Ismène

The Palace of Versailles glittered like a jewel beneath a thousand candles.

Every polished marble floor reflected silk and satin. Crystal chandeliers scattered light across powdered wigs, embroidered coats, and gowns stitched with enough pearls to ransom kingdoms. Music drifted through the Hall of Mirrors while nobles laughed too loudly, each smile another weapon in a court where appearances were worth more than truth.

Mademoiselle Ismène stood among them, beautiful enough to be admired and quiet enough to be forgotten.

That was exactly how her father preferred it.

"You will smile," the Marquis murmured without looking at her. "And when the Count asks for your hand, you will accept."

His words were soft.

His grip on her wrist was not.

Ismène lowered her eyes, the picture of obedience every young lady at court was expected to become. Her ivory gown shimmered beneath the candlelight, pearls woven through her dark hair like tiny stars.

She looked every inch the perfect daughter.

Inside, she was drowning.

Across the ballroom stood the man chosen to become her husband.

Count Armand de Rochefort.

He was handsome in the way carved statues were handsome—cold, flawless, utterly lifeless. He watched her as though she were another estate to acquire, another possession to lock away behind gilded gates.

When their eyes met, he smiled.

The smile never reached his eyes.

A chill crept down Ismène's spine.

"I hear you've become quite accomplished on horseback," the Count said as he approached, bowing with impeccable courtesy.

"So I've been told."

"I shall have to put an end to that."

She blinked.

"My wife will have no need to ride unattended."

The words were spoken lightly.

As though clipping a bird's wings were the most natural thing in the world.

Her father chuckled approvingly.

"A sensible husband."

The Count reached for her gloved hand.

His fingers lingered just a heartbeat too long.

"You'll grow accustomed to obedience."

Something inside Ismène cracked.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Simply enough to let the light in.

Rain began before midnight.

The storm rolled across Versailles with a fury that rattled stained-glass windows and sent servants scrambling to shutter them.

Most of the palace slept peacefully.

Ismène did not.

She stared at the packed trunk waiting beside her bed.

Tomorrow she would leave for Rochefort Manor.

Tomorrow she would cease to belong to herself.

She crossed the room, opened a small cedar chest hidden beneath her bed, and withdrew a leather satchel.

Inside lay everything she truly owned.

A worn map.

A silver compass that had belonged to her mother.

Twenty-seven gold louis she had stolen back from her own allowance over the course of two years.

A riding knife.

And freedom—

if she dared seize it.

Lightning split the sky.

Her heart pounded.

This was madness.

If they caught her, she'd be locked away until the wedding.

If she succeeded...

She didn't know what waited beyond the palace walls.

Only that it had to be better than a gilded prison.

She exchanged silk slippers for worn riding boots she'd hidden months before.

The elegant overskirt of her gown would never survive a horse.

She drew the knife.

One deep breath.

Then—

Riiip.

Silk tore from waist to hem.

Thousands of livres' worth of fabric collapsed onto the floor.

For the first time in years...

...she smiled.

The stable boys never heard her.

Thunder swallowed every hoofbeat as she saddled her favorite mare.

"Courage," she whispered, stroking the horse's neck.

Together they slipped through the servants' gate just as another flash of lightning illuminated the palace behind them.

Versailles disappeared into the rain.

She did not look back.

Not once.

Miles later, the forest had become a nightmare.

The rain transformed the road into rivers of black mud.

Branches clawed at her torn skirts.

The wind screamed through the trees.

Then—

Crack!

A bolt of lightning exploded into an ancient oak.

The mare reared violently.

"No!"

Ismène lost the reins.

Horse and rider crashed into the mud.

The frightened mare bolted into the darkness.

She was alone.

Cold.

Soaked.

And somewhere behind her...

A hunting horn echoed through the storm.

Her father had discovered she was gone.

She ran.

Every step sent mud splashing over her ruined gown.

Another horn.

Closer.

Then another.

Lantern lights flickered between the trees.

"They're gaining on me..."

The forest suddenly opened onto a forgotten clearing.

There, standing crooked against the storm, was the skeleton of an abandoned chapel.

Its bell tower had long since collapsed.

Its stained-glass windows were shattered.

Yet one heavy wooden door still clung stubbornly to its hinges.

Ismène threw herself inside and slammed it shut.

Silence.

Only her ragged breathing.

Only the rain drumming against the broken roof.

Then—

A click.

Metal.

Slowly...

Someone drew back the hammer of a pistol.

"You picked the wrong church to pray in."

A man's voice emerged from the darkness.

Low.

Calm.

Dangerous.

Ismène turned.

A stranger leaned against the ruined altar, pistol leveled steadily at her heart.

His coat was weathered leather, his dark hair damp from the storm, and the scar cutting across one cheek only sharpened the intensity of his gaze.

He looked at her torn silk gown...

Then at the pearls in her hair.

His mouth curled into a crooked smile.

"Well," he said. "Either Heaven has begun delivering duchesses to my doorstep..."

"...or tonight just became very interesting."