Time: One week ago, on a rainy evening.
Place: Paris – Bella's luxurious apartment, top floor.
Weather: Cold, rainy, with soft winds tapping the windows. The lights are dim, and the sound of rain slides across the glass.
(Flashback – from Bella's perspective after her argument with Lucien)
The door opens… and "Ellen" walks in—no. No, this isn't Hélène.
This is the real Bella Leclair.
Her hair is wet, sticking to her neck. Her mask drips water.
Her steps are slow. Her face… completely blank.
Bella (thinking):
"I shouldn't have opened that book… I could've explained it calmly. Spoken gently. But I'm the one who lost control."
Joséphine rushes to her, dressed in her black maid uniform, hair tied up tight.
Joséphine (worried):
"Miss Bella! You're so late! The weather out there is insane! We were so worried!"
Luciette, the cook, follows her, drying her hands with a kitchen towel.
Luciette:
"I made you some hot chocolate… Will you drink it? You look a little pale."
Bella doesn't answer.
She walks slowly and sinks onto the grand sofa.
The small cat jumps beside her.
Then a yellow duckling waddles up and lets out a quiet "quack?"
Bella leans her head back and closes her eyes.
Bella (thinking):
"He shouted at me… I didn't expect that. Even though he was right. But… I didn't expect him to react so harshly."
Time passes.
The room stays still—just like the sound of rain on the windows.
Joséphine and Luciette return to their work,
while the cat and the duck sit quietly beside Bella as if to ask: What happened?
Minutes pass...
Bella is still there, as if the sofa had swallowed her.
Her hair still wet.
The cup of hot chocolate has gone cold.
Her eyes stare into nothingness.
The cat has dozed off, resting her chin on the duck's back,
and the duck… seems to have lost the will to live.
— Riiing riiing riiing —
The phone breaks the silence like the world just woke up.
Bella opens her eyes and answers the call without even looking at the name.
Bella (softly):
"…Yes?"
A brief silence… then:
Camélia (with a royal, commanding voice):
"Bella Leclair! I hope you haven't forgotten tomorrow's appointment."
Bella freezes.
Her eyes widen.
She jumps up like she's been electrocuted.
Bella (screaming):
"Whaaaaaat?! Tomorrow?!"
The cat jumps.
The duck lets out a weird squeak.
Joséphine and Luciette appear from the kitchen like the fire alarm just went off.
Camélia (with royal calm):
"Yes. Tomorrow at 7 a.m. Didn't you remember the annual gala to select the new governor of Paris?"
Bella (stunned):
"Seven o'clock? In the morning?! What time is it now?!"
Camélia:
"8:42 p.m. And you're expected at La Rose Bleue Palace before 5 a.m."
Bella's face turns white… then gray… then blue.
Bella:
"What palace? What rose? Why? I haven't even changed into pajamas!"
Camélia:
"La Rose Bleue is our second residence in Paris. From there, we'll depart with a private convoy to Versailles."
Bella (scratching her head):
"Versailles? You mean… the Versailles? The kings' palace?"
Camélia (with a hidden chuckle):
"Yes. The king has invited all the nobles. Two weeks of parties, meetings, dancing, and long, boring tea gatherings."
Bella (melting):
"I haven't even packed my dresses! Or my jewelry! My earrings! My favorite bag! My shoes!"
Camélia:
"Everything has already been transferred to your suite there. Your golden earrings are in the right drawer. No need to stress."
Bella (whispering to the cat):
"I think I've officially lost my mind…"
Camélia (playfully refined):
> "And please… don't wear anything strange in front of Princess Laurine. She still thinks you're a fashion model from Milan. Let's not ruin the image."
Bella (yelling):
> "GRAAAAANDMA! What do I do?! Less than ten hours left!"
Camélia:
> "Pack a small bag. Take something simple, elegant, and comfortable. Joséphine will handle the rest."
Bella (sighing):
> "Alright… I'll be ready before four. I need to get at least some sleep. Will Amélie be there?"
Camélia:
> "Oh, Amélie? She's with her mother picking dresses. Madame Marguerite is trying to marry her off before she becomes 'out of style.'"
Bella (sarcastic):
> "I'm sure Madame Marguerite is living her worst nightmare—her daughter still single."
Camélia (gently):
> "Exactly. Now then, I'll see you at La Rose Bleue. Sleep well."
— Call ends. —
Silence returns.
Bella stares at the phone.
She slowly sinks back into the couch.
She raises her hand toward the ceiling.
Bella (in a dramatic voice):
> "Why is life so cruel to me? Even my hair… is still wet from the rain."
Joséphine and Luciette exchange looks…
Did Bella really just say… Is her life hard?
The phone rings again.
Bella pauses. Look at the screen: Amélie.
She pressed the answer immediately.
Bella:
"Hello…?"
Amélie (in a calm voice):
"I left the café with the girls… Sorry I didn't come back with you. Did you hear about tomorrow?"
Bella (trying to calm herself):
"Ugh… Grandma just exploded on me."
Amélie:
"I was going to tell you, but… are you okay? You don't sound like yourself."
Bella went quiet for a second.
She looked at the little cat in front of her,
then replied in a soft voice:
Bella:
"Me? …I'll tell you tomorrow, when we get to Versailles."
•••
Location: Sixth Floor, Bella Leclair Global Fashion Headquarters – Paris
Time: The second week of the director's absence, a quiet evening.
The enchanting moonlight glowed through the wide office windows.
The air inside the air-conditioned office carried the scent of fresh paper… and the forgotten cup of coffee no one ever drank.
In a quiet corner of the marketing department, Lucien sat in front of his computer screen.
His fingers moved slowly over the keyboard… but his eyes weren't following the words being typed.
The sound of typing stopped.
He let out a calm breath, then leaned his head back against the leather chair.
His green eyes stared at the ceiling… as if searching for a missing answer.
Lucien (thinking):
"Ellen… hasn't shown up for two weeks. No message, no call… nothing.
Did I really upset her that badly?
No… she must be okay.
She probably just needed some space. Maybe…"
He closed his eyes for a moment… and her face slipped into his mind.
The sound of her laughter, the odd way she used to say "Good morning,"
even that moment when she gave him a sharp look—then turned her face away.
Lucien (muttering):
"I'm… an idiot."
The glass door on the other side of the office opened, and soft, overlapping laughter drifted in.
Four female employees were seated at a casual meeting table nearby.
One of them, with short brown hair and round glasses, was speaking with excitement:
Employee 1:
"Did you hear? The director hasn't come to the office for a whole week! And Amélie suddenly vanished too! Isn't that suspicious?"
Employee 2 (lightly laughing):
"Maybe they went on a secret vacation? The director doesn't leave anything to chance—she plans everything in advance."
Employee 3 (holding her phone):
"It's way beyond a vacation! Look at this—I found it last night on a noble news page. The video was posted by a journalist who was near La Rose Bleue Palace last week."
She placed her phone on the table and turned the screen toward her colleagues.
Lucien quietly turned his head, listening in silence.
On the screen:
A royal convoy moved slowly under the eyes of the cameras.
Luxurious black French cars gleamed under the Parisian morning sun.
Inside one of the vehicles… Bella Leclair appeared—dressed to perfection.
Her hair was styled immaculately. She wore a white aristocratic dress and a small hat decorated with white feathers.
She sat beside a handsome young man—apparently her cousin—while two others sat across from them.
They laughed, exchanged light conversation.
At one moment, Bella turned to the window and waved at the cameras with a soft smile.
The three young men waved as well, all with the same graceful elegance.
Employee 4 (in awe):
"Oh my God… Did you see that car? And that smile? She really… belongs to another world."
Employee 1:
"Just imagine—this was a ducal convoy. It's for nobles only.
They say they were heading to Versailles… for some kind of secret royal celebration!"
Employee 2:
"You know, I actually liked seeing her that way.
She looked relaxed… proud… different from how strict she always is here."
Lucien (looking down, thinking):
"Bella… So that's how it is?
The same day Ellen disappeared… you were about to leave too?
Was everything planned?
Or… just a coincidence?"
He stood from his chair suddenly.
He walked past the group of women silently. One of them greeted him with a small wave—he only nodded back slightly.
Lucien (walking down the hallway, whispering to himself):
"It's fine… At least now I know where she is.
She's not Ellen… but maybe this is the beginning of understanding what's really going on."
The camera follows his footsteps as he walks down the quiet hallway.
The final sound of the scene is the gentle hum of the air conditioning…
and the distant whispers of the employees slowly fading into the background.
•••
Location: Lucien's Family Home
Time: Late at night – 12:30 AM
The stillness of night wrapped around the quiet neighborhood.
Only the sound of soft wind rustling the window curtains could be heard.
Moonlight, full and pale, slipped gently through the clouds, tracing silver lines on the wooden floor.
In a room on the upper floor, Lucien sat on the edge of his bed—hunched forward, like someone who had lost something irreplaceable.
His head was bowed, blond hair falling over his eyes. His hands were tightly clasped together, as if holding onto something invisible between his fingers.
Lucien (thinking):
"I should've listened… I should've been calmer, softer. She was trying to explain.
But I—why did I yell?
I wasn't supposed to snap like that."
He exhaled, then ran his right hand over his face like he was trying to wipe away a heavy thought—but the thought stayed. It grew heavier.
He tugged at the edge of the blanket beneath his foot, pressing his fingers into the fabric as if trying to unload the tension, then gently placed his palm over his chest, pressing lightly over his heart.
Lucien (whispers):
"Ellen… where are you?"
Across the room, Louis, his childhood friend, sat crouched on the floor beside a small table, gathering a deck of playing cards.
Next to him was their third friend, Malik, a dark-skinned guy whose smile somehow stayed with him even in his worst moments. His eyes always had a spark—like he had a joke ready to go.
Malik (laughing as he shuffles the cards):
"Again! Can you believe it? Three rounds in a row, Louis. This one's your card—and that one's your tear."
Louis (with a long sigh):
"Luck's betrayed me tonight. Or maybe you're a wizard, Malik?
Come on, tell me—got a secret spell? I'm starting to suspect you."
Malik (in an exaggerated mystical voice):
"It is the power of the night, my friend. The moon is high, and the stars bear witness to my glorious victory."
Louis (laughs, nodding toward Lucien):
"Well, at least I played. Lucien's been holding a funeral since he sat down."
Malik (nodding):
"For real. Man, you're like the lead in a Korean drama. Are you waiting for rain to fall inside your room? Or is there sad music playing behind you and we just can't hear it?"
Lucien didn't respond.
He simply lifted his eyes to the window, where the moonlight was glowing on the glass. Then, he stood up and quietly walked over, opening it just a bit.
A gentle breeze stirred his hair.
Lucien (gazing at the moon, whispering like he's asking it):
"How are you, Ellen?
Are you alright… wherever you are?"
Louis and Malik went silent.
They looked at him—then shared a brief glance, full of quiet concern.
But Malik quickly cleared his throat and spoke in a playful tone.
Malik:
"Oh boy, here we go. The poetry's back. Nighttime Poet has returned!"
Louis (lightly):
"Lucien, come on. Enough drowning in thoughts.
She might be far away now…
But you're still here. With us.
Come sit—let us beat you at cards too."
Lucien (smiling faintly, walking back slowly):
"I haven't lost yet.
And maybe… maybe I need to lose something small—
instead of losing her."
He sat between them. Malik handed him two cards, and Louis reshuffled the deck.
Malik (with a wink):
"This round's yours, Brokenhearted Bard."
Louis (grabbing his cards):
"But fair warning: if you cry, we're filming it and uploading the video."
Lucien (smirking softly):
"Fair deal.
As long as you don't see me crying on the inside."
The next round began.
But the winner didn't matter. The loser didn't either.
What mattered was that—for the first time that night—the room didn't feel so heavy.
Friendship... sometimes, it's the only thing that keeps the heart beating—
even when it's broken.
•••
Location: Palace of Versailles – The Hall of Mirrors
Time: Evening – The Tenth Night of the Nobles' Festival
That night, the Palace of Versailles looked as though it had been plucked straight from a legend.
Light spilled across its walls like liquid gold. Every detail – from the marble floors to the painted ceilings and glittering chandeliers – shimmered as if stars had descended to settle in its corners.
Outside, the French gardens glowed with tiny glass lanterns, cleverly placed among the trees and statues. The reflections on the artificial lakes made them look like a living world of glass.
Inside, specifically in the Hall of Mirrors, 322 of France's nobles had gathered. 331, if you included the royal family — all nine of them.
Queen Charlène de Neuville stood like a beautiful ice flower among a group of ladies who pretended to be shy while spreading the sharpest, most refined rumors.
King William II was laughing with a circle of aristocratic men — their deep, booming laughter sounded like coins hitting a marble table: even if you owed nothing, it made your heart skip.
And in the farthest corner...
The corner even the light hesitated to reach — she was seated there.
Bella Leclair, heiress of fashion, mischief, and social confusion, sat confidently on a custom-designed Swarovski crystal couch — which, incidentally, had cost slightly less than a small palace.
She wore a feminine version of a noblewoman's jacket, deep royal purple with warm crimson trim like phoenix wings. Her long violet diamond earrings sparkled and swayed with every subtle tilt of her head.
Her coal-black hair flowed smoothly over her shoulders, its strands catching candlelight as though they carried hidden flashes of flame.
In her right hand: a tall glass of natural juice, a pink pearlescent blend of raspberry and rose.
In her left: a delicate white silk fan, embroidered with the initials B.L in tiny diamonds — visible only up close.
Bella (thinking as she slowly surveys the room):
> "Beautiful... absolutely beautiful.
A party of 331 people — all of them laughing, none of them knowing who's about to lie first.
That woman to my right has been laughing for ten minutes straight... Did someone press her laugh button?"
She smiled to herself, then raised her fan to half-cover her mouth — as noblewomen do — and whispered to her imaginary confidante:
> "I'm only here so they don't accuse me of political disappearance."
Suddenly, familiar footsteps approached.
Émilie appeared, dressed in a soft cream-colored gown. Her hair was pinned up in a half-messy style, topped with a tiny crown — like a chocolate garnish on a cake.
Émilie (with a stifled laugh):
"How many lies so far? I lost count after the lady who said her husband invented the honey we're eating."
Bella (sighing, waving her fan):
"I don't know, but the woman next to me is whispering that the Queen's wearing a wig. Can you imagine?!"
Émilie (leans in, whispering):
"A wig?! Seriously? The Queen of France... in a wig?! And here I thought she was all-natural..."
Bella (smirking as she swirls her drink):
"Shhh, don't make me laugh. If the fan shakes, they'll think I'm unstable."
Émilie:
"You are unstable. Inside."
Bella (raising an eyebrow):
"Confident, are you?
I brought a light poison with me — tasteless, colorless. Mix perfectly with juice."
Émilie (laughing):
"Wow, Miss Leclair or Miss Moriarty... oh wait, same person. I forgot."
At that moment, the six princesses entered — each in a unique gown representing an old noble house.
Bella raised her gaze, smiled graciously, and rose slightly to greet them, as she always did.
Princess Laurène (with playful charm):
"Oooh, Bella! You look like you just stole half the hearts in the room."
Bella (with a sidelong glance):
"Oh, I stole their cakes first.
Hearts come after sugar."
Princess Solène:
"Are you joining the betting game tonight?"
Bella:
"If the prize is a small countryside chateau and a secretary (glances at Émilie) who doesn't talk much — I'm in first."
They all laughed, some sitting on the nearby couch, others standing around or behind her, and a quiet, strange, elegant, but meaningful conversation began.
In the background, classical French music continued.
Some of the ladies began to twirl gracefully on the dance floor.
And Bella?
She peered over her fan... up at the grand chandelier above.
Then whispered to herself:
> "Will someone come tonight?
Or will I end up dancing with my shadow?"
•••
Laughter, chatter, and creepily funny ghost stories filled the corner where Bella sat with the six princesses and Émilie.
One of the princesses was recounting a tale with a serious expression:
> "No, I'm not joking… the story says the maid disappeared on the wedding night, and no one ever found her. They only heard the sound of her heels echoing in the hallway every night…"
Another princess shrieked, covering her face with her fan:
> "Uuughhh! Bella, say something! I'm scared to go back to my room alone tonight!"
Bella laughed with them, but the sparkle in her eyes began to fade slowly.
Then, suddenly — silence.
She drifted off...
It was as if her soul had quietly stepped out of her body and taken the seat beside her.
Émilie noticed first, followed by the eyes of the six princesses.
One of them asked,
"Bella… are you okay? You look like you checked out of the spooky mood."
Bella (smiling, waving her fan):
"Don't worry, it's just... I suddenly thought of a dress design. The details are swirling in my head, and I hate losing them."
Émilie (narrowing her eyes):
"A dress design? Just like that?"
Bella (confidently):
"Of course. Inspiration doesn't knock — it kicks the door open and rearranges your life."
Princess Laurène:
"Where are you going?"
Bella:
"La Fontaine de Latone. I just need a moment of quiet. I'll be back soon, don't worry."
Bella stood gracefully, placed her drink gently on the table, folded her fan with a smooth motion, and walked slowly toward the exit of the hall.
As she passed, one of the young noblemen turned his head to watch her — her older cousin, Sébastien Leclair, who'd grown up with her like an older brother and had always been close.
He was laughing with a group of nobles, discussing horse races and a minor scandal in a duke's estate, but his eyes couldn't help but follow her as she walked away.
His brow furrowed slightly in concern, but the noise around him held him in place for the moment.
•••
Location: The Latona Fountain – Versailles Gardens
That night, the gardens of Versailles looked like a quiet oil painting, painted with magic fingertips.
The Latona Fountain shimmered under the moonlight. The water danced gently over the statues of Latona and her children — as if the fountain knew someone was watching it with heavy thoughts.
Guards roamed quietly in the background, adding a hint of life to the silence.
Bella sat on the stone edge of the fountain, staring upward.
The sky was clear, and the moon was full.
Its light spilled over her face, revealing her true expression — not just a fashion heiress or a face of elegance…
But a girl. A girl who had made a mistake.
Bella (thinking, whispering to herself):
> "Journals… Bella, it literally said 'private' on the cover, and my brain went: open it. See what's inside.
I knew I was crossing a line… but I was scared.
My curiosity drowned out my conscience.
I was scared I didn't matter to him. That I wasn't in his heart at all...
I don't know.
Did he forgive me? Or did he hate me?"
She closed her eyes and pressed her palm to her chest.
> "If you can hear me, Lucien... I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."
She suddenly felt something touch her shoulder — soft, but real.
She turned.
Émilie was standing there, having appeared silently, holding her fan and staring at her with a deep expression.
Émilie:
"You lied to us.
Not about a dress.
Your lies might fool everyone else — but not me."
Bella gave her a shy smile and shifted slightly to make room on the fountain edge.
Bella:
"I didn't have the courage to say the truth…
Still don't."
A male voice joined them:
"And you don't have to… not until you're ready."
Sébastien had walked over, hands in his pockets, his gaze not judgmental — just understanding.
Sébastien:
"But if you ever do want to talk…
We're here."
Bella (looking at them both, whispering):
"Thank you… really."
Émilie (with a half-sarcastic smile):
"I'm sorry, but tonight's not made for sadness.
I'm skipping a royal dance for you."
Bella (laughing):
"So I'm not the only crazy one?"
Sébastien:
"Oh no — you're the main crazy.
We're just the assistants."
Bella laughed. A real laugh.
Then she stood up.
She opened her fan with a flourish and began walking back toward the palace with an exaggerated, theatrical strut — like a noblewoman from a dramatic French play, in a cheeky parody of herself.
Bella (in a lightly dramatic voice):
"I have returned, Versailles... prepare yourselves — charisma shall rain from the heavens!"
Émilie (opening her fan, following behind):
"Oh no, here we go...
Everyone back to your places — the queen is coming!"
Sébastien smiled, shook his head, hands still in his pockets, and followed them.
Above them, the moon shone.
Their three shadows stretched across the cobbled path.
And Bella's final whisper echoed into the night:
> "This time… I won't run away."
•••
Location: Hall of Mirrors – Palace of Versailles
Time: The Same Night
The entrance to the hall looked like a throne staircase carved from glory...
The very first step inside felt like stepping into another era — where light doesn't shine… it pours.
It poured from the massive crystal chandeliers, tangled and refracted across the antique mirrored walls, reflecting your face over and over — as if the room whispered:
> "Watch yourself — everything here is being watched."
---
A clear wine glass is lifted slowly...
A server pours Saint-Émilion Grand Cru 1982, its deep red hue like royalty's blood.
A woman in her fifties, posture as straight as an ancient throne, waves a French fan made of rare silk, adorned with dozens of tiny diamonds that scatter light in a soft spectrum.
Her face remains still, but her eyes — her eyes tell stories of triumphs and defeats.
Another woman walks by, wearing a massive necklace of emerald and pearl that drapes from her neck to the top of her chest like a verse of opulence.
Young women in their twenties laugh, wearing earrings of ruby and sapphire — each jewel sparkling like it knows it's worth more than a clock's time.
A nobleman with a groomed mustache holds a cane topped with pure diamond, speaking in a low tone to a younger man wearing crocodile leather shoes, handmade in Italy.
A woman's foot steps forward.
A medium heel, red and glassy, set with a gemstone the color of wine. She walks as if the heel doesn't touch the ground.
Another girl passes, wearing soft yellow leather shoes adorned with fine golden lines — like a mischievous sun had fallen to earth.
A woman passes by in a rose-gold bracelet, tapping her fingers lightly on a glass as she gives a sidelong smile to a man wearing a white-gold ring with sapphire on his pinky.
The men wear aristocratic dark suits, embroidered with silver thread at the cuffs and buttons made from ivory bone.
The women...
One dress in deep wine red, another the color of clouds, a third in raw gold.
Tight at the waist, wide at the hem — royalty governs needle and thread.
Hair elegantly styled, golden highlights, miniature crowns pinned with precision...
As for Queen Charlène, she wore a crown of white sapphire designed to resemble the branching of a glacial river.
King William II stood tall in a traditional crown of heavy gold, centered with a rare blue gem, surrounded by engravings symbolizing House de Montemare.
Each table held the finest drinks:
Château d'Yquem – a sweet French wine the color of sunlight
Moët & Chandon Rosé Impérial – served in crystal flutes
Rémy Martin Louis XIII Cognac – bottles displayed on glass pedestals, discreetly guarded
And luxurious juices: wild berry, white peach, orange blossom, ripe mango, and organic green apple
With dishes such as:
Strawberry cakes coated in white cream
Vanilla cake filled with almond paste
Dark chocolate cake dusted in edible gold (yes, real gold)
Macarons de Versailles, in pastel shades decorated with edible rose petals
Camembert cheese rolls with figs and basil
Croissants filled with smoked salmon and black caviar
Tarte Tatin, caramelized apple tarts glazed with salted caramel
A blonde woman bites into a strawberry cake while another girl raises an eyebrow, pushing her plate away, saying:
> "Vanilla? Sorry, my stomach's far too aristocratic for that."
The waiter hands her a slice of Opera Cake, which she accepts as if receiving a piece of the moon.
The hall buzzes with whispers, laughter, the clink of rings against crystal glasses...
Everything here screams luxury.
Everything here proves: money doesn't buy taste — it reveals it.
Meanwhile, in one of the corners…
Bella sat, watching this grand performance, her smile faint — not in awe, but in knowing mockery.
> "I pity the poor."
She sat on another crystal couch, one leg stretched out elegantly, fan in hand, waving it lightly as she observed the room from a distance — like watching a rerun of an overly rehearsed play.
Sometimes she smiled.
Sometimes she shrugged.
And in her mind:
> "Same conversations. Same jewelry. Same exaggerated laughter... just different crowns."
Then—
"Beeeeella!"
A warm, gentle feminine voice rang out, one that could melt your nerves like a spoiled child in a frozen winter.
Bella immediately lifted her head — like she had known that voice since the cradle.
It was Isabelle Leclair… her mother.
A woman in her late thirties, with long black hair and eyes the same shade as Bella's — though gentler, warmer. She wore a deep emerald green gown embroidered in gold, perfectly suited for the mother of the "only Rose of the Leclair family."
Standing beside her was Duchess Camélia, holding a delicate cup of white tea, her gaze fixed on her granddaughter with a rare mix of pride and suspicion. She wore a dark blue gown that shimmered faintly, like starlight.
Next to her stood Aunt Antoinette — tall, with a serious expression and a half-visible smile. Her gown was royal coal in color, and she clasped her hands in front of her like a fleet admiral.
Bella stood instantly, set her glass aside, gracefully closed her fan, and walked toward them as though she were walking down a carpet of reverence and dread.
> "Yes, Mummy?" Bella said softly as she approached, tucking her hair behind her ear.
Isabelle:
> "I just wanted to see how you looked up close, sweetheart… Magnificent! See this jacket? It was your aunt's idea — but honestly, the way you wear it makes you look like a princess... no, an empress."
Camélia (coolly):
> "At least she's not wearing one of those insane jackets she used to design at sixteen."
Antoinette (dryly, with a smile):
> "You were the one who gave her full creative freedom, Mother. Blame no one but yourself."
The three women laughed as Bella placed a hand on her chest and tilted her head like she was saying:
> "I'm the victim here."
Before Bella could reply with something snarky, the mood shifted.
The sound changed.
Breaths were held.
Footsteps echoed from across the hall — but these weren't ordinary footsteps...
They were firm. Deep. Confident.
And unmistakably arrogant.
The first thing to appear was the reflection of pure white — a long coat embroidered with dark blue threads and golden lines along the collar and cuffs.
Then came his hair...
Long, golden, cascading like sunlit waves.
And finally, his face—
Composed features, a sharp nose, a jaw sculpted for command.
But his eyes…
Amber, sharp pupils — the eyes of someone who knew exactly what he wanted...
And knew he would get it.
Prince Adrien III, heir to the French throne, had arrived. Known for his noble looks… and corrupt personality.
He wore a faint smile, as if the whole world bored him — but entertained him just enough.
The women in the hall—
Like a wave of whispers.
> "It's him!"
"Late as always!"
"Look at how he walks, like heaven itself paved the ground just for him!"
Some noblewomen began fluttering their fans rapidly.
One whispered to her daughter:
> "Smile now... and don't breathe too much. The prince is coming."
But Adrien wasn't looking for just anyone.
He knew where she was.
His eyes drifted directly to the left side of the hall — toward Bella.
He smiled… and winked.
Bella, still standing between her mother, aunt, and grandmother, raised one eyebrow and sighed internally as if to say:
> "Still up to your same old tricks, Your Highness."
Isabelle (gently whispering):
> "My dear, do you know how many girls in this hall dream of just a glance from him?"
Bella (sighing):
> "And I dream of a different kind of glance... one that doesn't filter everything he sees."
Antoinette (winking at Camélia):
> "His stares are rehearsed. Like a scene in a masquerade ball."
Camélia (sipping her tea):
> "That boy has the face of a king. But his heart? A wicked cat who lost its velvet paw."
As the prince approached, his steps deliberate, his smile measured — women parted for him like shy autumn leaves.
Bella stood there, arms crossed, her fan tapping against her thigh like a warm-up for a boxing match, not a royal greeting.
> "Oh... is he going to use that line again?"
"I bet he'll say: 'I was searching for something precious… and found you here.'"
But the surprise?
The prince arrived, stopped in front of her, bowed slightly with perfect grace, took her hand gently, kissed it, and said:
> "I was looking for a piece of the moon… and now I know where it's been hiding all this time."
Bella (sighing with a light laugh):
> "I lost the bet…"
Émilie (from a distance, whispering to her maid):
> "We'll need five more fans — the room temperature just spiked."
Prince Adrien III stepped away with slow, deliberate strides — as if fully aware that gazes still clung to the shimmering threads of his coat, and women's whispers still followed his every movement.
He walked toward the opposite end of the hall, where King William II and QueenCharlène stood.
The King — a man in his late forties, tall, with smooth gray hair tied at the nape of his neck — wore a regal suit in vintage wine red. There was an unwavering firmness in his eyes, but when he laughed… all rules of formality broke, and he became warmer than a winter sun.
Queen Charlène, meanwhile, dazzled in a royal ivory gown adorned with pearls. Her hair was styled in an elegant updo, crowned with the family's sapphire-studded tiara. Her eyes were ocean blue at midday, and simply standing beside the king, the two exuded balance — like magnetic poles holding the court together.
As Adrien approached, a hush fell.
Then, the king raised his glass and spoke with a booming voice:
> "Here is our heir…
Our only son…
The pride of our family, and the reason his six sisters sigh in exhaustion."
(Laughter rippled through the crowd.)
"Adrien the Third, Dauphin of France, and the prince of this evening."
The nobles applauded — some with genuine excitement, others out of strategic politeness.
Queen Charlène stepped closer, gently took Adrien's hand, and kissed his cheek.
Queen Charlène (warmly):
> "You've grown… and still manage to worry me the same way."
She looked at him with a mother's timeless tenderness.
> "Dance with a respectable girl tonight, and remember — you represent the crown… not just your emotions."
Adrien (winking playfully):
> "And is there anything more respectable… and enchanting, than—"
Queen (cutting him off gently):
> "Yes, yes. I know who you mean… Just don't scare her."
Adrien smirked, then turned.
The lights in the hall dimmed gradually. The music changed.
The royal orchestra began to play La danse de Minuet — the noble Minuet dance.
The nobles began to move—
Men offered their hands, women blushed, smiled, and stood with aristocratic grace.
On one side of the room, Émilie stood still, slowly fanning herself like she hoped a breeze might carry her away.
Suddenly, Lady Marguerite, her mother, appeared — gently clutching her arm and whispering firmly:
> "Duke Bernard's son is across the room. You will go, smile, dance… and don't trip. He's family — and owns a summer palace in Nice."
Émilie (muttering):
> "I like Nice… just not enough to marry it."
Then—
> "There he is."
The Duke's son, a man in his thirties, classically handsome, with a refined gaze, approached.
He bowed gracefully.
> "Would you honor me with this dance, m'lady?"
Émilie (with a politely sarcastic smile):
> "With pleasure… and mild surrender, my lord."
On the other side of the hall…
Bella sat, beginning to feel like the entire scene had turned into a poorly disguised stage play.
She held her fan and watched everyone move — like chess pieces on a golden board.
> "He wouldn't… Not in front of everyone. He wouldn't dare, right?"
Then—
Adrien approached.
He stopped directly in front of her.
Everyone else stopped too.
The lights centered on them — as if it had all been planned… because it had.
Adrien (extending his hand):
> "Bella… May I have this dance?"
Bella gave him a neutral look.
A look that said:
> "Seriously? In front of everyone? After everything?"
She was about to speak — but her mother's hand gently tapped her shoulder.
Isabelle (softly):
> "Just one dance. It won't hurt… for me, darling."
Bella softly closed her fan, placed her hand in Adrien's.
> "One dance. Don't misinterpret it."
Adrien (with a charming smirk):
> "I hear what's said… but I listen between the lines."
He pulled her gracefully toward the dance floor as the music swelled, and hearts either calmed… or exploded, depending on where they stood in the story.
Bella (thinking as she twirled with him):
> "This isn't a prince… he needs a psychiatric ward."
The light reflected off the crystal chandeliers, scattering like golden dusk across the polished floor.
Bella and Adrien stood at the center of the hall.
All eyes fixed.
Breaths held.
Whispers dissolved beneath the rustling of gowns and fine shoes gliding.
The first step began…
Adrien bowed respectfully.
Bella lowered her hand with deliberate elegance, as if offering something more valuable than gold.
They began the steps of the Minuet — symmetrical, precise, forcing the body to remain poised and the face to perform.
Adrien (with a sidelong whisper):
> "I thought you'd refuse to dance with me… but your heart said yes before your feet did."
Bella (cool and sarcastic):
> "Heart? That was my mother's voice. I was just wondering if turning you down publicly would embarrass you."
They moved in a half-circle, exchanging places.
Adrien (softly as they turned):
> "I've never been embarrassed by rejection. But being rejected by you? That might be… poetic."
Bella (grinning as she subtly nodded toward the "royal family's private press" at the edge of the hall):
> "Maybe I'll write about it one day. 'Prince of France Rejected by Fashion-Obsessed Heiress.' It has a nice ring to it."
Adrien (laughing quietly, voice dropping):
> "Obsessed? No, enchanting. Annoying… a little dangerous."
Bella (spinning back to face him):
> "Oh, darling, if I were truly dangerous, I'd be dancing with one of your brothers right now. Lucky for you… you're the only son. Saved me from boredom."
They paused for a moment in the center of the dance.
Then stepped forward in opposite directions.
The strings rose in a dramatic swell — and the entire ballroom seemed to freeze for a moment, just to witness.
Adrien (in a softer whisper):
> "You know… ever since we were kids, you always made fun of me.
And I think… I liked that."
Bella (raising a brow):
> "Of course. Who wouldn't enjoy being mocked their whole life? I bet you miss the days you'd chase me just to steal my berry juice."
Adrien (steps closer, holding her hand more gently than the dance requires):
> "I was chasing you, not the juice."
Bella (pulls her hand away gently, spins, and returns to position):
> "Stop. People will think the prince read one romance novel and decided to reenact it word for word."
Adrien (laughs, then pauses, blinking):
> "I think I perform quite well."
Bella (dryly amused):
> "Well enough for an Oscar… for overacting."
A brief silence… only the sound of their synchronized steps.
Lights glimmer through the mirrors, and Bella's hair flows softly with every turn.
Adrien's eyes never leave her — his gaze holds something old, deeper than flirtation, something like a quiet confession.
Then, suddenly, he whispers — for real this time:
> "Have you forgiven me… for what I did when we were sixteen?"
Bella (pauses, then laughs):
> "Oh… you mean when you tried to cut my hair because you thought I was an 'evil witch'?"
Adrien (looks at the floor, then back up):
> "I was an idiot… and still am, in some ways."
Bella (leans closer, whispers):
> "The correct answer was: 'But I'm trying to be better.'… You've lost the round again."
Adrien:
> "But I won a dance."
Bella (smiling, shaking her head softly):
> "Only one… Your Highness."
The music begins to slow.
Dancers ease into their final positions, preparing for the closing bow.
Bella and Adrien bow to each other.
And in her mind, only one thought passes:
> "He's still that boy… pretending to be a man.
And me?… I'm still not sure if I enjoy the game."
Then—
Applause.
It starts soft, like waves, then grows louder, echoing against the grand hall's walls like the room itself is clapping.
In one section of the ballroom sits Bella's family:
Her mother — Isabelle, hand over heart, whispers:
> "My daughter… you look like a true princess."
Her father — smiling with pride, claps strongly despite his usual reserved demeanor.
Grandmother Camélia — peeking over her ornate fan, claps gently, her eyes saying: "Well done, my little one."
The eldest aunt, standing beside her husband, remarks in surprise:
> "Oh, she's actually… graceful. I didn't expect that."
Cousins clap calmly, but shoot Adrien sharp glances — warning him not to try anything further.
Her three uncles and their wives — smile politely, some eyeing Adrien with subtle analysis.
Elsewhere, Amélie's family watches:
Her mother, holding her husband's hand, whispers:
> "Look, look at her… Amélie's smiling!"
Her father, muttering in a fatherly tone:
> "The important thing is that the duke's son is a serious man."
Her older brother, hand on his chin, raises an eyebrow:
> "Hmm… he looks decent, but I'm still checking his bank records later."
Meanwhile, Amélie shares a few quiet laughs with Duke Bernard's son, a tall man with green eyes and neatly combed dark brown hair.
In another corner — the royal family themselves:
King William II, lifting his crystal glass, says calmly:
> "My son knows how to steal the spotlight… and sometimes, the nerves."
Queen Charlène, hand over her mouth, whispers to her daughters:
> "You know… I knew from his very first practice waltz he'd choose Bella for the grand ball."
The six princesses — three clap with genuine excitement, the rest whisper among themselves about Bella's aristocratic dress and gorgeous hairstyle.
Then, as tradition dictates, everyone begins returning to their places.
Each person to their family or noble circle.
Adrien returns to his parents, whispering something to the king that makes him burst out laughing, while the queen shakes her head:
> "Don't start, Adrien."
Bella takes a deep breath, then quietly walks back to her seat, where her mother awaits with a warm smile.
Grandmother Camélia extends a hand and whispers:
> "You don't need to dance to be a queen…
But sometimes, the dance balances sarcasm with power."
Amélie, catching Bella's glance, smiles.
Bella smiles back and gives her a subtle wave.
Amélie then turns to Bernard and says:
> "Let's sit down before my mother steals me away to dance with another noble's son."
The lights in the hall dim slightly.
Servants begin collecting empty dishes and rearranging tables.
The music fades into a soft melody — like the sea's whisper after a storm.
Bella sits, lifts her fan, hides a faint smile behind it, and thinks:
> "One dance with a prince…
means nothing in the real world.
But it was definitely… a little fun."
•••
Time: End of the royal ball – just before midnight
Place: Hall of Mirrors – Palace of Versailles
In one of the corners of the grand ballroom, beneath the massive chandelier sparkling like a mad star, the Leclair family had gathered — like a Renaissance painting come to life.
Soft laughter, elegant words, and gentle teasing passed between generations.
Grandmother Camélia held her fan and waved it lightly, her gaze sweeping over her grandchildren with a hidden mix of pride and sternness.
Beside her stood Isabelle, Bella's mother, clutching the arm of her husband Franc, who spoke quietly with his cousin.
Bella stood between Sebastian and Felix, speaking to them while slowly waving her fan — like she was planning a battle, not indulging in noble small talk.
Then—
A sudden silence, as if an invisible note had just echoed through the room.
Everyone turned.
Queen Charlène was approaching.
In her deep midnight-blue evening gown, embroidered with silver threads like moonlight on a calm sea, and a white lace shawl brushing the floor, she walked with serene grace. Four handmaidens followed behind in flowing grey dresses — each moving like a shadow of the crown itself.
Without hesitation, the entire Leclair family bowed in perfect harmony.
Grandmother Camélia (in a composed voice):
> "Your Majesty… Versailles truly shines with your presence."
Queen Charlène smiled gently, lifting her hand softly:
> "Dear Camélia… your beauty still outshines the jewels."
Noble laughter passed between them like velvet breeze.
The queen began casual conversation — complimenting outfits, the ball's arrangement, the night's elegance. Everyone responded politely, and Bella played the role of the untouchable noble flawlessly…
Until the queen turned to her directly.
Queen Charlène (looking straight at Bella):
> "Dear Bella… I recently heard a rumor from one of my ladies-in-waiting — that you and your husband… Mr. Amory, are considering divorce?"
The atmosphere dropped like a piano stopping mid-note.
The entire Leclair family — trained in composure — instinctively stepped back half a pace.
Their eyes landed on Bella, waiting for her reply.
Bella didn't even blink.
With all the theatrical grace she was raised with, she smiled enchantingly, raised her fan to cover her mouth, and tilted her head slightly.
Bella (in a soft, carefully light tone):
> "Ah, Your Majesty… rumors always run faster than truth. I don't think the press drinks enough tea before writing."
The queen narrowed her eyes — then laughed with graceful subtlety, as if Bella had just passed a silent test.
Queen Charlène (lightly teasing):
> "I was only checking… because if it were true, I might seriously consider marrying you to our son Adrien."
Sebastian choked on his drink.
Felix laughed silently.
Grandmother Camélia cleared her throat softly, like she was saying: "Attention… the game has begun."
Bella pretended not to understand — but her fan began moving faster.
Bella (with a light laugh):
> "Your Majesty… your dauphin will need to beat me in chess first, before any talk of marriage. I wonder who would dare take on that challenge?"
Laughter rippled again — even the queen's handmaidens smiled politely.
Queen Charlène (waving her hand gently):
> "Alright then, I'll leave you in peace before I'm accused of meddling in affairs that don't concern me. That was a lovely dance, Bella… as expected from you."
Then —
The queen turned with royal grace and walked away, her handmaidens following like moonlight retreating quietly from the stage.
Bella exhaled slowly, glanced at the juice in her hand, and muttered:
> "This isn't enough juice… I need something colder."
Her mother Isabelle came closer, laughing as she smoothed Bella's hair:
> "My daughter, remember… royals only test those in whom they see something greater."
Grandmother Camélia waved her fan with a knowing tone:
> "Perhaps… they see a queen in you."
Bella gave her a look that clearly said "bruh", sighed in exhaustion, and Felix placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her — while barely holding back his laughter.
Meanwhile, Sebastian just stared at her with an unreadable expression.
•••
Time: End of the royal ball – just before midnight
Place: Hall of Mirrors – Palace of Versailles
In one of the corners of the grand ballroom, beneath the massive chandelier sparkling like a mad star, the Leclair family had gathered — like a Renaissance painting come to life.
Soft laughter, elegant words, and gentle teasing passed between generations.
Grandmother Camélia held her fan and waved it lightly, her gaze sweeping over her grandchildren with a hidden mix of pride and sternness.
Beside her stood Isabelle, Bella's mother, clutching the arm of her husband Franc, who spoke quietly with his cousin.
Bella stood between Sebastian and Felix, speaking to them while slowly waving her fan — like she was planning a battle, not indulging in noble small talk.
Then—
A sudden silence, as if an invisible note had just echoed through the room.
Everyone turned.
Queen Charlène was approaching.
In her deep midnight-blue evening gown, embroidered with silver threads like moonlight on a calm sea, and a white lace shawl brushing the floor, she walked with serene grace. Four handmaidens followed behind in flowing grey dresses — each moving like a shadow of the crown itself.
Without hesitation, the entire Leclair family bowed in perfect harmony.
Grandmother Camélia (in a composed voice):
> "Your Majesty… Versailles truly shines with your presence."
Queen Charlène smiled gently, lifting her hand softly:
> "Dear Camélia… your beauty still outshines the jewels."
Noble laughter passed between them like a velvet breeze.
The queen began casual conversation — complimenting outfits, the ball's arrangement, the night's elegance. Everyone responded politely, and Bella played the role of the untouchable noble flawlessly…
Until the queen turned to her directly.
Queen Charlène (looking straight at Bella):
> "Dear Bella… I recently heard a rumor from one of my ladies-in-waiting — that you and your husband… Mr. Amory, are you considering divorce?"
The atmosphere dropped like a piano stopping mid-note.
The entire Leclair family — trained in composure — instinctively stepped back half a pace.
Their eyes landed on Bella, waiting for her reply.
Bella didn't even blink.
With all the theatrical grace she was raised with, she smiled enchantingly, raised her fan to cover her mouth, and tilted her head slightly.
Bella (in a soft, carefully light tone):
> "Ah, Your Majesty… rumors always run faster than truth. I don't think the press drinks enough tea before writing."
The queen narrowed her eyes — then laughed with graceful subtlety, as if Bella had just passed a silent test.
Queen Charlène (lightly teasing):
> "I was only checking… because if it were true, I might seriously consider marrying you to our son Adrien."
Sebastian choked on his drink.
Felix laughed silently.
Grandmother Camélia cleared her throat softly, like she was saying: "Attention… the game has begun."
Bella pretended not to understand — but her fan began moving faster.
Bella (with a light laugh):
> "Your Majesty… your dauphin will need to beat me in chess first, before any talk of marriage. I wonder who would dare take on that challenge?"
Laughter rippled again — even the queen's handmaidens smiled politely.
Queen Charlène (waving her hand gently):
> "Alright then, I'll leave you in peace before I'm accused of meddling in affairs that don't concern me. That was a lovely dance, Bella… as expected from you."
Then —
The queen turned with royal grace and walked away, her handmaidens following like moonlight retreating quietly from the stage.
Bella exhaled slowly, glanced at the juice in her hand, and muttered:
> "This isn't enough juice… I need something colder."
Her mother Isabelle came closer, laughing as she smoothed Bella's hair:
> "My daughter, remember… royals only test those in whom they see something greater."
Grandmother Camélia waved her fan with a knowing tone:
> "Perhaps… they see a queen in you."
Bella gave her a look that clearly said "bruh", sighed in exhaustion, and Felix placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her — while barely holding back his laughter.
Meanwhile, Sebastian just stared at her with an unreadable expression.
•••
Time: The following morning – 9:30 AM
Place: Gardens of the Palace of Versailles – From the Latona Fountain to the Royal Lawns' Grand Staircase
The morning sun rose over the Palace of Versailles as if it had taken the lead role in a new royal performance. The air was fresh and pure, carrying the scent of rare flowers, while a soft breeze whispered with the laughter and chatter of nobles.
The palace gardens, stretching out like a classical French painting, gleamed under the golden light. Geometrically arranged lemon trees, perfectly symmetrical flowers, and flowing fountains played together like a morning symphony.
At the Parterre de Latone, a noblewoman in a light pink chiffon morning dress stood animatedly chatting with a group of other noble ladies. She gestured with her gloved hand, a silk-white glove, and a necklace of blue and green gemstones shimmered at her neck.
The noblewoman (with a classically grand voice):
> "I paid double the price—yes! But nothing compares to Madame Margot at L'éclat House! Every time I enter, I feel like the queen herself."
The women around her laughed that iconic aristocratic laugh—not heard, but seen, with light shoulder shudders and eyes glinting with elegant amusement.
Near the Latona Fountain, five noble girls stood in graceful formation, wearing soft pastel dresses. One was in lavender, another in canary yellow, each holding a small, ornate fan.
The photographer—also a noblewoman in a simple white dress embroidered with floral patterns—gently guided them:
> "Look here, Alissar, don't lift your chin too high… now a soft smile, no teeth!"
She pressed the button on her pearl-decorated camera, snapping the shot as the girls giggled.
On the Grand Escalier, the grand staircase of the royal lawns, two men in their fifties stood wearing elegant light grey day suits made of fine wool. Their conversation was hushed, refined.
First man (reading a stylish French newspaper):
> "Numbers change, but gold never lies. Eastern investments are starting to prove their worth."
Second man (with a sly smile):
> "Unless politics enters the picture, Marc. Then even gold turns into paper."
Elsewhere in the garden, two young noblemen in their late twenties strode confidently toward the horse arena. One wore a sharp blue day jacket with gold buttons; the other, a noble white suit with a small aristocratic hat.
First young man:
> "I'm betting on Dauphine today. His horse hasn't lost a race in a month."
Second:
> "You'll see Orlaine isn't just a pretty horse… she's a panther in noble skin."
They laughed and continued walking, whispering as if the race were the morning's biggest political debate.
Among the flowers and tree paths of the Bosquet de la Reine, three young children ran with unrestrained laughter. One clutched a flower, another wore a hat far too large for his head, and the third… had fallen, laughing uncontrollably.
Behind them, three young maids chased after them like flustered butterflies.
First maid (breathless):
> "Anton, return to the duchess at once! You've lost your shoe!"
Second maid:
> "Don't rip the gloves, René! They're French lace!"
Even with all the chaos, the scene somehow retained a strange aristocratic grace—chaos, but elegant.
Meanwhile, some nobles had settled into the Bosquet de l'Encelade, reading newspapers or slim volumes of French literature while sipping white tea, Fleur de Lune floral drinks, or milk coffee topped with rose-shaped foam.
Their attire was effortlessly refined: light jackets, floral or pinstriped fabrics, day hats, gloves, and delicate perfumes.
It was a morning that felt like a dream—but beneath all the beauty… stories stirred.
Stories of love, politics, anxiety… and a longing for freedom.
Location: Near the Latona Fountain
Time: The final moments of the royal ball – just before midnight
Amélie's light blue heels tapped gently against the gravel path, harmonizing with the chirping birds and the soothing notes of the nearby fountains.
Behind her, Bella walked slowly in her deep navy heels—her steps calm, but something heavy and unmoving rested inside her.
Amélie was talking excitedly, her hands moving expressively, fully immersed in her story:
> "…and then it turned out the killer wasn't the maid—it was a double agent disguised as a priest! Can you imagine? The whole mystery flipped on its head, especially after they found a secret ink message hidden inside an old library book."
Bella nodded with a faint smile, but her sky-blue eyes were staring into the distance—past the flowers and the golden light—to something unseen. Something that felt like regret.
Amélie stopped talking, sighed softly, and looked at her friend.
Amélie (in a warm voice):
> "You're still thinking he's mad at you, aren't you?"
Bella (barely whispering):
> "Of course he is. He's just a teenager, and I'm older… I should've spoken calmly instead of yelling. What I did wasn't mature. It wasn't fair."
Amélie sat on the marble edge of the Latona Fountain and gestured for Bella to sit beside her.
Amélie (resting her hands on her knees):
> "Bella… you're human. People have emotions. Pressure builds up. Yes, you were wrong to read his journal—but you felt guilty right after. Some people would've used it for their own benefit, but you didn't. You apologized. More than once. And that matters."
Bella (looking into the water):
> "He was right. I knew those diaries were personal. But my curiosity… got the best of me. If it were me, I'd be even angrier. Reading someone's words without permission, even if it's out of love… it's like a small betrayal."
Amélie reached out and gently patted her shoulder.
Amélie (with a kind smile):
> "He's a good kid. He won't stay mad forever. His reaction was normal, but he knows who you are. And when the storm calms down, he'll remember how much you matter to him."
Bella closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.
Bella (with a soft smile):
> "Thank you, Amélie. Since we were little, you've always had my back… in every mess, every version of my chaos."
Amélie (mock-seriously):
> "If I leave you alone for five minutes, you're either sneaking into a secret vault, planning a noble war, or diving into a covert operation. I swear, you're a walking disaster."
They both laughed—genuinely. The kind of laugh that clears a cloud from the heart, even just a little.
Before they could stand, a servant with dark skin, wearing a classic French uniform, approached and bowed slightly to meet them at eye level. He spoke in a low, respectful voice.
Servant (softly):
> "Pardon me, mademoiselles… if you wouldn't mind remaining just like this for a few seconds. The painter over there…"
He gestured subtly toward the bottom of the marble stairs, where a man in his fifties sat, wearing a stylish hat and working on an oil painting.
> "…is capturing this moment for a series that will be exhibited in the Hall of Royal Honor. A legacy… for future generations."
Bella and Amélie exchanged glances, faint surprise on their faces. Then they looked toward the painter, who occasionally lifted his gaze to scan the trees, the palace, the fountain—soaking in every detail. People nearby had stopped walking, almost instinctively, allowing him to paint in peace. His eyes returned to the girls—a true artist seeking the quiet details that define beauty.
Amélie (whispering):
> "Wow… are we becoming classical art now? Should I fix my posture?"
Bella (trying not to laugh):
> "Don't move. This is history. You're representing the noblewomen who specialize in murder mysteries."
They giggled again, then surrendered to the beautiful silence.
Water trickled gently, and sunlight danced on the fountain's surface like little golden hearts.
Behind them, the garden buzzed with life.
Before them… a moment was being painted.
A moment that would last forever.
To be continued…
Here is the description of the girls' outfits that morning:
What Bella wore:
Bella, with her long black hair and sparkling blue eyes, looked elegant in a navy blue midi dress. Her fair skin stood out against the deep color of the chiffon fabric, perfectly complementing her figure—173 cm tall, 60 kg.
The dress had short sleeves and a V-shaped neckline, decorated with shimmering star-like embellishments. She completed her look with a navy fascinator hat, adorned with a neat bow, and carried a small navy clutch bag.
On her feet, she wore pointed high heels in navy, and her ears were adorned with dangling earrings set with dark blue gemstones. The ensemble reflected her refined fashion sense and elegance, with a touch of sophistication that matched her intelligent, playful personality.
What Amélie wore:
Amélie, with her short light brown hair and olive-green eyes, looked graceful in a light blue floral maxi dress. Her slender frame—160 cm tall, 58 kg—was complemented by the soft pleats of the flowing dress.
She wore a simple light blue fascinator hat decorated with two fabric roses, and carried a matching handbag. Her pointed high heels matched the color of her accessories, and she wore long pearl earrings to complete the outfit.
Her fair skin looked radiant against the soft shades of blue. The outfit mirrored her calm, elegant nature, with a refined touch befitting her intelligent personality.