Julian smiled a little wider, as if he had finally found someone who could match his presence, then said in a light tone blending humor with courtesy:
"The honor is mine, madam… and it seems your memory is sharper than most of those present here."
Bella raised an eyebrow with a sideways smile:
"Or perhaps I just notice details others ignore."
The young women exchanged quick glances; that look that said: well… this is no ordinary conversation.
Near the table, Bella picked up her teacup, then quietly reached for the dessert plate:
"By the way, this pistachio macaron is excellent… the chocolate éclair deserves respect, and the lemon tart? Dangerous for any imaginary diet."
The young women laughed, and one teased:
"Seems you're more of a dessert expert than a golf spectator."
Bella shrugged casually:
"Everyone has their priorities. Some master cheating, others master picking desserts."
Julian chuckled lightly, leaning forward:
"So… may I infer that you're not betting on Mr. Liandeg?"
Bella smiled, an entirely innocent look… and a voice that carried no innocence at all:
"I don't bet against the elderly. I let them lose alone."
The table erupted with laughter.
At that moment, from afar, Amory was watching the scene.
He squinted, then leaned back in his chair, muttering in annoyance:
"Wonderful… we're dying of boredom here, and she's hosting a diplomatic tea party."
Meanwhile, Amélie, preparing to swing, caught sight of Bella amid the laughter and hospitality and muttered between her teeth:
"Great… I fight cheating with honor, and she fights boredom with pastries."
She returned to her focus, while on the golf course, Liandeg glared at the tea table with irritation, muttering to his assistant Victor:
"Why are they laughing? Is this part of their plan?"
Victor replied indifferently, adjusting his hat:
"Sir… I think they're just enjoying themselves."
In a shocked tone:
"Enjoying themselves…"
Liandeg tightened his grip on his club:
"This is unacceptable."
Meanwhile, Bella raised her teacup again and said with delightful calm:
"Anyway… tell me, shall we bet on the result? Or just watch until someone starts crying?"
The young women laughed, while Julian smiled to himself, thinking:
"This seems like my chance to get closer to her."
After the conversation stretched a bit, Amory's voice pierced the place, shouting Bella's name in an urgency that brooked no delay:
"Bella! Come immediately, the match is about to be decided!"
Bella sighed with mock regret, rising politely:
"Seems the decisive moment has arrived. Excuse me."
Her request was met with smiles and quick approvals. Before she left, she quietly picked up her plate and added several macarons, an éclair, and a small piece of lemon tart, as if preparing rations for a long battle, then walked confidently toward the golf course.
As soon as she left, the young women exchanged comments about her with obvious admiration: her beauty, her wit, the effortless way she spoke, as if she wasn't even trying to command attention… yet she did.
At the same time, Julian stood, adjusted his jacket, and said politely:
"Excuse me."
They gave him gentle smiles. A few steps away, a shorter, broad-shouldered man with stern features approached-he was the same man Bella had noticed earlier, the one who had been with Julian that night near the tree.
The man spoke in a low voice, carrying a clear reproach:
"Is this the time for strolling? Instead of watching the target, you're surrounded by laughter and desserts."
Julian chuckled lightly, unfazed by his companion's tension:
"Relax, Bruce. At a time like this, all nobles wander every corner of the palace. I can't act like a statue guard."
Bruce sighed irritably:
"That's exactly what worries me."
Julian continued smoothly, as if stating the obvious:
"Besides, circumstances don't allow any other action now. The place is crowded, eyes are everywhere."
Bruce's face darkened further, warning in his tone:
"Only four days left before the invitation ends. Tonight is our best chance; everyone will be preoccupied with the opera gala."
Julian yawned almost theatrically, replying with obvious boredom:
"Don't worry. If the president didn't trust us, we wouldn't have been sent in the first place."
Bruce suddenly stopped, turned to him with suppressed agitation:
"The president doesn't fully trust us… yet he has no other choice. We are the only members of the organization from French noble families. No one else can enter the palace without raising suspicion."
He paused, then added with heavy seriousness:
"We have to succeed. Prove ourselves to the leaders… and to the president. Only then-"
He suddenly stopped, swallowing the rest of his words.
Julian raised an eyebrow in surprise:
"Only then what?"
Anger flared in Bruce's eyes, and he said sharply:
"Be silent. Do what we came to do."
Julian shrugged casually and resumed walking beside him, as if the whole conversation had been nothing more than a trivial detail during a quiet stroll through Versailles.
•••
Evening
In the evening, Versailles shimmered unusually, preparing to host the grand opera gala in the Théâtre Gabriel. Hallways glowed with candles and chandeliers, servants moved with precise discipline, while nobles poured in from all directions in their lavish attire, as if the palace itself were guiding them to the hall.
In one of the spacious guest rooms, a seven-year-old boy stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror. His dark brown hair was carefully slicked back, and his blue eyes stared at his reflection with obvious boredom, as if the mirror itself were personally responsible for this gala. His light tan skin accentuated the contrast between his childlike features and his formal attire.
An aide bent slightly to adjust his jacket collar and button it properly, while he sighed silently, furrowing his brows with an expression far too serious for his age, as if the opera were a punishment rather than an event.
Nearby, a woman stood in front of a gilded vanity mirror, scrutinizing her reflection with expert eyes. Her brown hair fell in elegantly controlled waves, her pale skin glowing under the soft light, and her deep blue eyes were intensified by heavy, polished makeup that accentuated her features with confidence.
She wore a dress combining winter luxury with commanding femininity, made of rich burgundy velvet adorned with glittering accents. The design featured an off-shoulder wide fold and a soft neckline, while the skirt followed a classic A-line cut, cinching the waist and flowing gracefully to elongate her silhouette.
On her feet were dark burgundy high heels, lending her look a quiet boldness. Around her neck rested an exceptional necklace, appearing like a sparkling waterfall frozen in a perfect moment; its design mimicked raindrops, set with white diamonds and gradated blue sapphires, with pear-shaped stones of varying lengths cascading over her chest in a fluid collar style, granting her a dramatic and modern presence.
As for the jewelry adorning her ears and neck, it looked like a poem in light; a necklace and earrings entirely encrusted with white diamonds, from which pear-shaped stones dangled like drops of dew, reflecting a radiant feminine elegance that combined delicacy and luxury-an ensemble worthy of unforgettable nights.
The woman exchanged one last glance with her reflection, then turned to the boy with a gaze blending firmness and tenderness. She was his mother, Madeline de Laroche-a woman who knew perfectly well how to navigate the world of nobility, and how to conceal behind her strict elegance total control over the scene… and over her son as well.
She glanced at the mirror again, inspecting herself once more-a woman who loved attention whether a mirror was present or not.
The boy stepped slightly closer to her, still staring at his reflection with a disgruntled expression, then said in a candid, childlike tone:
"Mom… do I really have to go with you and Father to this opera tonight?"
His mother answered calmly, without lifting her eyes from the mirror:
"Yes."
Then she turned to him, her tone softer:
"And why do you hate these parties so much? You'll attend them anyway when you grow up."
Jackson pursed his lips and complained clearly:
"Because they're boring… They make me sleepy all the time. And the women pinch my cheek for no reason, as if it's fun."
His mother laughed lightly and stepped closer:
"Oh, little Jackson… I felt exactly the same at your age."
His eyes widened with genuine surprise:
"Really? How? Were you seven like me?"
She laughed more, shaking her head:
"Yes. Everyone went through being seven."
He thought for a moment, then asked seriously:
"Even Father?"
"Yes."
"And Grandfather and Grandmother too?"
"Yes."
Jackson let out a faint sound of admiration, as if he had discovered a great secret about the world.
His mother bent down to his level and looked at him warmly:
"When you grow up, you'll get used to these parties so much that you won't feel a big difference. But you need to learn now."
Jackson sighed sadly, slumping his shoulders slightly, then tried one last time. He looked up at her, using his "doe-eyed" expression with all the innocence he could muster:
"Please, Mom, can I stay here?"
His mother sighed deeply, but her expression shifted immediately; the kindness disappeared, replaced by calm firmness. She straightened up and said coldly:
"Stop this behavior. You are the heir of the family, and you must act like a grown-up, not a spoiled child."
Then she turned toward the door, adding:
"Follow me. Your father cannot wait for us any longer."
Jackson lowered his head with sorrow and walked behind her slowly. The aide watched him with a sympathetic gaze but said nothing; she knew that some matters in this palace could not be changed… no matter how small the child seemed.
---
Elsewhere in the palace, Amory paced back and forth in uneven steps, checking his watch every few seconds as if it had personally betrayed him. He was elegant to the point of provocation: formal attire in red and white with touches of gold and black. A pristine white shirt topped with a suit jacket of gold-tinged white, with a bold red accent at the bottom of the jacket. A black tie with grayish-pink floral patterns, centered by a brooch of green ruby that sparkled with excessive confidence.
Matching suit trousers, polished black leather shoes… with a red heel, because Amory did nothing "ordinary." His hair was carefully swept to the side, yet the tension in his posture threatened to betray all his meticulous discipline.
He was returning to his guest room with Bella, anxiety gnawing at him bite by bite because of her delay.
He reached the door, opened it quickly, and entered, his tone a mixture of reproach and worry:
"Bella, why-"
He stopped.
The words stuck in his throat. His voice vanished. Even his thoughts demanded an unpaid break.
Bella was sitting on the bed, leaning slightly to put on her heels. A simple movement… yet enough to redefine allure entirely.
He looked up and completely forgot why he had come.
The dress she wore seemed like a piece of night sky that had accidentally fallen into the palace. Four shades of blue flowed together in perfect harmony: Persian blue, light blue, Maya blue, and deep navy. The sparkling tulle reflected light as if studded with stars. A fitted ball gown waist with a wide, voluminous skirt, and an off-shoulder neckline highlighted a quiet, confident femininity that didn't need to be flaunted.
To heighten the drama-because Bella never did anything halfway-she wore long black lace opera gloves adorned with delicate floral patterns, giving the look a refined "vintage" touch, as if she had stepped out of an aristocratic painting… but a dangerous version of it.
Her high-heeled shoes, gold intertwined with dark blue and subtle golden accessories, gleamed with every step.
The jewelry made a clear statement of contemporary royal luxury: a diamond choker hugging her neck, a long V-shaped necklace cascading with royal blue sapphires, and matching dangling earrings. The contrast of silver and deep blue was breathtaking…
without exaggeration. Above her head rested a small tiara encrusted with blue and white diamonds, whispering "queen" rather than shouting it.
Her hair was tied in a rose-like style interwoven with soft pearls, with loose strands falling over her forehead casually-this made her even more dangerous. Makeup was minimal, just glossy red lips, saying silently, "This is enough." Her nails were dark blue with white, painted professionally with clouds and stars… a small detail, yet lethal.
She was captivating. Enchanting. Radiant.
Not figuratively-she literally shone. Every small movement made the jewelry catch the light, as if the room itself conspired with her against Amory.
He finally swallowed, regaining his voice with difficulty:
"…
Then he cleared his throat, as if convincing himself he was still capable of speech, and finally said:
"I understand now why you're late."
Bella looked up at him with a slight smile, a smile she knew the effect of well, and said playfully and calmly:
"What? It just took longer to tie the heel."
At that moment, Amory realized one undeniable truth: the problem wasn't her being late…
The problem was that he would now have to escort her in front of everyone and pretend that this scene didn't completely steal his mind.
Amory closed the door slowly, as if any sudden movement might ruin the scene… or what remained of his composure. He took two steps forward, then stopped, folding his arms across his chest in a desperate attempt to regain his authority-a failed attempt within two seconds.
Finally, he said in a tone more restrained than he felt:
"Do you have any idea how much chaos you're about to unleash in the opera hall?"
Bella raised an eyebrow as she slid the black glove onto her arm with calculated calm.
"Disaster? Or just a side art performance?"
He drew a deep breath.
"I mean the stares. So many stares. Long ones. Annoying ones. Some with social judgment… some… with unhealthy envy."
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and smiled.
"And you? What kind of stares are you planning?"
He fell silent. A grave mistake.
He stepped closer and lowered his voice:
"The kind that force me to remind myself every three steps that we're in a royal palace, not some illegal dream."
Bella chuckled softly, rising from the bed as light scattered across her gown like applause. She stood directly in front of him, adjusted the small tiara on her head, and said in a cutting, cold tone:
"Calm down, Amory. I don't want you fainting before the opera. That would be embarrassing for me."
He ran a hand over his face.
"Me? I'll be the one carried out of the hall like a statue that suddenly fell."
She stepped toward him, took his arm, and said in a peaceful-yet dangerous-tone:
"Remember, you're here to be a graceful companion. Not a victim."
He looked at her hand on his arm, then into her eyes.
"With you? That's a high-risk position."
At that moment, there was a soft knock at the door, which then opened to reveal a servant bowing respectfully:
"Sir, Madam… the guests have started entering Théâtre Gabriel."
The door closed behind him, followed by the sound of someone stumbling and quickly straightening up as they ran.
Bella's voice sounded surprised:
"I didn't think my presence could cause fainting."
Amory turned to her.
"Are you ready?"
She responded immediately with a confident smile:
"I was ready before you even walked in and forgot why you came."
He let out a short exhalation, a surrender of sorts, and extended his arm formally:
"Then… let's go terrify the aristocracy."
She took his arm, stepping forward with a playful tone:
"Don't worry, I'll do it with a smile only."
The door closed behind them, and with each step along the palace's luminous halls, it was clear this night would not be just an opera-
It was an unannounced performance, starring Bella… and anyone who tried to pretend they weren't affected by her.
---
As they made their way to the hall, it became evident that Amory hadn't exaggerated-unfortunately.
The reality was documented in stares, neck-craning glances, and aristocrats almost tripping over their own dignity while trying not to look.
Bella walked steadily, head held high, steps measured… as if she knew that half the palace had just reevaluated their romantic lives in the past three seconds.
Amory, on the other hand, was experiencing something completely different.
He whispered as he watched a duke freeze mid-sentence:
"Well… that's the third person who's forgotten how to use the past tense."
They passed a group of ladies, one whispering:
"Oh my God…" another: "Is that a dress or a social declaration of war?"
Bella smiled without turning.
"Do you hear that?"
"Unfortunately, yes. My ears have witnessed more than they should."
At the next corner, a nobleman stared so hard that his wife lightly tapped him with a fan-an elegant disciplinary gesture.
Amory said with mock seriousness:
"Well, officially, I'm starting to worry about marital stability here."
Bella shrugged lightly:
"Their problem, not mine that I exist."
They passed a large mirror in the corridor. Bella paused for a moment, glanced quickly at her reflection, and adjusted a small strand of hair that had escaped.
At that exact moment, the light hit her jewelry, creating a heavenly flash.
Two people stopped. A third sighed. And Amory heard someone mutter:
"Is… is this even legal?"
Amory slowly turned to Bella:
"Just a reminder-if someone loses their sight, we'll be called as witnesses."
She replied with deadly calm:
"I was going to wear something simpler, but you said: opera party."
He exhaled:
"You said party, not end-of-era."
They approached the hall entrance, where the crowd thickened, gazes multiplied, and some no longer bothered to pretend to be polite.
Amory moved his arm closer around her and whispered:
"Come closer. Not for romance… just to protect the theoretical space."
She held his arm and said playfully:
"Oh? Are you jealous?"
He replied immediately, without hesitation:
"No. Civic duty."
They stopped in front of the Théâtre Gabriel doors, where lights, faint music, and classical aristocratic awe filled the atmosphere.
As they walked in, and side conversations buzzed through the hall like an aristocratic hive, Amélie appeared, surrounded by several nobles, nodding and smiling with a carefully maintained formal smile.
But the moment her eyes fell on Amory and Bella-diplomacy ended.
She excused herself immediately, as if it were a first-degree emergency, and stepped toward them confidently. Her royal velvet red gown absorbed light and reflected it with a warm glow, the puffed sleeves giving her a historical grandeur that clearly said: Yes, I am here, and fashion history stands behind me.
She stopped in front of Bella, staring her up and down… then again, just to be certain.
Placing her hand on her chest, she said:
"No. No. This isn't fair."
Bella raised an eyebrow lightly:
"Good evening to you too."
Amélie sighed dramatically:
"I'll say it for the hundredth, maybe hundred-and-first time: I can't believe this contradiction."
Amory crossed his arms and said expectantly:
"We're listening. Go ahead, empty your heart."
Amélie gestured to Bella's face:
"This…"
Then to her figure:
"And this…"
She paused, as if her mind needed a restart.
"An angelic, innocent face, like you'd apologize if you bumped into the air…"
Then slowly lowered her hand:
"…And a body? A body that says: I lift weights and break the laws of nature."
Bella chuckled lightly:
"I feel like that's not quite a complete compliment."
Amélie replied quickly:
"No, it's a compliment with envy, which is the highest level of female compliment."
Amory leaned slightly and whispered:
"Shall I remind you we're at an opera?"
Amélie looked at him coldly:
"And I'll remind you I just came from a golf match with a man who cheats like he breathes. I have energy to talk."
Then she returned her gaze to Bella and added with a wide smile:
"But seriously… you're amazing. If I didn't know you, I'd think you were an urban legend."
Bella smiled confidently:
"I'm real. I hurt myself like everyone else."
Amélie let out a short laugh, then looked at the small tiara on Bella's head:
"And the crown? Knockout. Case closed."
At that moment, a noble passed behind them, glanced quickly, then sped up as if suddenly remembering an urgent appointment.
Amory said quietly, with dry humor:
"Alright, it's clear this night will be long."
Amélie smiled, adjusting her red velvet glove:
"Long? No. Legendary. And I'm glad you're here, Bella… at least I won't be the only one stealing the spotlight."
Bella replied confidently:
"Then we share the blame."
The three exchanged a brief glance-then continued walking to their seats.
---
As the lights gradually dimmed and the murmurs took on the tone of polite silence, everyone settled into their seats like chess pieces carefully placed on a velvet board.
In the upper balcony, the royal family sat surrounded by other high-ranking households, including Bella's family, where seating was measured by lineage rather than numbers.
Yet-as had been her habit since childhood-Bella chose to slightly break the "unwritten protocol," sitting next to her friend Amélie. This was an old ritual between them, never discussed or explained.
Amory joined in, silently playing his part, and sat between the two young women, like a refined diplomatic barrier preventing any potential argument… or reckless impulse.
He leaned slightly and whispered:
"I feel like I'm sitting between two nuclear powers."
Amélie smiled without looking at him:
"Relax, we're on a temporary truce."
Bella merely raised an eyebrow, as if to say: Don't raise your voice, we're at the opera.
On the other side of the hall, young Jackson sat between his parents. It was clear he had inherited his father's light brown skin, while his blue eyes remained a distinct reminder of his mother.
His mother was absorbed in elegant conversation with the lady beside her, her gestures calculated, her smile perfectly social, while his father engaged in side discussions with other men, the topics revolving-as expected-around influence, business, and everything a seven-year-old couldn't care less about.
And Jackson?
He sat stiffly, fidgeting slightly in his seat, glancing at the ceiling, then at the curtain, then back to the imaginary clock in his head.
He sighed softly:
"When will this… end?"
No one answered.
And the moment everyone had arrived, and the last movement of a seat or late whisper ceased, the curtain slowly rose.
The first note sounded, deep and formal, cutting through the silence like an unnegotiable decree.
The performance began.
While some were absorbed in the music, and others in the singers, it was clear that the hall contained more than an audience…
It contained intersecting stories, watching eyes, and a faint boredom that could-at any moment-turn into something much larger.
As the singers' voices rose in enchanting harmony, filling the hall with that weight of artistry adored by adults… young Jackson suffered in real time.
He sat rigid, lips slightly parted, eyes half-closed, as if his mind screamed: This is the longest thing in human history.
He muttered in plain annoyance, without diplomacy:
"This… is boring."
Then-as any brilliant child when thinking of escape-an idea sparked.
He leaned toward his mother and whispered:
"Mom, I'm going to the bathroom."
His mother, engrossed in her social chatter, didn't even look at him, merely humming an automatic approval as if she'd signed it without reading.
Jackson moved to the backup plan, whispering to his father… who heard nothing, busy nodding along to a conversation that didn't concern him either.
Jackson frowned briefly, then decided: Alright, officially.
He quietly slipped out from between the seats, small but confident steps, and snuck down the long aisle leading out of the opera hall, feeling as if he'd just executed the most complex stealth operation of his life.
---
On the other side of the hall, the scene was entirely different.
Amélie sat with poise, enjoying the music, her eyes following the stage, while Amory lightly nodded in harmony with the melodies.
Amélie broke the moment with a quiet whisper:
"Wake Bella."
Amory froze for a second.
"…Why?"
He slowly turned to his side-and then the shock came.
Bella… was asleep.
Truly asleep. Her head slightly tilted, breathing calm, as if the opera had become the finest lullaby in history.
Amory opened his mouth in surprise, but Amélie beat him to it:
"Since childhood. If she gets bored with something, she falls asleep in the first five minutes. This is the longest she's lasted."
Amory sighed, shook his head in resignation, then gently woke Bella.
Her eyes snapped open, and she exclaimed with unknowing enthusiasm:
"The show's over?"
He replied immediately:
"No."
Her expression collapsed in an instant.
"…Oh."
She muttered sadly:
"Fine, wake me when it's done."
Amélie intervened in a firm but low tone:
"Sit properly. We don't want another social scandal."
Bella sighed quietly in disdain, adjusted her seat, and forced herself to focus on the performance, while Amory returned to watching, trying to suppress a smile.
Minutes passed.
His instincts-or fear-prompted him to turn again and check…
But the seat beside him was empty.
He froze.
Before he could rise or whisper her name, Amélie said in an eerily calm voice:
"Don't worry. Bella's fine."
He turned quickly.
"Where-"
She interrupted:
"She left. Quietly. No one noticed."
His eyes widened.
"…Is this also a habit?"
Amélie gave a sidelong smile:
"Yes. Just like when she was little. She sneaks out of the opera, not the palace. That's credit to her."
Amory chuckled softly, finally feeling relieved:
"She acts like a child… but professionally."
Amélie shrugged:
"That's Bella."
Amory glanced at the hall door for a moment, then returned his gaze to the stage, enjoying the show this time…
fully aware that the real chaos never happened onstage-only offstage.
---
At roughly the same time, in one of the side rows, a tall man with carefully styled black hair and sharp, experienced features, appearing in his early fifties, sat observing the singers. He wore a sleek black suit with no unnecessary embellishments, as if to say: I'm here because I must, not because I enjoy it.
He listened, eyes fixed on the stage, head slightly tilted, applauding only internally-no enthusiasm, no awe, just dutiful presence.
He exhaled slowly and muttered in a soft voice no one could hear:
"Excellent performance… but a cigarette now would be greater."
He adjusted his collar mechanically, glanced around to ensure no one was watching, then rose with professional calm. His steps were measured, light, as if part of the hall's décor, not a person leaving it. He slipped between rows silently, gave a slight nod of apology to a man he passed, then reached the aisle.
He opened the hall door very slowly, as if challenging himself not to make a single creak… and succeeded.
As soon as the door closed behind him, his shoulders relaxed slightly, as if emerging from a long social exam.
He drew a deep breath, repeating his mutterings with more ease:
"Finally… five minutes of peace."
He continued down the corridor, completely unaware that these "five minutes" might set him on a path no plan had accounted for.
---
In one of the palace's side corridors, where silence was heavy and wall-mounted candles cast long fractured shadows, Mr. Bruce and Mr. Julian finally stood outside the pressure of the hall.
They were the first to escape the opera, having chosen this corridor specifically because they knew-and with irritating confidence-that it would be completely empty at this hour.
Bruce leaned slightly against the wall, his voice low but carrying clear malice:
"Now is the perfect time. Everyone's glued in there, clapping and shedding tears… and we work."
Julian gave a cold sidelong smile, nodding:
"The gardens. The boss was clear. It's there, in this palace they think is safe."
Bruce laughed shortly, without joy, then added with sharp sarcasm:
"The royal family… hilarious. Living atop a treasure and unaware it's under their feet."
They exchanged knowing glances, then continued speaking, their tone lighter, more relaxed, as if what they said were merely a dark joke. One of them-disgustedly cold-mentioned that "removing" the heirs would clear the way entirely, just as the boss wanted: no alternatives, no surprises.
The two chuckled quietly, the laughter bouncing off the corridor walls and returning distorted, as if the walls disagreed.
But, a few steps away, in a distant corner shrouded in shadow, stood a third figure.
A still shadow, no movement, no sound. He had been listening from the start. He showed no emotion, no shock-simply letting the words pass and settle in his memory with deadly precision.
And when the two men finished their important conversation and turned to leave, the shadow had already vanished-slipped away lightly, without a trace, without a sound-as if he had never been there at all.
But what he had heard… was not something to forget.
---
At the exit door leading from the Palace of Versailles to the back gardens, the heavy doors swung open with measured calm, and Bella dashed through.
She was running-not just like someone fleeing, but like a princess who had finally decided to escape a class she found intolerable.
She lifted her wide, long gown with expert precision, as if this sprint were a ritual etched into her memory since childhood. For fleeting moments, her high heels peeked out, executing the steps with surprising grace, as if even the ground knew her rhythm and cleared the path.
Her earrings swayed with every movement, catching the torchlight in fragmented sparkles, and the jewels on her neck and chest shimmered with her quickened breaths, adding an almost magical, illogical charm to the scene.
She glanced back once, a cautious, fleeting look to ensure no one was following, then clenched her fist on her dress and continued without hesitation.
She descended the marble steps with quick yet elegant strides-no stumbling, no slowing-as if she had been born to make fleeing look like high art. Her hair bounced lightly, pearls trembling in the night breeze, while the palace receded behind her, along with its sounds, lights, and constraints.
In short… she was enchanting. Elegant even in rebellion, beautiful even in escape.
And when she finally put distance between herself and the palace, the vast gardens welcomed her-long stretches bathed in the shadows of trees, the damp night air scented with earth, lanterns casting their soft, deliberate glow.
She entered without hesitation, continuing to run along the green pathways, leaving behind the opera, the rules, and everything she didn't want to attend that night.
Bella collapsed onto a stone bench as if she had thrown all etiquette out the palace gate. She rested her arms on the backrest, spread her legs slightly, and let her head tilt back as she exhaled deeply-long breaths of someone who had narrowly escaped a social disaster.
Her posture did not befit a noble lady, nor a royal gown, nor even a respectable portrait in oil paint… but frankly, she didn't care. No audience, no side comments, no evaluating glances. Bliss.
As she caught her breath, she slowly turned her head toward the direction she had come from.
And froze.
There was a small boy, about seven, standing a few steps away. His hair was more meticulously styled than necessary, and his features carried that irritating seriousness a child shouldn't have. He looked at her with pure astonishment… and she returned the same expression.
A heavy silence fell between them.
Bella didn't scream-but inside her head, a full-blown scream raged. She hadn't heard his footsteps, hadn't felt his presence at all. The atmosphere had become strange. Suspicious. Uncomfortable.
She moved her head slightly, then said with a nervous smile:
"Hi…"
He didn't respond.
She blinked once. Twice. Her surprise grew.
She hesitated, then an absurd thought struck her, and she leaned slightly toward him, asking in a semi-serious tone:
"Wait… you're not one of the spirits seeking revenge through me, are you?"
The boy blinked rapidly, as if his mind tripped.
"…What? Spirits? And revenge?"
Bella exhaled in sudden relief, then laughed awkwardly.
"Ah. Nothing. Ignore me."
She adjusted her posture slightly-just slightly-then asked:
"Okay… what's a child doing out here alone?"
He raised his small eyebrow with unexpected sarcasm.
"I was about to ask you the same question."
Then, glancing at her posture, he added:
"And honestly… your seat doesn't suit a noble lady wearing a gown like that."
She looked him over from head to toe, then said nonchalantly:
"Well, I don't need you to tell me how to sit."
She continued with a bored tone:
"And anyway, I asked first. But fine, I don't argue with children. I already have two annoying ones at home."
His eyes widened.
"Two children?"
She waved her hand.
"Long story. The point… I escaped the opera."
Then she looked at him directly:
"And now it's your turn."
He smirked with a teasing sideways grin.
"Alright… who's the child now? Me or you? You're the one running from responsibilities."
She narrowed her eyes.
"Cut the roundabout. Tell me why you're here."
He crossed his arms and lifted his chin.
"I'm not telling."
She looked at him calmly, then said without concern:
"Fine. Not required."
A short silence fell.
Jackson frowned.
"…So you won't pressure me?"
She shrugged.
"I don't like forcing anyone. Not my style."
He hesitated, then approached and sat next to her on the stone bench, leaving a calculated distance.
"I…"
He frowned and looked at the ground.
"I ran away from the hall too."
Bella smiled warmly from the side.
"Pleasure."
Then she said:
"My name's Bella. And you?-and you don't have to say."
He opened his mouth quickly:
"Jackson. Little Jackson. Or just Jackson."
She glanced at him lightly, then burst into laughter.
A clear, loud laugh, entirely unrefined.
His face immediately turned red.
"Why are you laughing?!"
She covered her mouth to contain herself.
"Sorry, sorry… but 'Little Jackson'? That nickname defeats you before any argument even starts."
He groaned in annoyance.
"My name isn't long."
"Too long for me." She smiled mischievously.
"But don't worry… I'll call you Jax."
He furrowed his brows.
"My name's six letters only! Where's the length?"
She laughed again, this time softer… but deeper.
And it was clear that this night-far from the opera-was already taking a completely unexpected turn.
Bella raised an eyebrow as she continued laughing lightly, then leaned her elbow on the backrest, looking at him with a half-smile.
"By the way… it's obvious you're not convinced."
Jackson shrugged quickly.
"Convinced. Very."
Then he added, glancing elsewhere:
"And I don't care about your opinion anyway."
She tilted her head slightly, in a tone that knew exactly where to hit:
"Sure. So much so that you sat next to me instead of continuing your escape."
Silence.
Two seconds.
Three.
Then he said quickly:
"I just… wanted to make sure you're not a vengeful spirit. For security reasons."
She laughed.
"Security reasons? At seven or eight years old?"
He turned to her immediately.
"I'm not a child-and I'm seven years old but smart."
She looked him over slowly from head to toe, paused at his shoes, then returned to his face.
"Hmmm… no, you're a child. A small, stubborn version."
He furrowed his brows.
"I'm smart."
"I didn't say otherwise."
He puffed his chest slightly.
"And I know a lot of things."
"Sure."
He frowned.
"Why do you say 'sure' like that?"
She smiled with a fake coldness.
"Because you're trying to prove it."
Silence. Then he said in a less sharp tone:
"And you… why did you really run away?"
She shrugged.
"The singing is beautiful. The place is grand. The rules are suffocating. And I suffocate quickly."
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.
"Me too."
Then he caught himself and added quickly:
"I mean-not because the rules are suffocating… but because the place is boring."
She leaned slightly toward him.
"Jax."
"What?"
"You're really bad at pretending not to care."
His face turned red again.
"I don't care."
"Of course."
Then she added calmly:
"Proof is, every two minutes you glance at me to see if I noticed you."
He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it.
"…I was just making sure you're still here."
She smiled, this time without mockery.
"Reassured?"
He nodded lightly.
They sat in silence for a moment. The wind stirred the leaves of the trees, and the distant lights of the palace shimmered behind them.
He broke the silence suddenly.
"Bella."
"Yes, Little Jax?"
"I told you not to call me that."
"I told you, you'll get used to it."
He sighed.
"Okay… if we go back, will we have to sit there for hours?"
She thought for a moment.
"Depends. If you're an obedient child? A long time. If you run away again? Shorter."
He looked at her with curiosity.
"And you… will you run away again?"
She smiled to the side.
"If I go back, I'm not promising I'll stay."
Something lit up in his eyes.
"Okay… what if we go back together?"
She looked at him, then slowly stood and adjusted her dress.
"Thinking like a team leader now?"
He shook his head quickly.
"No. I just-"
Then he caught himself and pretended to be indifferent.
"I mean… it doesn't matter. The walk is just less boring."
She held out her hand to him.
"Come on, Jax. Let's run away halfway… and go back the other half."
He looked at her hand, then at her, tried to keep his composure… failed.
"But don't tell anyone I was enjoying this."
She laughed as she took his hand.
"Professional secret."
And as they walked between the trees, it was very clear that Jackson-despite all his attempts-had finally found something less boring than the opera…
attention he hadn't even had to ask for.
To be continued… ✨