The morning sunlight fell across my room, but it brought little comfort. After yesterday's garden fête, after the whispers that had followed me through the corridors, I thought I had prepared myself. I thought the prince's regard for me would shield me from Elizabeth's schemes. I had been wrong.
Elizabeth's presence was everywhere, subtle and suffocating. I first saw her in the hall, standing just out of the sunlight, speaking quietly to one of the castle's maids. The maid was nervous, fidgeting with the edge of her apron, but hanging on every word Elizabeth said. Their conversation was too low for me to hear, but I caught the sly smiles, the little nods, the way the maid glanced at me every few seconds.
I already knew what it meant.
Elizabeth had threatened me. I remembered her words from the previous day after I was done talking with the prince. I went back to my corridor, and she was standing there; her words were crisp and sharp as a dagger: "Stay away from him, Isabella, or I'll make sure he believes the worst of you." At the time, I had brushed it off, thinking her bluff was empty. But now, seeing her machinations in motion, I realized she had meant every word.
By mid-morning, the damage began to spread. The maid approached the prince with feigned concern, her voice trembling ever so slightly, as though she were revealing a terrible secret.
"Your Highness," she whispered, leaning in close, "I… I thought you should know. Lady Isabella… she asked me to… to help her with some money. She said it was urgent… and she… begged."
The words hit me like an icy slap. My chest tightened, and my stomach sank. My heart pounded—not from fear, but from the sharp realization of how delicate the prince's trust was. I had known Elizabeth would try something, but this… this was cruelly precise. She had taken a single, vulnerable detail—exaggerated it—and weaponized it against me.
I found him later in the courtyard, pacing beside a fountain. The water sparkled under the sun, but the reflection didn't mirror the storm I felt inside. His expression was distant and conflicted, and for a moment, my stomach dropped further.
"Your Highness," I said cautiously, keeping my voice soft and measured. "May I speak with you?"
He didn't turn immediately. His gaze was fixed on the water, his hands clasped behind his back. "Isabella…" he said finally, his tone quiet but strained. "I… I don't understand. I've heard things… things that don't… seem right."
My throat tightened. I had prepared myself for doubt, but hearing it from him still hurt. "I… I would never—" I began, but he raised a hand, cutting me off gently.
"I need some time," he said, turning just enough to look at me with those storm-gray eyes, now clouded with uncertainty. "I… I can't think clearly right now."
That was all. A few words, soft and calm—but the distance they created was immense. Not angry, not bitter, just a quiet barrier that separated us, invisible yet painfully real. I felt the sting of betrayal, though it was not him who had betrayed me. It was Elizabeth, weaving her lies with precision, turning the court and even the prince's own judgment against me. But a small part of me felt betrayed by the prince. We had spent days walking together, and now he believes others' words over my actions.
The rest of the day was a blur of whispers and careful observation. Elizabeth moved through the castle like a queen in her own right. Every smile, every turn of her head, every light laugh—it was all calculated. She spoke just enough to be noticed, to plant seeds of doubt, but never enough to be caught. The maid followed her instructions flawlessly, a small weapon disguised as innocent service.
I wandered through the hallways, replaying every conversation, every glance, every interaction. Elizabeth had outmaneuvered me without raising her voice, without a single direct confrontation. She had weaponized her charm, her beauty, her perfect timing—and I had to admit, it had nearly worked. The prince's distance was proof of her success.
But I refused to panic. That would only play into her hands. I needed patience, observation, and above all, evidence. I needed something undeniable to show the prince that Elizabeth's lies were deliberate, that her manipulation was calculated, and that my intentions had always been true.
The hours passed slowly. Dinner came and went. Courtiers whispered over their meals, some glancing at me with faint suspicion, others with curiosity. Elizabeth lingered near the prince, always perfectly positioned, her smile flawless. Each small victory of hers, each subtle maneuver, weighed on me—but it also steeled me.
By the time I returned to my room that night, exhaustion had settled in, heavy and suffocating. I sat at the edge of my bed, thinking over every detail. The whispers, the maid, the prince's doubt—all of it. Elizabeth had gained ground, but I was not without tools. I had intelligence, patience, and a sharp eye.
That night, I would fall asleep tense and frustrated, and slightly defeated. I cried myself to sleep; I was being rejected again and abandoned. Maybe I can't change the script; maybe the past shouldn't be rewritten. But no, Elizabeth's move may have been strong, but I knew exactly what I needed to do next: gather proof, reveal her threats, and reclaim the trust that had been shaken.