The chatter of the grand hall dimmed into the background as Roland's sharp yellow eyes found me, a flash of red hair standing out like a signal amid the glittering crowd. He moved with the deliberate ease of a man who commanded attention without effort, yet I could sense his gaze tracing me with curiosity that bordered on intrigue.
My dress swept lightly as I allowed him to close the distance, weaving through nobles who parted instinctively for his presence. I settled at the edge of a small table by a window, letting the light strike my hair just enough to highlight its fire without calling too much attention.
When he finally reached me, his voice was smooth, polite, carrying that faint timbre of authority.
"It seems even among the most crowded rooms," he remarked.
"some things cannot escape notice."
I tilted my chin slightly, offering the faintest curve of a smile. To him, it might have looked like idle amusement; in truth, I was measuring, calculating—how much of himself would he reveal to a stranger, and how much could I learn about the elusive woman whose shadow still lingered over him?
"Perhaps," I replied, voice soft yet deliberate.
"some things only reveal themselves to those who are paying attention."
His eyebrows lifted, subtle surprise flickering in his amber gaze. A small smile tugged at his lips.
"Indeed," he said, leaning closer.
"Though some of us are not easily distracted."
I studied his face, noting the calm precision in every line. His hands weren't those of a soldier, yet they held the quiet certainty of a man who shaped worlds with words and wit, not steel.
My tone dropped, laced with mischief.
"I find that those easily distracted rarely notice what's truly important."
A quiet chuckle escaped him, low and knowing. He seemed to recognize the game being played, yet he did not retreat.
"And you, Lady…?" he asked, studying me as if trying to unravel a thread that might pull a whole tapestry apart.
"Heather," I said simply, letting the name hang between us.
He nodded once, eyes narrowing as he considered it. The aura, the poise—it all suggested a woman far more experienced than appearances implied, yet there was something untouchable, unspoken, a challenge he could not ignore.
Our words flowed, effortless yet charged, threading between subtle jabs of wit and polite observation. I let the conversation skim the surface at first, feigned curiosity twined with calculated charm.
"Some families at court," I mused, swirling the rim of my cup.
"Seems ever eager to shift with whichever wind blows strongest. I wonder if loyalty has become… seasonal."
Roland's eyes narrowed fractionally, though his smile remained intact.
"Loyalty is often mistaken for survival. A family cannot afford stubbornness when a kingdom trembles. But perhaps,"
He leaned just a touch closer, "you find such pragmatism distasteful?"
I met his gaze directly, the faintest curve of amusement at my lips. "Distasteful? Not at all. I only find it curious that pragmatism so often disguises itself in the garb of honor."
That earned a quiet laugh, rich but restrained. He regarded me with a glimmer of appreciation—though it was as much challenge as acknowledgment.
I pressed on lightly, my voice lilting, careless in appearance though every word measured.
"And the Castell name? Surely your house does not bend so easily with the tides."
He shifted, pride flaring subtle but unmistakable.
"The Castell line does not bend, Lady Heather. We endure. While others adjust their sails, we are the current they follow."
It was a neat, practiced answer, and yet I caught the flicker beneath—something taut, unspoken. A personal strain in the polished declaration. I let the silence breathe just enough before tilting my head, feigning innocence.
"And your wife?" I asked, as though it were the most casual of inquiries.
"She must share in that strength, to stand beside such an enduring house."
For a moment, his expression went still. He lifted his cup, drinking slowly, deliberately—buying time. When he set it down, the smile returned, though it no longer reached his eyes.
"It seems," he said evenly, "that you, my lady, like so many others, are far more interested in my wife than me."
The sting in the words was subtle, but present. I only smiled, letting my eyes glint with the faintest touch of mischief.
"On the contrary, Lord Castell. I find that in speaking of the things a man holds closest, one learns more of him than he might willingly offer."
His gaze sharpened, amber flecks catching in the light. A long pause stretched between us, filled with music and distant laughter from the ballroom. At last, he exhaled softly, a hint of reluctant amusement breaking through the mask.
"You are dangerous, Lady Heather."
"Only to those who think they are safe," I returned, lifting my cup in mock salute.
Something flickered in his gaze. Curiosity, sharper now, edged with suspicion. But before he could press, he straightened slightly, composure tightening like a cloak.
"I must take my leave," Roland said, tone courteous but cool.
"It would not do for me to linger too long. A married man like me being alone with a lady such as yourself… well, some might draw unfortunate conclusions."
The word hung in the air, veiled yet unmistakable. A harlot. An insinuation, however subtle, that my presence risked tarnish.
I felt the offense keenly, though my smile never faltered. Pride wrapped around me like steel, and I shot back with equal grace.
"Perhaps, my lord, those who leap to such conclusions reveal more of themselves than of the lady in question. But rest assured—my reputation is not so fragile as to be broken by shadows and whispers."
For the first time, he seemed caught off balance. His lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite a frown. Amusement, frustration, and something else tangled in his expression before he gave a shallow bow.
"Then I shall remember your words, Lady Heather."
With that, he turned and slipped back into the throng, noblewomen immediately clustering at his side. Yet I knew—knew by the faint backward glance he cast, quick and almost reluctant—that I had left a mark.
Leaning back by the window, heart still beating steady with both triumph and anticipation, I let my lips curve faintly. Roland Lievan Castell would not so easily forget the woman in red.
I slipped quietly from the noble house, the cool evening air brushing against my face as I made my way to the stables. Sliding into a shadowed alcove, I quickly changed out of my gown, swapping it for my riding clothes, the familiar weight of my boots grounding me. My horse whinnied softly, and with a practiced hand, I mounted and rode off toward the lower city, toward Jean's workshop.
The familiar bell above the tailor shop jingled as I pushed the door open, my shoulders slumping in relief.
"Hey, I'm back! You wouldn't believe the party I just—"
My words caught mid-sentence.
Jean sat at his worktable, his eyes glued to a pile of coins that shimmered like sunlight on water. Gold, not silver, not copper—pure, gleaming gold stacked in neat piles. My heart lurched. I rushed over, grabbing him by the collar, almost tipping his chair backward.
"WHERE THE HECK DID THIS MONEY COME FROM?"
Jean flinched, raising his hands defensively.
"Wait! Wait, let me explain! I swear—it isn't what you think!"
I released his collar just enough to glare at him, gripping both his hands instead, my frown deepening.
"Jean! Did you borrow from the bank again? You know we haven't even paid last month's debt! This—this is insane! You could get us killed with debts like this!"
He ran a hand through his hair, visibly panicked, eyes darting around like he was searching for an escape.
"No! No! It's not the bank, I promise. It's—listen—it's a commission. From a noble lady. One I… know, through an old friend, Sylvester."
I blinked, my hands still gripping his collar of his shirt, disbelief painted across my face.
"A noble lady? She just… dropped this on you? And it's this much? Jean, are you telling me you got paid in gold for a… what kind of work? Clothes?"
Jean nodded, eyes wide. "Yes! Clothing, yes, but not just ordinary dresses. She—well, it's a special request. Something women's tailors have refused. She said she trusted me… and that she needed someone who could make the impossible."
I let out a slow breath, loosening my grip slightly but still holding him firmly. "The impossible, huh? And you just accepted this? And all this money?"
Jean's ears turned red, and he muttered, "I… I didn't expect it to be this much. She handed it over herself—said it was an advance, and I… I couldn't say no. It's not every day someone trusts me with something like this."
I paced a small circle around the table, running a hand through my hair, my mind spinning.
"Jean… we owe so much. Everything we've built… this—this is huge! Are you telling me one lady, mysterious noble, just solved all our problems in one afternoon?"
He gave a sheepish grin.
"Basically… yeah. And she's serious, Erika. She wants me to design pants. For women. Can you imagine? Real pants, made for movement, elegance, and no one else would make it. I… I couldn't pass up the challenge."
I let out a sharp laugh, part relief, part disbelief, and shook my head. "Jean… only you would get yourself into a situation where we suddenly have mountains of gold dropped on us for a pair of pants. And here I thought I'd have to chase another payment to pay the bills!"
He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah… well, don't worry. I'll make sure it's worth it. And I promise, no more secret bank loans. I think we're covered… for now."
I exhaled, finally releasing both his hands, letting my frustration melt into a mixture of amusement and awe.
"Covered, huh? Alright… but next time, Jean, warn me before you suddenly become rich overnight."
A hint of mischief in his lean grin.
"Where's the fun in that?"
Erika blinked at him, half in disbelief, half in awe, and muttered.
"You're either insane… or about to change history."