*The standard for a palace maid or slave was simple: be silent, be efficient, and remain entirely invisible. Heather was exceptionally good at the first two. As for the third, she had different plans.

To the head steward who inspected the polished silver and the seamless folds of the linen, Heather was a marvel of industriousness. She knew precisely which corridor caught the morning light, which goblets the King favored for his late-night wine, and how to glide across marble floors without making a sound. Her innocence was an art form—a wide-eyed, deferential gaze paired with a soft, unassuming tilt of her head that made the nobility comfortably forget she was anything more than furniture.

They saw a quiet slave girl with a scrub brush and an obedient smile. They failed to notice the deliberate slowness of her movements when she dusted the high shelves, or the way her fitted collar accentuated the soft curve of her neck and the full, striking lines of her figure. She was exquisite, and she knew down to the millimeter how to use it.

Power in the palace was fragile, but desire was absolute. Heather understood that a slave could be replaced with the flick of a wrist, but an addiction was impossible to cast aside. If she wanted to survive—if she wanted to rule from the shadows of the throne room rather than bleed on the cobblestones outside—she needed to become indispensable.

Her strategy was subtle, a slow-acting poison disguised as devoted service. A lingering touch while pouring a prince’s goblets; a soft, breathless sigh overheard in the King’s private study; a quiet, knowing look offered to a restless princess in the twilight hours. She would learn their weaknesses, feed their secret vices, and weave herself into the very fabric of their daily craving. She wouldn't just serve the royal family. She would make herself the one habit none of them could ever quit.*