant way.  

“Do not underestimate her, Father. She learns quickly, as always.” 

Your father remained silent for a long moment — long enough that the air seemed to shrink around you, tightening like an invisible band across your chest. His stare was not empty; it was calculating, dissecting, measuring possibilities and outcomes as though even his approval required strategic precision. 

Only after what felt like an entire minute compressed into a single breath did he give the slightest nod — a gesture so restrained it could have been mistaken for a twitch to anyone who didn’t know him. 

“So be it,” he said. “But remember: every gesture, every word, will be observed. No detail will be forgotten.” 

The words settled over you like frost. 

You weren’t sure what you felt — relief, fear, frustration — they blurred together into something colder, sharper, carving a hollow space beneath your ribs. Emotion dissolved into a numb ache that pulsed through your chest like a second heartbeat, one made of pressure rather than life. 

Your stomach twisted tightly, as if knotting itself into a painful braid. Nausea rose slowly, threatened to sit behind your tongue; anxiety pressed against your lungs, stretching them thin, making every breath shallow and careful. 

You had read about sensations like this in books — heroines describing agony in poetic metaphors, characters overwhelmed by emotion — but reading about it was nothing like this. This was real.  Cold.  Tangible.  Like stepping into water so icy it stripped away your breath and thoughts in the same instant. 

“Very well. I will instruct the servants to prepare the carriage. I imagine you will need time to ready yourselves; do not take long. We do not wish to delay anyone.”  

His voice cut through the room like a blade — rigid, metallic, merciless. And his eyes, before turning away, swept over you once more, lingering just long enough to etch your posture into his memory. A final inspection. A final warning. 

Then he moved. 

Your brother rose next — but not abruptly.

Every movement was practiced, a subtle choreography he had been trained for since childhood. He placed his teacup onto the table with almost ceremonial care, not a single drop spilling. Yet beneath that grace was a quiet urgency, a tightening beneath his shoulders, a faint quickness to his breath — all signs of what your father’s presence always drew out of him. 

Before crossing the room, he paused beside you and your mother. 

He bowed. 

Not deeply, not formally — but elegantly, with the kind of effortless refinement that communicated more than words ever could. Respect, affection, acknowledgment — all carried in a gesture so slight someone else might have missed it. 

But you did not miss it. 

For a moment, everything else dissolved — your father’s chilling voice, the looming pressure of expectations, the suffocating cold in the corridor, even the ache twisting inside your stomach. 

For the first time that day, something warm flickered in your chest. 

And then — softly, quietly — your brother leaned just close enough for only you to hear: 

“You’ve grown,”  

Barely a whisper.  Threaded with delicate irony, a hint of pride, and something unspoken but gentle. 

A glimmer passed through his eyes — fleeting, almost fragile. Approval, perhaps. Or simply acknowledgment that he, too, recognized how much the world had changed since he last saw you. 

You didn’t have time to respond. 

He turned and followed your father down the corridor, his footsteps a steady rhythm on the polished wooden floor — dignified, poised, confident, but carrying an undercurrent of urgency that only family would notice. 

And as his silhouette disappeared behind the curve of the hall, you realized your heart felt ever so slightly lighter. Your breath came easier. And for the first time that day, you allowed yourself a genuine smile — small, ephemeral, but real — to soften the edges of your carefully composed face. 

────────────────────────────────

You were seated before your white vanity, its polished surface reflecting not only your face but the rising flush creeping up your neck.  

The cushion beneath you was cold — almost startlingly so — a stark contrast to the warmth spreading along your skin, as though anticipation alone was capable of heating you from the inside out. 

Your hair, tightly pulled and tugged against your scalp, no longer felt like it belonged to you. 

Pinned into place with near-surgical precision, it had taken on a life of its own — rigid, disciplined, yet defiant in the few rebellious strands that kept slipping free, as if trying to remind the world that not everything could be controlled. 

Three pairs of hands moved around you, weaving and twisting with focused intensity.  Every few seconds, you felt a new pull, a new twist, a new pin securing another piece of you into the immaculate silhouette demanded by the night. 

The bun — chosen after your mother’s meticulous agreement with the governess — had to be perfect.  Elegant.  Regal.  Rigid in its structure yet softened by carefully placed curls that framed your face and exposed your slender neck, where the diamond necklace — newly delivered from your father’s distant travels — gleamed with almost aggressive brilliance under the golden candlelight. 

The maids’ hands no longer hurt you as they worked.  

You had grown accustomed to the tugging, the coldness of metal hairpins against your scalp, the sudden pricks of tension. Still, they asked, their voices soft and cautious: 

“Am I hurting you, miss?” 

Each time, you felt that familiar duality rise within you — a flicker of impatience, a wave of tenderness.  You had always had too much hair; and it must have been an exhausting storm for them to battle.  And yet, they battled it with the devotion of warriors. 

Behind you, Jane’s reflection hovered in the mirror.  Your governess — but more than that.  The guardian of your fears. 

She ran her delicate fingers over the dress hanging beside the vanity, smoothing every fold as though handling relics from a sacred ceremony. Her eyes sparkled, catching the chandelier’s glow, shimmering with the same wonder that had followed her since childhood. 

She was nearly your age, older just a few years, yet carried a maturity that came from growing beside you. You remembered the day you met her, how the title “governess” had sounded far too grand for someone so young. But over the years, the word had evolved into something else entirely. 

Confidante.  Friend.  Silent witness to your joys, despairs, and secrets. 

It was to her — always her — that you entrusted every fear you dared not speak aloud. 

It was to her that you confided every uncertainty and fear; she knew everything you kept only for yourself. 

“You’ll look so beautiful in this dress, miss! You’ll be the most stunning young lady at the ball!” Jane chirped, adjusting the accessories with a meticulousness only she possessed.  

The earrings — deceptively heavy despite their delicate size — sparkled with every slight movement, the diamond necklace captured the light like crystallized starlight. 

“Do you think so, Jane?” The question slipped out trembling, the uncertainty you tried so hard to hide twisting its way into your voice. 

It was your weakest moment —  and she always saw it. 

In the mirror, you watched yourself as though you were watching a stranger.  A girl sculpted into perfection.  A figure constructed by hands and expectations. 

The bun slowly took its final shape, curls arranged into the softest illusion of effortlessness.  

One maid cupped a handful of small pearls, each one shimmering gently under the chandelier’s warm glow, waiting to be placed like tiny blessings scattered through your hair. 

“I’m certain of it,” Jane answered, her voice steady as a vow. 

She stepped closer, her expression soft but unwavering.  The certainty in her eyes seemed capable of filling every empty, fragile corner inside your chest. 

With graceful movements, she arranged your makeup tools, setting each brush and bottle in precise alignment on the vanity. 

Her motions resembled a ritual — slow, reverent, almost spiritual — as if she believed even the cosmetics possessed souls of their own. 

Your thoughts drifted.  What would you be without Jane?  Without her watchful gaze, her small comforting gestures, her steady presence anchoring you when the world — and your own mind — threatened to tilt off balance? 

For every important social event, she was the one who guided your appearance. Tonight was no different. 

In fact, tonight it mattered more than ever. 

Your makeup, of course, was her handiwork. 

It was subtle, with a delicate radiance that caught the light as if each particle reflected tiny pink diamonds. Your cheeks carried a faint flush, nearly imperceptible, as though the emotion of the night had settled upon them, warming your skin. 

Your eyes — already naturally large and expressive — seemed to gain extra depth: on the lids, a light brown shade softly blended into shadows and highlights that made your gaze shimmer, hypnotizing anyone who dared look closely. 

Your lips, touched with a delicate reddish rose, stood out effortlessly, as if every movement of your mouth were lit by gentle flames, drawing attention with grace and without excess. 

Every detail was orchestrated to exalt not only your beauty, but the harmony of your face, hair, and dress — a work of silent precision, almost magical. 

“I believe, that the prince may find it difficult to remember anyone else once he sees you.” Jane said, her lips curving into a nearly childish smile as she helped the maids perfect the final loose curls, placing them carefully as if shaping your destiny strand by strand. 

“Jane!” Your cheeks flared immediately, a flower blooming under sunlight, heat rushing all the way to your ears. 

She laughed — a bright, sincere sound that cut through the tension like a warm breeze. 

The maids, still working, smiled discreetly as they continued arranging the curls with delicate fingers.  

For a brief, precious moment, the weight of the night disappeared.  

There were only soft giggles, gentle hands, and the comfort of being surrounded by women who cared for you. 

You wished — truly wished — that Jane could stand at your side tonight. Her presence could loosen the knot in your chest, silence the whirlwind of worries that deepened with each passing hour. 

But you already knew the other side of that wish — sharp and unavoidable. 

If she accompanied you, if she stood close, if she whispered jokes about overly extravagant dresses or jewels too large for any sane neck… you might lose yourself to her ease, to her presence, to the lightness she brought out in you effortlessly. 

And while you hid in that fragile refuge, laughing in corners and losing track of time, your future — the one built by every carefully measured gesture, every scrutinized expression, every calculated breath — might slip through your fingers entirely. 

It was a subtle war, quiet yet relentless:  desire against duty, heart against expectation, longing against perfection. 

“It’s ready. You may add the pearls to the young lady’s hair,” One of the maids announced, her voice respectful, almost ceremonious. 

Your gaze returned to the vanity mirror, following their movements with a kind of reverent urgency. 

Each pearl was placed with precision, woven into the twists of your bun, visible only to those close enough to catch their delicate gleam. Even so small, they reflected the room’s light like tiny stars — and you could swear they might steal the breath of anyone with an eye for detail. 

Their hands moved like dancers — seamless, practiced, in perfect harmony with one another. Each curl, each strand, each jewel found its rightful place until the final result looked as though it had always been meant to be that way. 

And in that moment, a quiet, almost protective pride swelled inside you. 

This was your world.  Your sanctuary of details.  Your temple of control. 

In you, every minor imperfection became an obsession; every adjustment, a victory over the chaos that always threatened to intrude. 

And there, before the mirror, wrapped in the stillness of your room, you were the very embodiment of calculated perfection — a living artwork about to be presented to the world. 

Once the final strand was pinned and the pearls shimmered softly under the lamplight, you stepped away from the vanity and moved toward the center of the room. 

There it was.  The white dress.  Carefully preserved.  Softly glowing.  As if pulsing with your anticipation. 

You slipped your arms into the delicate sleeves that settled against your shoulders, feeling the cool, expensive fabric glide over the rest of your skin with a softness that made your breath catch.

A wave of excitement surged from your fingertips all the way to your heart, blooming into something luminous inside your chest. 

Then you looked into the mirror. 

The reflection in the mirror was not just a reflection — it was a complete vision of yourself, perfectly composed, harmonious in every detail, from the flawless hairstyle to the tiny jewels sparkling with their own gentle light. 

And for the first time that day, your smile rose without effort.  No control.  No pretense.  Just wonder. 

It brightened your entire face, lighting everything from the inside out. 

“You look perfect, miss.” 

The gentle voice of one of the maids behind you broke the fragile silence — a silence filled with the humming warmth of candles and the faint scent of fresh powder.  

Her tone held no flattery, no forced politeness; it was pure admiration, honest and bright. 

And you couldn’t contain yourself. 

Your smile widened — blooming across your face with the innocent wonder of a child discovering her own enchanted reflection for the very first time.  It burst through your controlled composure, softening every feature. 

You turned toward the maids, their eyes attentive and shimmering with pride, and your joy seemed to seep into the walls themselves.  

The chandelier above you glowed a little brighter, as if responding to the shift in the room — as though it had finally found the moment it was meant to illuminate. 

“Truly — if not a prince, then surely a duke will fall for you tonight,” Jane said softly, her voice almost a whisper yet brimming with quiet joy. 

She leaned in closer, inspecting each curve of your dress, each pearl arranged in your hair, each tiny shimmer of makeup.

Her gaze held the tenderness of someone who had watched you grow into the image now standing before her. 

And in your stomach, you felt it — that flutter.  Anxiety intertwined with exhilaration, the two dancing together in a nervous waltz. 

A duke… 

It was a dream you could almost touch, more attainable than a fairy-tale prince. 

Someone attainable.  Someone who might see you — truly see you — beneath the layers of chiffon, etiquette, and expectation. 

Jane stepped back gently, careful not to disturb even a thread of fabric, and moved towards the door. When she opened it, the softer lighting of your room spilled into the brighter hallway beyond, creating a luminous frame around your silhouette in the mirror. 

“Now, you must go quickly. Your family is already waiting for you miss,” she said. 

And in that instant, reality fell over you like a heavy curtain. 

The small universe you had built in that room — the warmth, the softness, the gentle laughter, the careful hands sculpting you into perfection — evaporated like mist. What remained was the cold edge of reality pressing down upon you. 

A weight.  A presence.  A curtain dropping between who you were here and who you must be out there. 

Your heart began to race, pounding a frantic rhythm beneath your ribs.  Your wrists burned slightly, as if the pulse beneath your skin was too strong for your veins.  The air thickened, grew heavy, pressing against your lungs with a suffocating insistence. 

The ball. 

The word echoed within your chest like a distant drum — steady, inevitable, approaching. 

Every detail would matter.  Every gesture would be judged.  Every gaze you met would linger on you, searching for virtue, for beauty, for fault. 

Tonight, you were not simply entering a ballroom.  You were stepping into a battlefield of eyes and whispers.  A marketplace of glances and unspoken bargains.  A world where your identity would be weighed, measured, and perhaps decided before you even uttered your first word. 

And yet, beneath the fear, something else stirred —  a spark of daring,  of possibility,  of the world you had imagined only in secret. 

A duke… 

With one final breath, fragile and hopeful, you stepped toward the doorway — toward the life waiting to judge you. 

────────────────────────────────

You couldn’t bring yourself to remember how the journey from your home to the royal palace had unfolded.  

Your memories had frayed, unraveling into scattered pieces — a torn tapestry where only a few luminous threads still held their shape. 

You remembered the sharp blow to your chest as you descended the steps that echoed like a silent tribunal; you remembered the hall of your home, vast as a temple, where your family awaited you, aligned like sacred statues. 

Your father’s gaze had swept over you like that of a general inspecting a lone soldier before battle. 

The nod he gave — barely perceptible — carried the weight of an entire speech. 

Your mother, hands clasped tightly before her heart, held a universe behind her tense, proud smile. 

It was the expression of a woman who believed she was witnessing a miracle in the shape of her own daughter, and dared not breathe lest the moment shatter. 

Even your brother, always composed, always reserved, failed to contain the small smile that curled at the corner of his lips — a smile subtler than moonlight, yet louder than anything he could have said. 

And your little sister, Yeri — sweet, irrepressible Yeri — proclaimed with absolute conviction, to this world and any other listening, that you looked exactly like a princess. 

Then there was the carriage. 

Heavy with the scent of polished centuries-old wood, with a faint metallic tang from the lanterns affixed to its sides, with the creak of wheels that sounded as though they held the night itself together. When it set off, it felt as though the world shifted beneath you. 

For you, the journey was a leap.  

A blink. 

A breath caught in your throat. 

As if, from the moment you stepped onto the stone pavement before your house, time had decided to sprint ahead and leave you behind. 

Too fast.  

Too merciless. 

But perhaps the fault did not lie with time at all. 

Perhaps it lay with your own hands. 

Hidden beneath white gloves, they trembled as if desperate to escape your body, revealing the storm of thoughts crashing violently inside your mind. 

With every jolt of the carriage came another doubt.  Another fear.  Another whisper tightening around your chest. 

You’re not ready.  Not enough practice.  Not enough poise.  Not enough… something.  Anything.  Everything. 

Your restless mind gnawed at you like a ravenous creature, devoted entirely to convincing you of your inadequacy. 

You turned toward the small carriage window, watching the blur of the night pass by, the wind tugging gently at the veil of stars above — a sky so brilliant it contradicted every fear inside you. 

Just days ago, you had complained to your governess that the stars had to be angry with the moon, so rarely had they appeared lately. Their absence had been glaring, almost rude. 

Yet tonight, there they were — lavish, luminous, almost celebratory. 

They must have made up, you murmured silently. 

Your mother, seated beside you, seemed to read you as easily as a book she had revisited too many times — every fear, every tremor, every wandering thought already memorized.  

Without speaking, she rested her hand on your leg through the layers of your white dress. 

A simple gesture.  Warm. Familiar.  The kind that, in childhood, had been enough to gather the scattered pieces of your soul and bring them back into place. 

Her eyes, gentle yet sharpened by worry, expressed what she did not need to say aloud:  I am here. 

You wished with all your heart that this alone could steady you.  Normally, it would have.  Normally, the touch of someone you loved — truly loved — was enough to anchor you. 

But tonight, the storm inside you did not obey such comforts. 

You gave her a fragile smile, one that curved your lips but not your breath, and yet your mind kept spinning, frantic and relentless, locked onto a single mission: to torment you. 

The true irony of that night emerged when your father, swaying faintly with the motion of the carriage, remarked aloud how serene you appeared. He even praised your posture with that dignified, pompous pride he reserved for moments when he felt generous enough to “approve” of something. 

It was the only spontaneous compliment he’d offered you in hours — and yet the laughter that tried to rise from your chest nearly choked you. 

Serene?  You? 

You — whose soul felt like a loom weaving at the speed of a storm, threads snapping under the strain?  You — who could barely breathe past the weight of your own heartbeat? 

Your chest tightened when you thanked him.  You inclined your head with grace, as you had been taught, and shaped your mouth into a delicate, polished smile — a smile that felt as choreographed as a dance step. 

And in that moment, the truth struck you with terrifying clarity: 

Your life was a theater. 

A vast stage bathed in light and applause, where you performed even when no audience had demanded a show. 

Every gesture, every word, every glance — rehearsed, refined, perfected. 

For the first time since Yuna’s departure, you feared the possibility of becoming trapped in that role forever. 

The idea of living eternally on the polished surface of expectations — where nobody looked closely enough to see the cracks, where attention existed only to fuel illusions — hit you like a punch to an empty stomach. 

Anyone who dared to truly look — really look — would see the truth behind your luminous face: 

A girl with cold hands.  A girl fighting nausea from the single piece of bread she had forced herself to eat.  A girl who wanted to be perfect and yet could barely breathe. 

And, as always, the cruelty you reserved only for yourself returned with precision. 

Your mother had warned you.  You should have eaten more.  You should have prepared better.  You should be better. 

Your eyes lifted instinctively when a soft breeze drifted through the carriage window, gliding across your skin like an omen. The wind carried a scent of leaves and lantern smoke — and something else, something grand. 

You looked up. 

And the palace claimed you completely. 

It surpassed every memory you had stored, every childish impression you'd tucked away. It was not merely imposing — it was overwhelming. A vision sculpted from wealth and dreams. 

Light seemed to be born from the walls themselves, spreading in a warm glow that turned every tower, every window, every gilded frieze into a vision a dazzled child might have when looking at the most precious toy ever created. 

You had visited the palace before, yes when you were a kid. You had been there for noble events, accompanying your parents with measured steps and curious eyes. 

But tonight…  Tonight it belonged to another world entirely. 

The palace was dressed for ceremony, draped in splendor.  Brilliant. Radiant. Almost divine. 

And the gardens... 

The gardens—those you had always admired with a silent devotion—were unrecognizable. What had once been merely beautiful now seemed enchanted. 

Flowers bloomed in extravagant clusters — as though the earth had awoken that morning determined to astonish every eye that dared look upon it.  

Everything was larger, richer, more alive. 

And the paths…  The paths were no longer just stone walkways. 

They gleamed beneath the lantern light, as though every small crack had been filled with a fragment of moonlight. 

Floral arches curved over them in such perfect harmony that they seemed rehearsed. 

You could not tell whether that beauty had been cultivated or summoned. It felt as though, if you reached out, the petals would dissolve into light. 

Never in your life had the difference between your world and theirs felt so vast. 

Life in the palace possessed a softness unknown to the rest of the kingdom — a softness you had always sensed but never truly grasped.  

Even the wind felt different here. 

Gentle.  Measured.  Polite. 

A breeze designed to cool without disturbing, to move without disrupting, to exist without offense — never daring to ruin a hairstyle or topple a fragile display. 

The absolute opposite of what you knew. 

Despite living at a ridiculously short distance, your home felt like another world. 

There, the wind was harsh, unforgiving, always strong enough to tear petals from flowers you had waited weeks to see bloom. 

It was the wind that crept through windows and forced blankets closed in summer, that ruined hairstyles, toppled teacups left on the veranda, that made anyone fall ill after five minutes outdoors. 

It was a wind that asked no permission, that lived as it pleased. 

A wind that did not serve anyone. 

“It’s surreal how beautiful it is—our King has exquisite taste,'' your mother murmured, her voice wrapped in the delicate clinking of the jewels on her wrists. 

She stepped out of the carriage with the servant’s assistance, moving with an elegance that seemed to be woven into her bones. The night embraced her like an old friend, and she turned toward you with a soft, luminous smile. 

She rested her hand lightly on your shoulder — a gesture so gentle it resembled a blessing bestowed upon a chosen daughter. 

“The gardens are breathtaking. I’m enchanted.” 

And for the first time that night, the truth rose from your heart without censorship, without fear of sounding childish or naïve:  You were enchanted.  Enchanted enough that a part of you wanted to steal the entire royal garden and hide it in your backyard forever. 

The palace entrance felt alive —  a breathing, pulsing organism wrapped in gold and light.    A constant coming and going of noble families and carriages formed a scene so dense it nearly stole your breath, as though there were too much to take in all at once. 

The air was thick with scents that clung to you: floral perfumes blooming with hints of jasmine and peony, spicy notes of amber and clove, the warm musk of freshly exercised horses. 

The scent of leather from reins and saddles mixed with the faint trace of hay and damp earth clinging to the animals’ hooves, creating a fragrance that was not exactly pleasant, yet so distinctive that it told you—without words—that you stood at the very heart of the nobles. 

Horses neighed as servants guided them toward the side enclosures, where they would be tended to until their owners chose to leave. 

The sound of hooves on stone echoed like anxious drums, while carriage wheels groaned as they slowed, releasing small cracks and snaps that dissolved into the surrounding conversations. Every sound layered upon another, weaving itself into the soundscape of the kingdom’s highest ritual. 

The nobles spoke —  but not as they had earlier that afternoon at the Ms. Chung’s dress shop.  the exaggerated laughs, the careless chatter, the sharp-tongued comments, were completely gone. 

Here, voices were trimmed and polished.  Refined.  Measured.  They exchanged greetings in controlled tones, bows replaced by the smallest incline of the chin. Their smiles were short-lived, elegant, and often only half sincere — no more than what etiquette required. 

The atmosphere seemed governed by invisible rules.  Everyone obeyed without needing to be told: 

It was time for the spectacle.  And all present must perform. 

Debutantes multiplied before your eyes. There were so many that you gave up trying to count them. 

They walked clinging to their fathers’ arms, fearful of stumbling over an invisible stone, their eyes wide with fear of tripping on an invisible crack and bringing disgrace upon their families.  Fathers walked with meticulous restraint, their steps steady, controlled, rehearsed. The nobles behind them moved like pieces on a grand chessboard, each step fitting into an invisible choreography of power and prestige 

You wanted to tell yourself that you were used to this environment. That it was nothing new. That you were made of the same substance. 

But it was a lie. 

That night was a first for many things. 

Your first ball. 

Your first official entrance. 

Your first confrontation with a world that demanded more from you than you had ever given. 

“Shall we?” Your father’s voice cut through your distraction with the force of a bell in a silent hall.  

He extended his arm toward you — firm, unwavering; an anchor carved from discipline rather than affection. Yet something in his eyes, a flicker barely visible, suggested that if you trembled, he would steady you. 

You released a sigh so light not even the night wind carried it away.  

Then, with a gentle, trained smile, you placed your arm upon his. 

The touch sealed something unspoken —  a pact, a threshold, a point of no return. 

Your mother took her place on your other side, radiating her own luminous energy. 

She walked as though every step released light. Her smile was so brilliant it felt as though it could be seen from the tallest tower, cast across the entire courtyard. 

She inclined her head to each noble family she recognized — a gesture so subtle, so flawless. Her posture was so perfect it was almost cruel to anyone expected to imitate it. 

Your brother walked beside your father, posture immaculate, expression carved from silence. He seemed almost sculpted — serious to the point of suffocation; his gaze fixed forward, drawn magnetically toward the palace's gates. 

The tingling in your stomach grew with every step, as though fine threads of electricity were climbing through your body, warning you that there was no turning back. 

You were not approaching the palace anymore —  the palace was approaching you, swallowing the distance with every step you took. 

Its nearness became palpable, overwhelming, almost unbearable —  a magnificent and merciless presence. 

A world you were about to step into,  whether you were ready or not. 

Its walls rose before you like a colossus carved from stone and centuries, and the night you had spent years preparing for opened ahead of you, ready to swallow everything you knew—and everything you did not. 

Everything felt terrifyingly real. Too real. 

And deep in your chest, something tightened with a gentle cruelty. It was fear. It was anticipation. A mixture that tasted like vertigo. 

When you reached the entrance, the true scale of the palace struck you with brutal force. 

The enormous doors were guarded by a line of soldiers that seemed endless. 

There were so many of them that they formed an almost human wall—motionless as statues, arms firm, gazes trained. 

The metallic sheen of their armor caught the torchlight, creating small golden flashes that looked like sparks suspended in the air. 

You had never seen so many guards gathered in one place. It was intimidating, nearly oppressive, as though the palace itself were breathing through them.

True, you had seen royal guards before, patrolling the streets in groups of five at most, blending into routine like shadows.  But here?  This was different. 

Their numbers alone made it unmistakably clear that what was happening inside these walls was monumental — not just for you, but for the kingdom. 

You could pinpoint the exact moment your breath failed you, suspended somewhere between your chest and nothingness: it was when the tip of your shoe touched the floor of the palace hall. 

The sensation was almost like crossing a veil. 

It felt as though the world you had known as such had vanished, leaving only the echo of your footsteps and the whirlwind of your thoughts. 

The hall was colossal— a secular cathedral of nobility. You were almost certain it could swallow your entire home and still have room left for the lingering echoes of your shock. 

A red carpet stretched across the floor like a river of velvet expectation, wide and deep, a red so saturated it seemed alive. 

For a moment, you felt if you stared too long, it might begin to move toward you, devouring your nerves and awe alike. 

Then came the light. 

Above you hung golden chandeliers — so many you quickly abandoned any attempt to count them.  Real gold.  The shine was unmistakable.  Bold.  Unapologetic. 

Each crystal reflected the light with such precision that you had the impression that, if someone came too close, they might be able to map every tiny pore of your skin.  

The hall seemed to guard a sun — not one, but dozens, each trapped inside its own shimmering cage of glass. 

“I suppose we must part ways now.” Your father’s voice sounded behind you, steady and carved from the same authority that had shaped your childhood. 

He stood close — but his mind had already moved elsewhere. You didn’t need to ask where; it was written in the sharpness of his gaze as i swept across the hall. 

He was taking stock of the battlefield before him —  who had arrived,  which alliances could be forged,  which rivals might be present,  what doors could open if everything unfolded as he had planned. 

Your debut was not merely a celebration.  It was a negotiation. 

His negotiation. 

“Yes, my lord… we will go to the debutantes’ room and wait for our turn to be presented.” Your mother took your arm with gentle firmness, her warmth wrapping around the cold rising through you. “We’ll meet again at the ball,” she added softly, though the weight of expectation glimmered behind her eyes. 

Your father finally looked at you — really looked — and gave a short, sharp nod.  It was not approval.  It was confirmation.  A silent acknowledgment that the moment had arrived. 

“Very well. Come, son.” Your brother stepped toward him with the effortless grace of someone who had always known exactly where to stand, exactly how to move, exactly how to exist under your father’s command. 

Before you fully slipped free of your father’s imposing shadow, you felt the weight of one last look. 

“Good luck.” 

The words fell onto your shoulders like an invisible hand — heavy, cold, inescapable. 

You lowered your head in a polished gesture, hiding within it the small tremor that ran through you.  ────────────────────────────────

The debutantes’ room was exactly what you had imagined… multiplied by ten, polished to brilliance, then dipped again in anxiety and expensive perfume. 

It was a curated nightmare — a battlefield stitched in silk, where centuries of tradition balanced precariously atop the frayed nerves of girls who had barely lived long enough to understand what sacrifice meant. 

If Ms. Chung’s shop had felt like a jungle of sharp teeth behind lace veils, then this room— this room—could have fueled the research papers of an entire generation of asylum doctors. You were certain that if anyone had dared to take notes, entire volumes could be written about what unfolded within these walls. 

Tension did not merely fill the room.  It seeped from the walls, evaporating like steam from scalding water, thick enough to taste. 

In every corner, familiar faces appeared like ghosts of your childhood—reshaped and burdened by the weight of adulthood. 

Macy — who had once run barefoot with you through your family’s orchard — stood trembling behind a sheer curtain, breahtless, seemingly drowning inside her own panic. Her mother knelt beside her, gripping her head between both hands as though trying to keep her daughter’s thoughts from spilling out onto the polished floor. 

Aurora, the ever-dignified, ever-exemplary Aurora, had her eyes squeezed shut as she counted numbers under her breath — steady, rhythmic, desperate. One hand clutched her mother’s so tightly it was a miracle their fingers remained intertwined, the older woman trembling just as violently. 

Sana — radiant, dramatic, impossible not to adore — held her stomach with a ferocity usually reserved for battlefields. She insisted, again and again, that she was minutes away from vomiting and destroying the lilac dress that had taken an army of modistes to perfect.  Her mother, wielding her fan like a weapon forged for the battlefield, fanned her as if she might physically push away the oncoming disaster with sheer maternal will. 

And yet, even with her mother working like a frantic windmill, Sana had the audacity to glare sharply at the air itself, whispering (with solemn indignation) that even the breeze dared to conspire against the hairstyle that had taken two hours and five pins to tame. 

The royal maids moved back and forth like war-hardened veterans. Impassive faces, efficient steps, eyes that had seen everything—and then some. 

For them, it was just another night on the calendar. 

Another parade of controlled disasters.  Another wave of perfectly dressed breakdowns. 

You preferred not to imagine what past debutantes had done in this very room. Some memories were better left buried beneath layers of powdered rose and polished marble. 

You were not so different from the others — althought it didn’t look like it. 

You stood still, posture flawless, hands delicately clasped before you in a gesture of elegant waiting.  Your face was composed to the point of sculpture — calm, serene, unreadable, and you swear you could feel the other mothers’ eyes on your own mother, with the faintly bitter glow of envy. 

Their daughters trembled like leaves.  You did not. 

Your mother, meanwhile, was the portrait of effortless composure. 

She laughed softly, chatted with ease, exchanged gossip with other mothers—and even with servants—with such natural grace that people leaned in without realizing it. She did not hover. She did not remind you to breathe. She did not grip your wrist or correct your posture every few seconds. 

She believed in you. 

She believed you were stable, centered, prepared. 

You were none of those things. 

You kept your fragility locked in a cage within your chest, refusing to let it escape. 

Pressed under etiquette, under expectation, under the weight of a destiny chosen long before you were born. 

And yet—strangely, wonderfully—watching the others' chaos calmed you. 

That raw, human chaos softened something inside you. 

A silent sisterhood forged from trembling hands and churning stomachs. 

It did not make you feel alone. 

You lifted your gaze to the ceiling, as if height alone might rescue you from the murmuring swarm below. 

The painting above was enormous—so vast and luminous it felt almost like a second sky trapped indoors. At its center, a golden lily bloomed with such precision, such gleaming radiance; it seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat.  Each petal unfurled toward the chandelier’s glow, catching the light in careful facets, as though the flower itself breathed—slow, deliberate, alive. 

You tried—truly tried—to get lost in it.  To anchor yourself in the brushstrokes, to pull comfort from its beauty.  To let beauty do what reason could not. 

Your heart answered with defiance.  Your heart began to race. 

You focused on the curves of the petals.  Another thud. 

The subtle shimmer in the gold leaf.  Another. 

But it was impossible. 

Every sound in the room pierced you—every tremulous inhale, every fractured whisper, every stifled sob of panic threading through silk and lace. They clung to your ears like barbs, refusing to be ignored. 

“What if I fall, Mother?” 

The question echoed with the raw fear of someone who believes their entire life depends on a single step. 

“What if the King doesn’t like me?” 

Your throat tightened.  The knot rising there wasn’t even yours, yet you were the one choking on it. 

“What if the Queen doesn’t even look at me?” 

Each question unleashed more scenarios in your mind. And each one was worse than the last. Your imagination became a storm of catastrophic possibilities, circling you like lightning. 

You tripping on marble.  You fainting beneath chandeliers.  You forgetting how to breathe.  You speaking when you should remain silent.  You disappointing your mother.  You shaming your father.  You destroying your future in a single, irreversible heartbeat. 

And all of it—  all of it—  was suffocating. 

The air grew thick.  Sticky.  Difficult to swallow. 

Your neck felt tighter by the second—was it the diamond necklace? 

Your hand rose instinctively to the diamonds. 

They were cold to the touch, but the skin beneath them burned. 

Your breath failed. 

Then failed again. 

You gasped softly—once, twice—but your lungs rebelled. 

Your chest rose in small, broken jolts, unable to complete the motion. 

Your body refused to cooperate. 

You couldn’t breathe. 

You couldn’t breathe. 

It felt as though your mind—so meticulously disciplined all evening—had finally turned against you. As though, after hours of restraint, it had seized control and decided to dismantle you one breath at a time.    You needed air.  You needed it desperately. 

The urgency slammed against your ribs like a fist from the inside. 

Your hands began to shake—at first almost imperceptibly, then unmistakably. 

Your knees weakened.  The room tilted, soft at the edges, unbearably bright in the center. 

Your legs moved before you made a decision.  They simply fled. 

One step. 

Another. 

Fast. Light. Desperate. 

The room seemed to compress around you, narrowing its walls as though trying to trap you. The sound dissolved into a low roar—muffled voices, rustling fabric, too-sweet perfume blanketing your senses like poison. 

No one noticed you—or if they did, they didn’t dare stop you. 

There was something unmistakable in the way you moved—urgency wrapped in decorum.  

As though your body had been trained, long ago, to escape without spectacle. 

The door appeared before you like a crack in the chaos. 

You pushed it open with more force than you thought you had. 

Then—  silence. 

The door sealed itself shut behind you with a soft thud. 

Ahead stretched a long corridor, dim and hushed, bathed in amber light that hovered like suspended dust. Gilded walls reflected tall, wavering shadows—your shadow—fragile and trembling, as though it might collapse at any moment. 

The air there was cool.  Almost cold. 

It poured into your lungs like a gulp of water after hours in the desert. 

You breathed. 

Once more. 

And again. 

But it still wasn’t enough. 

Still not enough. 

Your feet carried you forward without direction—guided only by instinct, by a primal need to escape the heaviness of the world and the suffocation inside your own ribcage. 

The corridor branched into smaller passageways—discreet doors, tall windows, pools of light scattered across polished floors. 

But it was a faint whisper of wind—a nearly magical murmur, that called to you. 

A door left ajar. 

Light-colored wood. 

A soft glow, almost welcoming. 

Your hand settled on the handle. 

Cold.  Metal.  Real. 

You pushed. 

The balcony unfolded before you like a secret the palace had been keeping. 

It did not seem made for debutantes on the verge of collapse—it seemed made for gods, for spirits, for anyone who needed to escape their own skin. 

The air was instantly different. 

Lighter.  More alive. 

The wind touched your face with a gentleness no one had offered you that night. 

A loose strand of hair lifted, swaying softly, as though sighing in relief. 

Moonlight spilled across the marble floor, turning it into a pale, glowing mirror. Shadows and light danced in hushed partnership around your feet. 

Cascading orchids spilled from the columns like white and lilac veils,  swaying softly, as though greeting your arrival. 

Their scent—fresh, gentle, sweet without being cloying—wrapped around you. 

Like a protective veil. 

It was the first friendly thing you had felt in hours. 

Below, the gardens breathed.  You could see treetops shifting with the wind, lanterns glowing faintly along winding paths, the distant fountain murmuring secrets you were too shaken to decipher. 

But up here… there was only silence. 

Silence, and the promise that you could finally exist without witnesses, without judgment, without expectations tightening around your chest. 

The necklace seemed lighter. 

Your breathing, deeper. 

Your pupils dilated slightly with the change in light. 

There, you felt almost like a painting—  so still, and yet so alive. 

You grasped the railing with both hands. 

The metal was cold, solid, and it anchored you in a world where everything else seemed to be moving far too fast. 

And for the first time that night, the world slowed enough for you to stay inside it. 

And it was in that moment—  when you were finally alone,  when you were finally breathing,  when you were finally steady enough to convince yourself you might survive the evening— 

that the door behind you burst open. 

Not violently.  No—worse. 

With restraint. 

The sound carried intention: a sharp, contained bang, as if whoever had pushed it had meant to open it firmly and failed to account for their own irritation. The wood rattled briefly in protest before settling back into place.    The noise tore straight through you. 

Your shoulders flinched.  Your lungs locked.  The air you had just reclaimed lodged painfully in your throat. 

You didn’t turn—not immediately. 

Your body froze, instinct overriding etiquette, reason, dignity. A fragile, ancient response—if I do not move, I will not be seen. You stood utterly still, hands at your sides, spine rigid, gaze fixed forward on the moonlit marble as though it might offer camouflage. 

You counted. 

Not the seconds—  the defiance. 

Each heartbeat became a choice you did not make. Each breath was a refusal. You had spent the entire night responding to commands, expectations, glances. For once, you decided you would not obey the invisible instruction to turn. 

You stood like that for exactly seven seconds. 

Seven seconds of controlled silence.  Seven seconds of listening to footsteps settle, fabric shift, breath steady behind you.  Seven seconds of pretending you were alone when you were very much not. 

Then— 

you turned. 

Slowly. 

Deliberately. 

A tall figure stood just beyond the hedges, half-shadowed by climbing ivy and moonlight. His coat was impeccably tailored yet worn loosely at the collar, as though he had already grown tired of pretending the evening pleased him. His posture was rigid—not formal, but restrained, held together by irritation rather than discipline. 

He looked… offended. 

Not startled.  Not curious.    As though the night itself had already failed to meet his expectations. 

His eyes lifted to you, dark and sharp, and what lived within them was unfamiliar—something you had never examined so closely before.    Boredom. 

Not laziness.  Not interest. 

A bored judgment. 

Your mind scrambled uselessly for categorization. 

A noble?  Certainly. 

A servant?  Impossible—no servant moved with such unquestioned authority. 

And yet—this was the palace. 

He stopped short the moment he registered your presence. 

For a long beat, he said nothing. 

His gaze moved over you—not slowly, not indulgently, but efficiently. Practiced.  A single glance that traveled from the careful fall of your dress to the stillness of your stance, the unguarded fact that you were alone as if he had already decided what you were before you opened your mouth.    It did not linger on your face at first. 

That, somehow, made it worse. 

You felt it like a touch—impersonal, assessing. As though he were cataloguing you rather than seeing you.

You became acutely aware of your hands, of the way your chin lifted slightly without permission, of the quiet defiance in standing unaccompanied where no one expected you to be. 

Before you could speak — before you could even decide how to speak — he did. 

“I see. '' he said, his voice low, even, and unmistakably controlled. '' I had hoped the garden empty.”

The words were not unkind. 

Your mind almost laughed at the irony—how foolish, how predictable. Even here, even in the small stolen space you had carved out for yourself, peace could not exist without being intruded upon, measured, diminished. 

As though that were the story of your life. 

You did not step back. 

You did not apologize. 

Instead, you met his gaze fully. 

“Then,” you replied calmly, “you are as disappointed as I am.” 

The pause that followed was brief—but precise. 

He released a low scoff, barely audible, the kind of sound most would never notice. 

You did. 

Your eyes remained fixed on him, unwilling to miss even the smallest shift. You had always been observant— quietly so. You noticed the tension in shoulders, the way people held their breath when lying, the flicker of irritation before politeness reasserted itself. 

But no matter how closely you observed him, the only word that surfaced was the same.    Uninterested.  

Boredom. 

“Forgive me,” he continued. “I assumed anyone who fled the ballroom did so for sentimental reasons.” his head tilted slightly as he spoke, the words delivered as though tasting something unpleasant.    Venomous—not loud, but deliberate. 

The remark struck deeper than you expected. 

Heat bloomed in your chest—not embarrassment, but offense. It surged outward, straightening your spine, lifting your chin before you consciously chose to do so. Your body reacted before your mind could intervene.    How dare he. 

“How perceptive of you,” you replied, the politeness in your tone carefully measured. “Shall I faint as well, or have you already formed a complete opinion?” 

His eyes sharpened, dark and unreadable, as though you had deviated from an expectation he had not bothered to examine too closely. He did not smile. Did not blink more than necessary. He merely adjusted — mentally, visibly — and responded. 

“I was merely observing.” 

The absence of apology ignited something sharp and electric beneath your ribs. 

As though observation excused judgment.  As though distance absolved consequence. 

“Poorly.” you said.    The word left you before caution could intercept it—flat, honest, stripped of ornament. 

Silence followed. 

It stretched between you, thin and taut, deliberate rather than awkward. You felt the weight of his attention settle more fully now—not invasive, not demanding, but precise. He looked at you as one might look at a problem that had not behaved as expected.    You resisted the instinct to shift beneath his scrutiny.     Then his gaze moved. 

Not away from you entirely. 

Past you. 

Toward the gardens below, where lanterns flickered and leaves whispered, indifferent to the tension balanced between two unmoving figures. 

“You left at a precise moment,” he started at last, eyes still trained on the darkened paths. “Just minutes before you were to present yourself to society.” A pause. Measured. “You disappeared.” 

“I needed air.”  He glanced back at you then, only briefly. 

“Semantics.” 

Your brows drew together, irritation sharpening despite your efforts. “I stepped outside.”    “Yes,” he replied calmly, unhurried. “That is what one says when one does not wish to admit having reached one’s limit.” 

Your fingers curled inside your gloves, nails pressing lightly into your palms. There was something infuriating about the certainty in his tone—not loud, not cruel—simply assured, as though your inner landscape were transparent to him.

“You speak,” you said, carefully “as though endurance were a fault.” 

“I speak,” he retorted, just as measured “as though performance grows tiresome when repeated too often.” 

“Performance?” you echoed, the word foreign on your tongue, heavy with implication. 

“I dislike repetition,” he said simply. The breeze shifted, stirring the orchids above you, pale petals brushing stone.  “And pretense—especially when it is mistaken for virtue.” 

You regarded him in silence—long enough to notice how effortlessly he maintained distance, how irritation hovered just beneath the surface of his composure without ever quite breaking through. He did not fidget. Did not shift. Even his breathing remained untroubled. 

“You reduce it unfairly.” you said finally, adjusting your stance, the marble cold beneath the thin soles of your shoes. 

“On the contrary,” he answered, voice steady. “I reduce it honestly.” 

“You make it sound hollow.” 

“I find it simpler that way.” 

The words were soft. 

The meaning was not.    “Simpler,” you repeated, tilting your head slightly. “Or safer?” 

He regarded you for a moment longer, not with interest but with restraint, as though acknowledging a point without granting it consequence. Then his gaze shifted away, withdrawn as decisively as it had come. The tulips stirred behind him, their red shadows moving across his coat, while his expression returned to its former composure—closed, distant, resolved. 

“You are remarkably free with your opinions,” he said without inflection, as though noting an irregularity rather than issuing a remark “For someone who has yet to be presented to society”    The words landed evenly. Not sharp enough to provoke, not warm enough to invite reply. Merely stated. 

Your shoulders did not stiffen. You did not step back. Instead, you adjusted your grip on your gloves, smoothing the fabric between your fingers with deliberate care — a small, controlled gesture, meant less to steady yourself than to reassert order where he had presumed one. 

Your chin lifted a fraction. 

Not in defiance.  In correction. 

“You assume much.”  He did not pause. 

“And you conceal much,” he replied evenly, as though completing a thought rather than countering one. “That suggests habit.” 

Your fingers tightened together, knuckles brushing fabric, grounding you. You inhaled slowly, the scent of orchids and damp stone filling your lungs.    If he expected a response, he did not show it. 

And that, more than the remark itself, irritated you. 

“Some of us,” you said carefully, “do not have the luxury of indifference.''   You did not look at him as you spoke. Your gaze rested instead on the garden below, on the orderly paths and measured symmetry, as though the statement were not meant for him alone.

“No,” he said at last. 

His voice was quiet, lowered not for intimacy but for precision, as though volume might distort meaning. “You have been taught something else instead.” 

There was no judgment in it. 

Just conclusion. 

He had named a structure.  Not a flaw.  Not a weakness. 

And you did not thank him for it. 

“And you have not?” 

“I was taught obedience,” he replied. “I simply rejected it.” He shifted his weight subtly, not closer, not farther — merely adjusting, as though the matter required no emphasis. 

The words fell without weight, without pride. He looked away briefly—toward the gardens, the encroaching shadows—then returned his attention to neutral ground rather than to you. 

“Lucky you.” 

“I disagree.” 

Silence followed—not suspended between you, but held apart, each of you contained within it. It was not empty, nor passive, but alert in the way stillness becomes when nothing more is owed.    The orchids trembled softly, pale petals brushing one another.  

“You endure,” his gaze rested on the balustrade. "Why?”    It surprised you—not because it was invasive, but because it was so plainly asked. There was no attempt to soften it, no social varnish to disguise the intent.

You hesitated. 

Not from uncertainty, but from the unfamiliar necessity of choosing how much truth to allow. The wind pressed briefly against your back, cool and steady, and you let it ground you before you answered. 

“Because it is expected.” 

You did not elaborate. You did not need to. 

The word displeased him.    It was subtle—nothing in his posture changed—but something in the set of his jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, as though the term had confirmed an irritation rather than provoked it. 

“Expectation,” he noted. The word was given its own space. “A remarkably efficient cage.” 

“Tradition has its place.”    He turned his head then, only enough to acknowledge the statement, not enough to engage fully. 

“Does it?” he posed mildly. “Or does it persist because no one dares abandon it first?” 

“That depends,” you observed, “on one’s position.”    You held his gaze just long enough to make the implication clear. 

Then you looked away. 

“And yours?” 

“One without the privilege of refusal.” 

The words were precise. Final. You did not dress them in bitterness, nor did you soften their edge. They were simply true.    Something shifted then—not warmth, not sympathy. Recognition. The kind that settles quietly, like a piece clicking into place without ceremony.    “You mistake restraint for compliance,” he said. 

“And you mistake detachment for honesty,” you returned. “It is easier to dismiss what you are unwilling to value.” The wind moved again, threading briefly between you. 

His expression hardened — not angry, but closed. 

“You are angry.” 

“Yes,” you said simply. You did not avert your gaze. “Because you are careless with things that matter.” 

“Care invites disappointment.” 

“Emptiness invites nothing at all.” 

The words fell more sharply than you intended. You felt it the moment they left you—not regret, but impact.    He did not answer at once. 

“You speak boldly,” he said at last. 

“Only because you speak dismissively.” 

Footsteps sounded faintly beyond the corridor—measured, approaching. Voices followed, blurred by stone and distance, the low hum of society reasserting itself. Reality pressed in, gradual but inexorable, like the tide returning after a brief withdrawal. 

He noticed it at once. 

His posture adjusted subtly, shoulders settling, expression smoothing as though drawn back into place by habit. Whatever sharpness had animated him moments before receded, replaced by the familiar discipline of composure—armor refastened without ceremony. 

“You should return,” he said. 

The tone had shifted. Formal now. Correct. The conversation closed not by agreement, but by necessity. 

“So should you.” 

His lips curved — not in a smile. 

“Good evening.” 

He did not wait for your reply.

He turned and departed as he had come — with measured steps and composure already restored, as though the exchange had required no lingering thought.

You remained where you were, not startled, not unsettled — merely dismissed.

author's note: heyyy! :p i'm a big bridgerton/pride and prejudice fan, and i decided to make a jk fanfic just like it, i've wanted to read one for so longgg i just decided to make it my own. this is going to be a very slow burn, i don't want to rush anything, i really want to build their characters well n their tension... that's why this chapter is so long n detailed about the main character emotions, her surroundings n everything all the chapters are going to be pretty long n detailed so... anyways i hope you guys like it as much as i did. <3

title: mami: triptych (m) | series: mami | masterlist pairing: battle rappers!myg/knj x reader(f) , jhs x reader(f)😛 rating/genre: m (18+) ; smut ; battle rap au , roommates au summary: while you already know your way around yoongi, namjoon stays mysterious and enigmatic.. until he can’t control himself around you anymore. note: heavy 00s vibes, somehow current namjoon has mami namjoon hair wtf, i do not know what came over me do not perceive me ever again, this is now a collection of parts instead of just a oneshot let’s fucking goooo🦋 note 2: this is damn near unedited lolll if there are mistakes i'm so so sorry! warnings: language, reader is a gd baddie, men being weirdos but effectively handled, you get called mamiii😗 so if that’s not ur thing i’d skip this series !!, kim namjoon is a problem, jung hoseok... that's all i will say, yoongi will forever have his own warning, multiple spice scenes, battle rap scenarios!, another secret fourth guy lmfao how does this keep happening nsfw warnings: under the cut and there are a lot l m a o drop date: october 11th, 2025, 8:27pm est word count: 8.8k of madness | mood: here 

the year is 1980. the start of a new decade and of new lives. one timeline, seven stories, all intertwining into one another as obsession (or the fates) take over the lives of seven men - those unfortunate to fall into the hands of women whose's pasts and presents are made up of bones and bodies that are more than just buried. seven women who have long known what is means to be in a world where myths are protection and lies are truths. but when they collide with men who become chained to them by blood, the gods roll the dice...and it's they who shall suffer the consequences.

{warning: this file has been sealed by the governor and attorney general of california. it's content is only to be seen by approved personnel. level 5 filing}

indigo 🌀 explicit, 4.3k 🌀 knj/yjh, implied bg relationships

TEASER

PAIRING: LATINO!JIMIN × FEMALE!READER

TAGS: street racing au, tokyo underground, rivals to lovers, street racer!reader, street racer!jimin, slow burn, midnight races, sexual tension, second person female POV.

DATE: coming soon as a OS / series, depending on how much love it gets!

TAGLIST REQUEST | MASTERLIST

that we become the same clay, desire and trembling columns

written by @seidreamblogs & illustrated by @andykosmoos a BTS, hopekook fic

Winter is all Jeongguk has ever known, and he’s seen enough of his pack suffering under the endless cold that’s blanketed the valley for over a hundred years.

The journey to find what might be their last chance at survival unfolds as he sets off to the mountains, unsure of what he’ll encounter. Does he have what it takes to bring an end to the suffering of his people? Or will they be lost to time for good?

Read the fic on AO3

part one (profiles)

pairing: modern prince!tae x yn (ft. jungkook)

genre: royalty | social media au

the prince of eirene kingdom is about to get married to his chosen betrothed, but then she runs away. what happens when you show up at the wrong venue in your wedding dress?

au masterlist | next

——————————————

Hey everyone! I’ve been toying with the idea of starting a BTS x Reader interactive story, something that will grow over time on my page, it'll allow you all to shape the story through choices, branches, and different endings.

I'm still deciding on whether or not each BTS member would have their own route or if I would continue to include you all in a potential poll vote each update to help decide on which next potential route to take, leading to good, bad, and even secret endings based on the choices made. But right now, this idea is still in the brainstorming phase—which means everything is still up in the air!

Before I dive into anything, I’d love to hear your thoughts and get your input on which direction you’d love to see this go!

Here are a few foundation ideas I’ve been considering:

1️⃣ Behind the Spotlight – The reader works at BigHit (as a photographer, stylist, PR staff, etc.), giving a behind-the-scenes look into their world. Balancing professionalism with personal connections becomes a challenge.

2️⃣ Serendipity – A more casual setting where the reader meets BTS by chance (coffee shop, bookstore, neighbor, etc.), leading to unexpected friendships (or more).

3️⃣ Colliding Worlds – The reader is an artist, dancer, or songwriter collaborating with BTS on a project. Creative passion, tension, and deep conversations ensue.

4️⃣ The Spotlight Test – The reader is a contestant in a reality show or competition, where BTS are judges, mentors, or fellow contestants. The pressure is on, but so are new connections.

✨ But nothing is set in stone yet! ✨

This is still very much in the idea stage, so I’d love to know what excites you the most or if you have a unique twist or idea you'd love to see in an interactive BTS story. Any and all input is appreciated!