Day eighteen brings a surprise that stops me cold.
I return to my chambers after dinner to find a silk ribbon on my pillow. Deep blue silk, the color of winter twilight. Beautiful and feminine and completely out of place in my masculine attire. I pick it up with trembling fingers, feeling the whisper-soft texture against my skin.
There's no note. No explanation. But I know it's from him.
The ribbon is exquisite—clearly expensive, the kind of luxury I took for granted in my former life. Now, after days of wearing rough wool and coarse linen, it feels like holding a piece of heaven.
I tie it in my hair that evening, and for the first time in days, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror that doesn't make me want to cry. The ribbon transforms my reflection—not enough to make me look proper, but enough to remind me that I'm still a woman underneath these shapeless clothes.
The change is subtle but profound. Something in my posture straightens. My reflection shows a hint of the person I used to be.
When I appear for dinner, Aratus's eyes go immediately to the ribbon. The approval in his gaze is unmistakable.
"Pretty," he says, and the warmth in his voice makes something unfurl in my chest. A flutter of pleasure that I try desperately to suppress.
Day nineteen brings soap that smells of roses.
I find it in my bathing chamber, wrapped in paper that dissolves at my touch. The scent hits me like a memory of everything feminine and beautiful I used to take for granted—garden parties, morning rides, afternoons spent with friends planning our social calendars.
The soap is perfectly formed, creamy white with rose petals pressed into its surface. Luxury made tangible. I use it that night, and the familiar fragrance makes me feel more like myself than I have in weeks. The scent clings to my skin afterward, a reminder of who I used to be.
For the first time since arriving at this palace, I linger in the bath purely for pleasure rather than necessity.
Day twenty brings the greatest gift yet.
There's a simple wool dress laid out on my bed when I return from my morning tasks. Nothing fancy—rough brown wool, practical cut, no ornamentation. But it's shaped for a woman's body. It fits. It makes me look like a person again instead of a lost child swimming in borrowed clothes.
I put it on with shaking hands and stare at myself in the mirror. The reflection shows someone I almost recognize—not the pampered heiress I used to be, but not the broken creature I've been afraid of becoming either.
Something in between. Something new.
The dress is simple but well-made, with clean lines that flatter rather than hide my figure. Combined with the ribbon in my hair and the lingering scent of roses on my skin, I look... acceptable. Maybe even attractive in a rustic way.
I wear it to dinner, and the way Aratus looks at me makes my pulse quicken. His gaze travels from the ribbon in my hair to thedress that actually fits, and something shifts in his expression. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or possession.
"Much better," he says, and the warmth in his voice makes my cheeks flush with pleasure I don't want to feel.
But then memory crashes over me like a cold wave. How I got here. How he's been watching me struggle and suffer, doling out these small comforts like treats for a trained animal. The pattern becomes suddenly, horribly clear.
Days of deprivation. Then small rewards for good behavior. The conditioning as obvious as a textbook example.
The anger rises in my throat like bile.
"I know what you're doing," I say, my voice shaking with fury and something that might be despair.
"Do you?" His tone is mild, interested, like I'm a student who's finally grasped a difficult concept.
"The ribbon. The soap. This dress." I gesture at the brown wool with hands that tremble with rage. "You're training me. Like a dog. Reward good behavior, punish bad behavior, until I forget I ever had a choice."
He tilts his head, considering my words with the kind of patience that makes me want to scream.
"And?"
The single word hits me like a slap. He's not denying it. Not even trying to hide what he's doing.
"It's working." The admission tastes like ash. "I was grateful for a fucking ribbon. Grateful for soap. Grateful for a dress that isn't even half as fine as the worst thing I owned before you took me."
It's true, and the truth of it terrifies me. I felt genuine joy when I found that ribbon. Real pleasure when I used the rose-scented soap. Actual relief when I put on a dress that fit properly.
