"It's... it's quite beautiful, miss. Perhaps in different light?—"
"Get out." My voice comes out colder than I intended, and I swear the temperature in the room actually drops. The fine hairs on my arms stand up, and Clara shivers slightly before catching herself. "And send someone to clean this mess."
She scurries away like a mouse fleeing a cat, and I'm left alone with the wreckage of my afternoon and the familiar, gnawing emptiness that follows me everywhere. I turn back to what's left of my vanity—shards of silver glass reflecting my face in broken fragments.
Seven years of bad luck, they say. I laugh, bitter and sharp. As if my luck could get worse.
The thing is, I know what I am. I'm not stupid, despite what the servants whisper when they think I can't hear. I know I'm cruel. I know I destroy beautiful things and hurt people whodon't deserve it. I know the hollow ache in my chest—the one that's lived there for as long as I can remember—isn't normal.
But knowing doesn't make it stop.
Nothing makes it stop. Not the gowns or the jewels or the parties where everyone tells me how beautiful I am, how fortunate, how lucky to be Edgar Montgomery's only daughter. They see the auburn hair that catches light like fire, the fine bone structure inherited from Mother's bloodline, the perfectly composed smile I've practiced until it's become my default expression.
They don't see the emptiness underneath. The constant, gnawing hunger for something I can't name. The way I catch myself reaching for objects to throw before I've even consciously decided to be angry. The dreams that leave me sweating and confused, full of images I don't understand—ice and winter and eyes like frozen lakes.
I sink onto my bed—the only piece of furniture I haven't destroyed today—and stare at my hands. They're shaking again. They've been shaking more lately, fine tremors that start in my fingertips and work their way up my arms when I'm particularly agitated. Sometimes I feel like I'm watching myself from a distance, powerless to stop the performance of destruction and rage.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm going mad.
The emptiness pulses in my chest like a second heartbeat, demanding attention I don't know how to give it. It's been worse lately—more insistent, morehungry. Like it's trying to tell me something I'm too stupid or stubborn to understand.
A knock at the door interrupts my spiral into self-loathing. "Go away," I call, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in my voice.
"Elise." My father's voice, carefully controlled in that way that means business. "Dinner in ten minutes. We have a guest."
Of course we do. Father's always entertaining someone—politicians, business associates, potential investors. The Montgomery mansion is a revolving door of people who want something from us. Or people we want something from. The dance of commerce and influence that built our shipping empire and keeps it running.
Usually I don't mind playing my part. The beautiful, accomplished daughter who makes polite conversation and smiles at the right moments. It's a role I've perfected over the years, as carefully choreographed as any ballroom dance.
Tonight, though, the thought of sitting through another dinner performance makes my skin crawl. The restlessness is getting worse—like something under my skin is trying to claw its way out.
"I'll be down," I say, forcing brightness into my voice. The performance never ends, no matter how I feel.
I dress quickly in a rose-colored dinner gown—acceptable, if not perfect—and fix my hair into something presentable. The process is automatic, muscle memory from years of social expectations. Pin here, curl there, rouge just so. The girl in the remaining shards of mirror looks composed. Beautiful, even. Perfectly normal.
No one would guess that ten minutes ago she was throwing priceless objects at walls. No one would see the hollow desperation that drives every carefully crafted moment of her existence.
The hallway feels colder than usual as I make my way downstairs. Our house is always chilly—Father's too practical to waste money heating rooms that aren't in use—but tonight there's something different about it. Something that makes the fine hairs on my neck stand up and my pulse quicken for reasons I can't explain.
The dining room glitters with crystal and candlelight when I enter, but even the familiar luxury feels wrong somehow. Off-kilter, like a stage set that's been assembled incorrectly. Father sits at the head of the table, his graying hair perfectly styled, his merchant's smile firmly in place. He gestures to the chair beside him as I enter. "Elise, darling. Come sit."
I take my seat, arranging my skirts with practiced grace while my eyes scan the room. The chair across from me is empty—our guest hasn't arrived yet. Good. I hate making small talk with Father's business associates. They always look at me like I'm another asset to be appraised and valued, wondering what price my beauty and breeding might fetch in the marriage market.
"I trust you're well?" Father asks, his tone carefully neutral. It's the same tone he uses with difficult clients—polite but wary, ready to shift tactics if the conversation goes badly.
"Perfectly well." I reach for my wine glass, noting how the servants have already poured. The burgundy is excellent, probably chosen to impress whoever we're entertaining tonight. "And our guest?"
"A business associate from the northern territories. Lord Aratus of the Frost Court."
My wine glass freezes halfway to my lips. "The Frost Court?" I can't keep the shock from my voice. "Father, what business could we possibly have with the Fae?"
The question hangs in the air between us. Everyone knows about the courts—they've ruled most of the civilized world for over twenty years now. And everyone knows what happens when Fae lords come calling on human families, especially families with daughters of marriageable age.
Father won't meet my eyes. "Business that's been ongoing for some time. He's... particular about punctuality."
"What kind of business?" But even as I ask, cold dread is settling in my stomach. The careful dinner, the expensive wine,the way Father's been avoiding my questions about our finances lately. "Father, tell me this isn't what I think it is."
Before he can answer, the temperature in the room plummets.
