Rosalee had been up long before the morning bells, their eyes fluttering open as dawn light kissed the high ceilings of their room. A habit from a past life, perhaps, or maybe just a new instinct awakened by the fire of purpose now fueling their every step. Either way, they dressed themself carefully and without fanfare, pulling on slim-fitted burgundy breeches that hugged their toned legs in all the right ways, tapering down to their ankles with clean, deliberate stitching. Their blouse was white, the cotton thin and breathable, the neckline loose enough to dip off one shoulder slightly, revealing the smooth, unmarred skin there. The sleeves ballooned gracefully before gathering at the wrists, reminiscent of the romantic silhouettes from pirate tales.
They tied their hair into a high ponytail, the motion fluid and practiced, the glossy waves cascading down like spun silk. The exposed curve of their nape and delicate collarbone gleamed in the gentle morning light that poured in from their open balcony, and though their skin was pale and creamy, it never looked sickly—rather, it had the sort of clarity that painters and poets lost sleep over.
Rosalee forwent makeup today. No rouge on the lips, no blush or powder, and no kohl to darken the eyes. They knew once they began sweating during training, any carefully applied cosmetic would betray them. Still, the mirror reflected something almost unearthly:
Barefaced, Rosalee looked younger, softer, a strange blend of innocence and command. They looked… pure. Like jade untouched by sculptor's hands.
When they opened the door, Ben was already waiting in his usual crisp black uniform, polished and composed—except for the brief second of hesitation when his eyes landed on Rosalee.
Ben stiffened.
It was hard to describe the feeling. Rosalee had been striking before, but this was something different. Bare of artifice, flushed gently from morning exertion, hair pulled back to reveal the entirety of their fine, aristocratic features—Ben could hardly breathe for a moment. It wasn't just beauty. It was a kind of glow. A quiet challenge to the world that dared to break them.
Ben cleared his throat and stepped forward, bowing politely with one hand on his chest.
"Lady Rosalee. Breakfast is prepared. Afterward, I've been instructed to escort you to the knight's training grounds."
Rosalee tilted his head, sharp enough to catch the flicker of something strange in Ben's voice. There was an edge there—too smooth to be frustration, but too tense to be mere formality.
'Hmm… interesting.'
Still, they smiled easily.
"Benny, how wonderful. You're always so prompt."
They said, stepping forward and, without asking, slipping his arm around Ben's offered elbow.
The movement was soft, almost affectionate, but calculated. Rosalee let himself lean just slightly into Ben's side—not so much that it could be accused of impropriety, but enough that those watching would feel the burn of envy. The scent of morning roses clung to their skin, and the faint warmth of their arm brushing Ben's sleeve felt like it left a brand behind.
Ben froze for a half-second again. The snuggling wasn't part of their usual protocol, nor had it ever happened before. But he couldn't stop it. Couldn't stop his body from tensing and then yielding under the warmth of the contact. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to remain composed. This wasn't like him. He wasn't supposed to feel flustered. He wasn't supposed to… feel.
They stepped through the hallways side by side, and just as Rosalee predicted, several maids lifted their gazes—and then their eyebrows. Whispered gasps and narrowed eyes followed their passage, but Rosalee only smiled serenely. They were no longer the pitiable, half-forgotten second child of the Florenzia family.
'Let them talk.'
Ben, on the other hand, struggled to keep his expression neutral. He felt the heat of Rosalee's body through the fabric. Felt the pressure of their arm. Felt the desire to lean just a little closer, to keep Rosalee smiling like that. The thought disturbed him, but he didn't pull away.
Something had shifted. He just wasn't sure if it was Rosalee… or himself.
…
The air was crisp with the gentle kiss of morning dew, and sunlight filtered through the trimmed rose hedges, casting mosaic shadows on the flagstone paths. Rosalee glided through the garden with effortless grace, though they walked with more purpose today. Their long ponytail swayed like a crimson banner behind them, and the delicate laces at their blouse's throat danced with each step.
The roses were in full bloom—blood-red, violet, creamy white, and blushing pinks. Their perfume mingled with the scent of earth, refreshing and sweet. Rosalee breathed it in deeply, letting the natural beauty lull their mood as they subtly adjusted the waistband of their burgundy breeches. A bit tight.
"Ugh…"
They muttered inwardly.
"I didn't even eat *that* much…"
Ben walked beside them, hands clasped behind his back in his usual composed but attentive posture. But something in his movements betrayed distraction—his eyes kept flicking sideways to Rosalee's exposed collarbone and slender neck.
Rosalee noticed.
It was almost too easy.
Their beauty had always been their sword and shield, and they wielded it with masterful precision. Still, today… there was something softer about Ben's attention. Less lust. More… conflict?
Ben finally broke the silence.
"Lady Rosalee…"
He began, voice quieter than usual,
"Forgive me if this is inappropriate, but… are you truly going to the knight's training ground to impress Prince Roland?"
The question was posed gently, but Rosalee could hear the edge in his voice. That faint strain of jealousy. It always revealed itself eventually—client or servant, billionaire or pauper.
Rosalee paused, a feigned expression of hesitant sadness crossing their face like a cloud drifting before the sun.
"I don't really want to…"
They said softly, looking down at a rose petal crushed beneath their shoe.
"But… my parents think it's the best way to appeal to the prince. What else can I do? A second like me doesn't have the luxury of defiance."
Ben's lips tightened. He looked away, jaw working. The thought of Rosalee, delicate and young, forced to throw themselves at a man like Roland—bland, entitled, and royal by birth alone—gnawed at something protective in him. He shouldn't care. Rosalee was Thornwood's sibling. A spoiled noble with a troubled reputation. But this Rosalee… the one beside him now, felt different. Trapped. Charming, yes, but caged. And for some reason, that bothered him more than it should.
"I'm sorry…"
He said at last.
"It's not my place to question. I… didn't mean to upset you."
Rosalee turned to him with a sweet, forgiving smile.
"You didn't. I'm glad you care, Benny."
The pet name rolled off their lips like honey and caught Ben completely off guard. His ears turned red, and he focused very hard on the path ahead, pretending he didn't hear it—or the warmth it stirred in his chest.
The rest of the walk passed in silence, save for the occasional breeze brushing through rose leaves.
By the time they reached the outer edge of the estate where the knight's training grounds were located, Ben's usual stoicism had mostly returned. He walked just half a step behind Rosalee now, his posture tense as they approached the large wrought iron gate, which bore the crest of the Florenzia family.
Rosalee looked ahead with gleaming eyes. Knights were already sparring on the practice fields, their grunts echoing alongside the clash of steel. Burly men in fitted tunics, taut muscles shining under the morning sun, some shirtless from exertion. It was practically a brothel buffet in Rosalee's mind.
They smirked to themselves.
'Oh, I am so going to enjoy myself.'
The morning sun cast golden beams across the well-kept dirt arena of the Florenzia family's knight training grounds. Dust swirled under the boots of armored men clashing in the distance, their grunts sharp and purposeful. The clang of blades and the crack of shields echoed in rhythm like a martial symphony. The knight's training grounds were loud with the clang of steel, the sharp grunts of men exerting their strength, and the rhythmic sound of boots stomping into packed earth.
Heads turned, conversation lulled and weapons paused mid-swing.
Nearly every knight in sight took notice of the vision that had stepped onto the field.
Rosalee's arrival was anything but subtle.
Rosalee stepped forward through the open gates, the sunlight bathing their pale, sweat-kissed skin in gold. Their burgundy breeches hugged the curve of their hips and thighs with just the right amount of give, and the loose, billowy white blouse drifted with the breeze, offering teasing glimpses of their collarbone and the dip at the base of their throat. The high ponytail kept them long waves swaying, the motion hypnotic, nearly sensual.
They stepped onto the field in slim-fitted burgundy breeches tucked into knee-high boots and a flowy white blouse that billowed like noble silk with every breeze. Their long vivid hair had been tied into a high ponytail, the strands dancing behind them like a noble's banner. The exposed stretch of swanlike neck, dusted collarbone, and bare face gave off a pure yet strangely seductive air—otherworldly, effortless, and unforgettable.
Rosalee had entered with confidence, but the scale of masculine attention hit him like a stormfront. Broad shoulders and rippling arms, skin tanned by long hours under the sun, gazes both confused and hungry—Rosalee felt it all crawling across his skin. And yet, he relished it. Of course he did. The power of being wanted. The power of being seen.
Conversation died.
Knights paused mid-strike. Squires fumbled their gear. One poor stable boy dropped a saddle.
Rosalee, used to this kind of reaction in their former life, didn't bother looking shy or uncertain. Instead, they offered a radiant and almost coy smile, pretending not to notice the stares. It was the perfect level of plausible deniability. But they did notice. Every gaze. Every twitch. Every man fighting his instinct not to fall to one knee.
"Who is that?"
One of the younger knights whispered.
"That's the Earl's daughter, Lady Rosalee…"
Another muttered.
"Didn't know she looked like… that."
A few men swore under their breath. One muttered a prayer.
Ben, standing just behind Rosalee, noticed the stares too and stood stiffly. His eyes flicked across the crowd of men, each one staring too long, their gazes far too hungry. His jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He looked ready to start a brawl just for the crime of breathing in Rosalee's direction. He had half a mind to draw a blade and take a few eyes as trophies.
Then came the man assigned to train Rosalee:
Axmel Dorrell.
He was tall and broad, built like he wrestled boulders before breakfast. He strode toward them like he owned the land beneath his boots—sun-kissed caramel skin taut over lean, sculpted muscle, broad shoulders framed by his navy training vest, dark ocean-blue eyes narrowed and sharp beneath thick lashes. His short navy-blue hair was tousled with a wild sort of charm, and a long scar that curved gently along his forearm only made him more appealing.
His blackened light armor had dents from real battles, and his sun-creased face wore a calm, disciplined expression. But even Axmel's trained composure faltered for a second when he laid eyes on Rosalee.
Rosalee's breath caught just a little, and for the first time since coming to this new world, he felt… entertained.
Axmel cleared his throat.
"Lady Rosalee Florenzia?"
"That's me."
Rosalee shifted from one foot to the other, hip slightly out, the light catching their lashes as they tilted their head. Axmel's voice was deep, husky. Not disrespectful, but casual—like he was speaking to an equal.
"I'll be your assigned trainer starting today."
Axmel gave a shallow bow, though his eyes briefly scanned Ben with mild curiosity.
"I am Axmel Dorrell, one of the royal instructors. I've been assigned to oversee your training, as requested by your father."
Rosalee offered a slow, grateful smile.
"Oh?"
Rosalee's lips curved into a coy smile.
"How lucky I must be. Thank you, Ser Axmel. I look forward to your guidance."
Axmel nodded—professional, but clearly fighting distraction as gaze lingered a second too long before turning to Ben. Ben shifted beside Rosalee. Jealousy twisted inside him like a viper. Axmel then said with a polite firmness.
"You'll need to wait outside the training ground enclosure, I'm afraid. These grounds are off-limits to non-participants during active drills. Too many distractions. It's best your lady focuses."
Ben frowned as he took a step forward.
"I am their assigned attendant. I don't think My presence—"
"Benny…"
Rosalee's voice was gentle. Almost sweet as they placed a hand on Ben's forearm.
"It's alright, Benny…"
Ben froze.
"You've watched over me enough already today. Let me be strong on my own for a little while…"
Rosalee continued, voice soft and reassuring.
"I'll be fine. Wait for me outside, okay? We can walk back together. And…"
Then, with a slight upturn of their lips and a gentle, almost bashful glance, Rosalee added.
"Besides… We can have dinner together after I'm done. Just us."
The words were simple, but the implication—soft intimacy—was not lost on Ben. His posture faltered. Ben's heart flipped as it gave a painful, fluttering thump.
He opened his mouth to argue again, but the promise—dinner with Rosalee, alone—sank into his chest like a weight, silencing him.
"…As you wish."
He muttered with a stiff bow, he turned and reluctantly left, though not without casting a withering glare at Axmel's back.
"I'll wait for you just beyond the gate. Please don't overexert yourself."
Rosalee smiled as if touched by the concern.
"You're so kind, Benny."
Ben turned to leave, slow and reluctant. Each step felt like betrayal. He hated the feel of his back facing the training grounds. Hated the idea of someone else seeing Rosalee sweat, hearing their breath hitch, watching their body move. But worst of all—he hated how powerless he suddenly felt.
Back behind the stone wall of the outer ring, Ben exhaled shakily and leaned against a pillar. His hands curled into fists, but he didn't know who he wanted to hit more—Axmel, the other knights, or himself.
---
Inside the grounds, Rosalee turned to face the dozens of male gazes that lingered still—curious, ravenous, disarmed. They offered a brilliant smile, arms loose at their sides and hips tilted just so.
With Ben gone, Rosalee turned to the knight and gave him a smile so dazzling it could've passed for divine intervention.
"Shall we begin?"
…
The training started with stretches. Rosalee was determined, despite the waves of sugar and carbs still churning in his belly. They needed this—needed to reclaim their stamina, their body, their sense of strength. But gods, why did they start with such compromising positions?
"Breathe in. Lean forward. Deeper."
Axmel's voice was beside their ear, his hands gentle but firm on Rosalee's waist, correcting their posture.
Rosalee followed the instructions—just a bit too eagerly. Their back arched, a soft gasp escaping as a slight pull stretched across his thighs. The sound was innocent… mostly. Yet when paired with the way their hips shifted, the small, involuntary tremble of exertion, and the glimpse of pale skin just above the waistband of their breeches, it left Axmel frozen.
"…Are you alright?"
He asked, clearing his throat.
"Just… a little tight."
Rosalee murmured, breathless.
Axmel was silent for a beat longer than necessary.
They moved on to bodyweight drills. Pushups. Squats. A short jog around the inner field. Rosalee stumbled once—not for lack of grace but due to a distraction:
A particularly handsome knight running shirtless in the distance. His muscles flexed like steel under bronze skin, his thick arms pumping like pistons.
'Noted.'
Rosalee thought.
Another passed by with dusty orange-red hair and sharp, mischievous light blue eyes. Smirking when their gazes met.
'Also noted.'
Despite the leering attention, Rosalee remained mostly laser-focused. Their breath was fast and shallow, skin glowing with a sheen of sweat. Their blouse clung slightly to the line of their back. Every time they bent to stretch, a few strands of their high ponytail would brush along the line of their spine, and more than one knight visibly paused mid-motion just to gawk.
Axmel tried to stay composed. He really did.
But then came another stretch.
Rosalee knelt on one knee, arms raised, the fabric pulling tight across his chest and torso. Axmel came to correct his posture again—fingers at Rosalee's side, brushing the bare skin beneath the hem of the shirt.
A shiver.
Then a soft exhale from Rosalee—low, like a purr.
Axmel's hand lingered. His breath caught.
Rosalee turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded.
"Sir Dorrell?"
He pulled away as if burned.
"Let's… move on."
Rosalee smiled. Another crack in the armor.
'Yes…'
They thought.
'If this is training, then I'll definitely enjoy.'
Axmel Dorrell's voice had grown a touch huskier.
"Alright… just a few more stretches, Lady Rosalee. You'll thank me later."
Rosalee, already slick with sweat and flushed from the physical exertion—and perhaps the many hands-on corrections—arched a slender brow, but said nothing. Their body ached, not painfully, but with that intoxicating soreness that came from true exertion… and a bit of something else entirely. Axmel stepped behind them again.
"Kneel down slowly, legs apart… now twist your upper body like this—good, hold."
Rosalee obeyed, twisting with arms raised and bent behind their head. The position made their ribcage expand and their blouse cling even tighter to their damp skin. The motion reminded Rosalee, vaguely, of a yoga twist from their past life—only then they hadn't had a rugged knight kneeling beside them, guiding every angle of their hips and spine with thick, calloused fingers.
"This feels very... yoga."
Rosalee murmured with a breathy smirk.
"Yoga?"
Axmel blinked.
"Mm, never mind. Keep going."
They teased, voice dripping with honey.
They moved to another pose—on hands and knees, then slowly arching into a backbend. Axmel's hands settled firmly at the small of their back, coaxing a gentle curve through their spine, and then trailing down along the curve of their waist to adjust their hips again.
A tremble passed through Rosalee's limbs.
They exhaled—a sound too soft and too warm—and suppressed the instinct to purr. Their body was buzzing from the attention, from the sheer contact, and it was becoming harder and harder to keep their little sounds innocent. Every time Axmel touched them, even if it was just to gently reposition their hand or ankle, they felt a jolt shoot up their spine like static.
Axmel, clearly, had caught on to something.
And yet, he didn't stop.
If anything, he leaned into it—correcting Rosalee more often than necessary, brushing knuckles along their ribs, guiding their arms into a gentle overhead stretch with fingers brushing the inner curve of their wrists and down their triceps.
"Breathe."
He said close to their ear.
Rosalee bit the inside of their lip to silence the involuntary sigh.
They had stopped keeping track of how long the stretches had lasted. Time had melted between heavy, slow breaths and small, delighted shivers. Rosalee didn't mind. In fact, they were quietly thrilled.
Eventually, after what had to be double the usual cool-down time, Axmel stepped back and declared.
"Let's end here for today. You did… very well."
Rosalee, glowing with exertion and heat, stretched their arms above their head with a pleased hum. Sweat clung to their neck, collarbone, and the valley of their chest—and that was when the shift occurred.
Not in Rosalee's awareness. But in the men watching.
Silence rippled across the knights training in the background. A few turned away quickly, flustered. Others stared openly. One young knight-in-training walked directly into a training dummy, earning a shout from his superior. But Axmel saw it first and went rigid.
The blouse.
The once-flowy, once-loose white blouse—now clung wetly to Rosalee's body. Nearly translucent. Where before it had simply teased the faint outline of form, it now clung like a second skin. And beneath it, clearly outlined, were the delicate curves of Rosalee's chest—small but unmistakably there. Pale skin with the softest hue of rose beneath, and no undergarment in sight.
Rosalee, still stretching, still completely unaware, glanced over.
"Hm? Something wrong?"
Axmel, flustered for the first time, whipped his head away.
"No—nothing! Just, um, training is finished!"
Rosalee tilted their head, a bit amused.
"You're bright red, Sir Dorrell."
He coughed, clearly struggling.
"It's the sun."
The knights behind them scrambled to return to their drills. A few whispered. Others dared a final glance.
Still unaware, Rosalee gave a small, elegant bow, and smiled.
"Thank you for your time, Sir Dorrell. Shall I see you again tomorrow?"
Axmel nodded—too quickly.
"Yes. Same time."
Rosalee turned to the gate. Stepping out, they finally spotted Ben waiting outside, pacing and wearing a deeply unhappy expression.
---
Ben paced the perimeter just outside the stone wall of the training grounds, his boots grinding softly into the gravel path. The rhythmic clang of swords, the shouts of men, and the distant echo of Rosalee's laughter only tightened the knot in his gut. Every now and then, he found himself drifting toward the wall, fists clenched at his sides, resisting the temptation to peek over.
He hated this feeling.
The jealousy was a hot, foreign thing, crawling beneath his skin like ants. It wasn't just the idea of Rosalee being around sweaty, hulking men. It was the idea of them touching Rosalee. Seeing Rosalee. Getting to laugh with them, sweat with them, stretch with them…
"Stretch…"
Ben muttered, eyes darkening at the thought.
"He doesn't even know how they're looking at him…"
He moved closer to the gate, prepared to barge in, damn the consequences. Thornwood could punish him for insubordination later. Right now, all he cared about was—
The creak of the training grounds gate stopped him in his tracks.
Ben froze, then straightened so fast it looked painful. There, walking with effortless grace through the gate, came Rosalee—sunlight catching the damp sheen of sweat glistening on their collarbone, their flushed cheeks making them appear even more devastating than usual. But it wasn't the flushed face or the glow of exertion that sent Ben's mind into a tailspin.
It was the blouse.
Rosalee's white blouse—thin, cotton, soaked through.
Translucent.
His breath caught violently in his throat. The fabric clung to Rosalee's chest like a second skin, outlining the soft curve of their breasts, the delicate slopes of their body, and the faintest blush of pink where their nipples were.
When they reached him, Ben's eyes were stuck down to the wet blouse, then away—so fast it might've been instinct. But his cheeks were flushed. Jaw tight. His breath was barely even.
Rosalee smiled, still blissfully ignorant.
"Benny~! Did you wait long?"
They stepped closer and wrapped their arms around his arm as they walked, just to feel the tension.
Ben didn't answer but his ears burned. For a moment, Ben's body didn't respond.
Then he moved—on instinct.
He lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Rosalee, hugging them tightly to his chest in a sudden, desperate embrace. Rosalee blinked up, startled, their cheeks slightly flushed from exertion but not quite alarmed.
"B-Ben?"
They murmured, eyebrows raised in faint amusement.
"Benny, are you okay?"
Ben's face was scarlet.
"I— You—You can't— You're— Everyone was going to see—"
His voice cracked. He clutched Rosalee tighter, trying to explain.
"You don't understand—Your blouse—It's— It's wet—completely see-through— They could've seen—everything!"
Rosalee blinked once, then twice. A sly smile tugged at the corners of their lips as they finally realized what had happened. Oh. So *that's* why Axmel was lingering longer than needed during stretches. Rosalee hadn't thought the blouse would turn that sheer—but it seems it had. And just as planned, it had worked splendidly. Well, maybe far too well?
Outwardly, however, they gasped softly and pressed their hands gently to their chest.
"Oh my goodness, I must look so indecent…"
Rosalee said, batting their lashes.
"Thank you for shielding me, Benny… That was so brave of you."
Ben was melting. Practically shaking.
"I just—I couldn't let them… I mean— It's not right for them to see you like that, Lady Rosalee. You're not— You deserve better than their leering stares. I'll fix this!"
Before Rosalee could even respond, Ben stripped off his dark butler's coat and draped it carefully over Rosalee's shoulders. It was warm, the inside still laced with his body heat and the scent of cedarwood soap and ink.
"Come. We'll go a different way back. Quieter. Hidden."
His voice was tight with urgency, but his touch remained careful as he adjusted the coat.
Rosalee raised a brow, curious.
"You mean there's another way?"
Ben only nodded and began guiding them—through narrow hallways of the estate, past unused garden doors and down dim, dustless stone steps. The air was cooler, more private.
Rosalee walked silently for a while, their body close to Ben's as he ushered them through the secret passageways. And though Rosalee hadn't needed saving… it was nice to be fussed over.
'...And even nicer to know how flustered Benny had become. This could work.'
Rosalee smiled to themselves.
'So far, everything was going according to plan.'
And Ben? Ben never wanted to let go of the soft weight of Rosalee in his arms.
---
The path Ben took was winding and quiet, shadowed by the taller, unused wings of the estate. Not once did they run into another soul, and Rosalee found it both surprising and oddly charming. When they arrived at the ornate double doors of Rosalee's private quarters, the hallway was still and warm with evening sun leaking through stained glass. A golden hue kissed the floor tiles.
Rosalee paused before entering, turning just slightly—just enough for Ben to catch a sliver of pale skin and the gentle curve of their breast peeking from behind the edges of the blouse that clung to their body. Ben's eyes flicked there before he could stop himself. For one heartbeat, he couldn't look away.
Then, red.
Rosalee tilted their head, scarlet eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Thank you again for saving me from a scandal, Benny."
Their voice was light, teasing.
"Would you be a dear and get dinner ready? I need to change into something less... alluring."
Ben opened his mouth, then closed it. He nodded stiffly, still stunned.
"Y-yes, of course."
Rosalee stepped closer.
"Oh, and—"
They stood on their tiptoes and planted a soft peck on Ben's cheek, a whisper of a kiss that barely lingered before they slipped behind the door with a quiet click.
Ben stood frozen for a full five seconds. Then his brain caught up with his racing heart. His face turned scarlet. He stepped back, nearly tripping on his own boots. For a moment he clutched the lapel of his uniform, blinking hard.
"Dinner…"
He whispered to himself, flustered.
"Right. Dinner."
But it wasn't just dinner.
'It feels like... a date. And we'd be alone.'
Ben's ears burned red as he took off down the hall, his footsteps echoing faintly through the marble corridor.
'Maybe I should change too—I shouldn't show up to a moment like this in my sweat-damp uniform.'
He smiled to himself as he rushed back toward the kitchens and servants' quarters, his heart hammering not from nerves—but from anticipation.
---
Unnoticed by either of them, hidden just around the corner where the corridor met the outer balcony stairwell, stood Mireille—the garden maid.
She was short and slight, with ash-brown hair braided in a tight crown around her head and dull amber eyes that watched the world with quiet calculation. Her apron was speckled with soil, and a pair of shears dangled from her belt.
She hadn't meant to see them. She'd been ordered to clean the garden's stone basin earlier and was just coming in to grab her broom when she heard footsteps. But then she saw it—that smile on Ben's face. That stupid flushed look. That second's sultry little kiss.
Her grip tightened on the broom handle.
Ben never smiled like that around anyone. Not even around Thornwood—and she had seen Ben practically worship the ground he walked on. He was all silent loyalty and precise perfection. Never warm. Never soft.
Until now.
Until Rosalee.
Her lip curled in disdain.
That second-born mistake, that spoiled little parasite, was supposed to be beneath all of them. Yet now the servants were whispering about Ben's sudden protectiveness, about how he carried them through the corridors like a lover and how he even dared to raise his voice at Thornwood's own maid the other day.
Mireille's teeth clenched.
She wasn't going to let some pampered second child rewrite the rules of the household. Not when she'd clawed her way into a position of trust and proximity herself. If Ben could be swayed so easily by looks and a little sob story, maybe it was time to remind everyone just who Rosalee really was.
A plan began to form in her mind.
And this time, she would make sure the entire estate watched as the second was exposed and ridiculed for the snake they truly were.
---
Ben smoothed down the lapels of his fresh uniform for what felt like the tenth time. The fabric was new, crisp, and tailored perfectly to his tall frame, with clean silver trim outlining the sharp navy-blue design that signified his rank as the Earl's personal attendant. His dark hair had been quickly brushed, and he had even taken a moment to scent himself subtly with the Florenzia household's cologne—one only used for special occasions. The dinner wasn't official, but in his mind, it felt like a date.
He had prepared the meal himself in the smaller private kitchen adjoining the west wing, choosing Rosalee's favorites from the last few days:
Roasted duck glazed in a light citrus glaze, honeyed root vegetables, buttered asparagus, and a soft fig tart for dessert. The plates were arranged beautifully, candles prepared, wine decanted and breathing. Every inch of the dining room had been checked twice. No footman. No maid. Just him and Rosalee.
Meanwhile, inside the second's bedroom, Rosalee stood before the long mirror near the vanity. They had chosen a gown that draped like silk in a warm, flushed red—soft and inviting but still elegant. The neckline scooped just enough to flatter the shape of their shoulders and draw the eye to his slim waist. Their skin glowed faintly from the bath, and they had brushed their long hair until it shone before weaving it into a single braid. Rose-shaped pins with hints of gold caught the light as they turned their head side to side, admiring the soft sway of the braid over their chest.
The makeup they applied was minimal—just a wash of rose on the lips, a flick of crimson near the eyes, and a faint shimmer of powder along the cheeks. Nothing too overstated. Tonight's look was one of soft invitation, not carnal indulgence. That had already been achieved earlier.
They glanced at their reflection once more and tilted their head.
The knights were practically drooling over him earlier, but too much overt seduction would dull the weapon. What they needed now was a more refined hook—one of charm, wit, and mystery. They'd begin whispering compliments, small touches, casual gestures—gentle turns of the head to let sunlight filter through their lashes. Yes. It would be gradual. They would fall like moths, thinking it was their choice.
Ben, on the other hand, was proving harder to calculate. He showed all the signs—bashful stares, flustered silences, quiet protectiveness—but he remained so... loyal. And guilt-ridden. That kind of man was difficult to fully ensnare without softening him first. So Rosalee would bide their time. Patience. Precision.
There was a knock at the door.
"Rosalee?"
Came Ben's voice—gentle, quiet.
"Are you ready?"
Rosalee stood, smoothing the skirt of their gown and gathering the edge as they walked to the door. They opened it with a smile that lit up the corridor.
Ben's breath caught. Rosalee looked like a painting come to life. The red gown framed their body like a lover's hand, the braid falling like a silken rope over his shoulder. Their scarlet-red eyes shimmered in the candlelight, glowing with something that Ben couldn't name.
"You look…"
Ben's voice faltered, then found its footing.
"...radiant."
Rosalee gave a little laugh, the kind that could cut and caress in equal measure.
"Thank you, Benny. You're looking quite handsome yourself tonight."
Ben offered his arm, still dazed.
"Shall we?"
"We shall."
Rosalee said, slipping his hand into the crook of Ben's arm with practiced grace.
And together, they walked back inside to the moonlit balcony, arm in arm, to the small private dining table prepared for just the two of them.
Only the candlelight and the scent of fig and spice bore witness to the start of something that—by morning—neither would be able to ignore.