I turn the corner and nearly trip over my own very dramatic gown.
The hallway opens into a giant sunlit chamber — gold everywhere, white curtains fluttering, marble floors that look too clean for walking.
It's quiet. Too quiet. Like the air's waiting for me to mess something up.
Then—
"Ariana!"
The voice hits me like a flying textbook. I spin around, and there she is — tall, elegant, pretty enough to make shampoo commercials jealous. She's dressed in this blue gown that looks like it costs more than my entire phone.
She's staring at me like I just crawled out of her favorite nightmare.
"Um… hi?" I say, waving like an idiot.
For a split second, her expression flickers — relief? shock? Something tightens behind her polite smile. Then she walks toward me with that slow, graceful, slightly menacing energy of a cat pretending to be friendly.
"You're… back," she says, voice all soft and trembling. "After all this time."
"Yeah," I say. "Back from… the bathroom?"
Her eyebrows pinch together. "The bathroom?"
"Never mind," I mutter. "Long story. Anyway, you are…?"
Her smile twitches, just for a second. "It's me. Clara."
She says it like it should mean something.
"Oh. Right. Clara." I nod, pretending the name unlocks deep, emotional memories instead of absolutely nothing. "Totally remember you. You're— great. Love the dress."
Clara's eyes narrow slightly. "You've changed," she says. "You used to… not say things like that."
"Yeah, well," I shrug, "new skincare routine. Improves personality."
Something unreadable passes through her gaze — half confusion, half… irritation? She hides it fast with another sweet smile.
"Well, everyone will be so happy to see you," she says smoothly. "They thought you'd been… taken forever."
"Taken? Like… kidnapped?"
Her eyes flick to the floor, then back up. "Something like that."
Cool. Great. Totally normal. I love conversations that sound like plot twists.
"So," I say brightly, "since I'm apparently Ariana, kidnapped royalty, and you're my… sister?"
Clara's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Half-sister," she corrects softly.
Ouch. The "half" lands like a dagger disguised as a word.
"Right," I say. "Of course. Half. Wouldn't want to overclaim family."
Her lips curve slightly — too polite, too practiced. "Come," she says. "Father will want to see you."
And just like that, she turns, her gown whispering across the marble, leaving me standing there wondering what kind of historical fever dream I've just respawned into.