"You'll never survive him if you keep flinching like that."
Claiborne's voice sliced through the silence of the drawing room. Her eyes were fixed on my posture again, her sharp gaze more piercing than the needle she used to pin my dress in place. We had been at this for over two hours—corset adjustments, heel balancing drills, spine-straightening instructions I could barely breathe through.
I didn't respond.
She stood, walked behind me, and flicked my shoulder lightly. "Chin up. Eyes soft. He doesn't like a challenge… unless it bleeds."
I swallowed hard, staring at the floor-to-ceiling mirror before me.
A girl stared back.
She wore pale silk and silence like armor.
She didn't look like me.
"You're teaching me to be a doll," I murmured, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Claiborne moved around to face me, arms crossed. "No. I'm teaching you to be dangerous."
I blinked. "What?"
"Diana," she sighed, kneeling slightly so we were at eye level. "You're in a cage, yes. But even in a cage, you can sharpen your teeth."
For the first time, her voice lacked its usual harshness.
"Damien didn't choose you for love," she continued, smoothing a wrinkle in my sleeve. "He chose you for war. He just doesn't know you could be the one to end it."
I stared at her, unsure if she was mocking me.
But her eyes held something new. Not sympathy. Not quite care.
Recognition.
She stood again and motioned toward the tea set. "Drink something. You look like you haven't eaten since last night."
She was right.
After Damien's visit, my appetite had vanished. His words had wrapped around my chest like a noose: You're not broken. Not yet.
As I poured the tea with trembling hands, Claiborne watched me.
"You think I enjoy this?" she asked quietly. "Making you learn how to smile when you want to scream?"
I looked up, startled.
"I've seen too many girls swallowed by him," she said. "Too many who begged and cried and hoped. That doesn't work with Damien."
"Then what does?" I asked, voice almost a whisper.
She leaned in slightly.
"Composure. Grace. Silence that feels like a threat."
I didn't know whether to be grateful or terrified.
"Why are you helping me?" I asked finally.
A flicker passed over her face—almost a smile. "Because once, a long time ago, I thought I could save someone from him too."
She turned her back before I could ask more.
But the air between us had shifted.
She wasn't just my handler anymore.
She was a mirror.
One I wasn't sure I wanted to look into too closely.
**
That night, I ate dinner alone again. Damien hadn't been seen all day. The guards were quieter than usual. Even the house, always so sterile and controlled, felt like it was holding its breath.
Cassie hadn't visited in two days.
And though I never thought I'd say it—I missed her venom. Her presence meant I wasn't alone with just myself and the ghosts of who I used to be.
I sat at the long, candlelit dining table, slicing salmon I couldn't taste. Somewhere in the mansion, the piano played faintly—probably from the main hall.
I didn't ask who was playing.
I didn't ask anything anymore.
When I returned to my room, a small note had been slipped beneath the door.
No name. No seal.
Just one line in looping black ink.
"A polished girl doesn't cry. She cuts."
I turned it over.
Nothing else.
No clue who sent it.
But deep down…I already knew.
Claiborne might've been his accomplice.
But now—she was teaching me something he never intended.
How to make my survival look elegant.
How to weaponize grace.
And when the time came…I wouldn't run.
I would stand still.
And watch him crumble.