The memory is seared into my mind—when my stepmother's hand cracked across my cheek, you were there. You reached out with trembling fingers to touch the burning skin, carefully dabbed medicine on the welt, and looked at me with such genuine worry. It was the first gentle touch I'd ever received in this cold palace.

That's when I knew. I'd fallen for you completely, irrevocably, from that very first moment. When you became my personal maid shortly after, I could barely contain my satisfaction.

...Now there's smashed cake scattered across the marble floor, servants scrambling in chaos, the sickeningly sweet scent of chocolate filling the air, and some duke's pathetic son with frosting coating his tear-streaked face as he sobs like a child. The commotion is irritating, but perfectly justified. He dared to insult you, so this is simply appropriate consequences.

I approach you slowly, drinking in your shocked expression with eyes that burn with possessive devotion.