Sola 25, 1739
**Sola 25, 1739 - Midday to Evening, Casa del Sol**
After the Edwards's soiree, Zarai's itinerary was cleared of all lunches, invitations, and calls. She had been excited about the prospect of spending the day with her friends playing card games, but Sir Barrios had escorted her from the gathering without room to protest. Now, the princess was owed an apology, one Zarai intended to soften with some warm and delicious pastries. But that would be for another day. Today was special.
Today was moving day. How fun.
Duchess Francesca had finally secured a lavish manor just outside Sorianâa mere thirty-minute carriage ride from the city. The estate, grandiose and dripping with excess, boasted three stories, sprawling gardens, a private lake, two greenhouses, stables, and far too much land. Its name, Casa del Sol, inspired by the enormous skylight in the main entrance.
Zarai couldnât help but wonder where the money had come from to buy such a place so quickly. She had tried snooping through her motherâs temporary study at the guest house, but Lady Kate had caught her in the halls before she could even make it to the office.
Red.
A wave of disgust hit Zarai as she thought about the money being wastedâfunds that could have repaired roads, rebuilt bathhouses or improved Puerto Vira. Instead, it was funneled into a country they barely visited, spent on a mansion her mother would use for a season every other year.
The knot in her stomach formed and tightened painfully. She was so far from the guest house now. Far from friends. Far from Fritz andâ
âNiña!â Francescaâs sharp voice snapped her out of her thoughts. âStop standing around and help me! Show these imbeciles where the drawing room is. Must I do everything myself?â Her mother brushed past her, not sparing a glance as she insulted the workers to their faces.
Zarai cringed, her heart sinking as the men carrying the red velvet sofa exchanged a wordless glance. "I am so sorry about her," she whispered, knowing they wouldnâtâcouldnâtârespond. She led them silently to one of the many drawing rooms, her stomach churning with each step.
**Sola 25, 1739 - 8:30pm, Casa del Sol**
âYou were right about the iron shipments. Our supplierâs prices have gone up, but Iâd rather pay the premium than let Varian merchants meddle in our business.â Francesca, to Zaraiâs right, said before sipping her red wine with mastered elegance.
âA wise decision, Your Grace. Keeps things tightly within your control.â Lord Monet, across the table, nodded, cutting into his steak. The blood dripped from the meat onto the porcelain plate, making her stomach twist. âBesides, with the premium, you can report certain quantities as âlostâ en route to Sorian, letting you claim back some taxes on paper.â
âPerfect. Now, the new route expansionâhow are we progressing on that? If we can avoid unnecessary tariffs, the railway toward Felippina will be that much more profitable.â
âIâve already arranged alternate paths to cut down on the tolls. By directing goods along the coast and throughâŠâ
Their voices drifted into a monotonous hum as Zarai took another sip of her wine, its bitter sweetness mingling with the Alidashtian herb oil sheâd rubbed under her tongue before dinner, each sip pulling her further into a fog of artificial calm. The nice fluffy haze dulled the sharp edges of her discomfort, a welcomed feeling from the weight of their boring conversation.
The discussion was important, and it was unlike her mother to discuss business while Zarai was still in the room. Francescaâs confidence in Zaraiâs state of inebriation seemed to have convinced her to speak freely with the bloated, oily Lord Monet. Who could not stop glancing her way with a repulsive mix of condescension and lust.
Why is he looking at me with those nasty-ass eyes, like a bloated hog sizing up its next meal? Zaraiâs thoughts churned, venomous and relentless. Heâs a festering insult to decency itself, waddling around reeking of wet dog and desperation. If mirrors donât shatter at his reflection, itâs only because they pity the glass more than him. Her grip tightened on her fork, her knuckles whitening as she fought to keep her face neutral as she chewed on her steak.
Soon, it all began to blend together into a formless droning in her mind, the flames of the candle flickering hypnotically before her.
Right, left. Left, right.
Dancing in the middle of the room, the fire moved like nothing else matteredânot their conversation, not the growing discomfort clawing at her insides. Zarai's gaze locked on the flickering flame, her heart aching with envy. She wanted to be that fireâuntouchable, unrelenting, free.
Left, right.
Right, left.
Up, down.
Down, up.
The flame twisted and swayed, alive in its dance. Dance, it seemed to whisper to her. Dance until there's nothing left. Her mind spun with the rhythm, her heart echoing the frantic tempo. Zarai wanted to be that fire. Let it take her. To burn, burn, burn until every piece of her was charred, her existence finally extinguished.
Then, all at once, the haze lifted, jolting her back to the sharp reality as something cold and hard pressed against her ankle beneath the table.
Zaraiâs posture stiffened, and her eyes widened briefly as she looked at Monet. He sat there, a smug smile on his lips as he continued to talk to her mother. As if his shoe were not slowly teetering closer to her knee. It was like a poison slowly seeping past the fabrics of her dress and into her skin, slow and poisonous. Nasty. Disgusting.
Bile rose in her throat, and she glanced toward her mother, her eyes pleading for interventionâfor anything. For a split second, their icy gazes met, a flash of awareness crossing Francesca's face, but she turned back to her wine, swirling with passive indifference. Zaraiâs heart sank like a stone to the bottom of that snowy lake she often dreamed of, where darkness stretched endlessly. Her pulse throbbed in her ears as she struggled to draw breath, her mind recoiling in disgust.
âIndeed. And, Your Grace, the increased demand in Caesonia will mean weâre only just beginning to see returnsâ Agh!â Lord Monetâs fork clattered against his plate as he reached under the table, his blazer sleeve catching on his plate, sending the bloody remnants of his meal splattering across the pristine fabrics of his tails. His expression twisted into one of annoyance, embarrassment, and something else Zarai knew all too well.
Sheâd kicked him. Hard and on his shin with her pretty crystal-encrusted shoe. She hoped it bled. She hoped it hurt to the bone and left a nasty, ugly bruise.
He tried to rub his shin, but the mess on his chest only slipped down and splatted on the floor with a disgusting wet sound.
The silence that had fallen in the dining room broke as Zaraiâs chair scraped loudly against the marble as she rose, her hands steady despite the anger simmering under her skin. She smoothed her dress, keeping her expression calm as she locked eyes with her mother. âExcuse me, I am not feeling well.â
âZarai Luzero Lesdeman!â Francescaâs voice lashed out as she stood, sharp and cutting, as she yanked Zarai back by the arm and delivered a stinging slap across her face. âYou will not be rude to our guest! Este no es un comportamiento apropiado para una dama de tu posiciĂłn!â
Roll.
Roll.
Her vision blurred, and her ears rang for a second before Zarai brushed her faded copper tresses from her face to look at Francesca with burning cold eyes. âEso serĂa todo?â Her voice was devoid of emotion, even as her insides screamed. She wanted nothing more than to pick up the porcelain plates and hurl them across the room. Wanted to take the candle holder and plunge it into Monetâs stupid eyes so he could never look at her again. Wanted to burn this house to the ground with them inside of it. âExcuse me.â Was all she said as she curtseyed stiffly and left the room.
The moment the door closed behind her, Zarai kicked off her shoes and tore at her dress, desperate to be rid of the suffocating layers trapping her. With blurred vision and shaky fingers, she managed to pry her corset off. It fell with a soft thud, joining the layers of expensive yellow silk and lace pooling around her feet.
She stood in her new pristine room in only her undergarments, decorated with the same excess as the rest of the house. Her skin still felt choked, as if it could never be free.
Zarai stumbled to the window and flung it open, greedily gulping the cool night air, as if she could force out the sickening filth clinging to her skin. But the air did nothing to alleviate it. She still felt it. His presence. There. Polluting her.
Her hands drifted to her legs.
She rubbed at her skin, as if she could erase the feeling of his shoe pressing against her. But rubbing did nothing. The touch was still there. Crawling up her thigh like a slow-burning sickness.
She scratched.
Harder.
Harder.
Blood beaded beneath her nails, smeared across her thighs in jagged lines. Her breath came in sharp gasps, her body shivering from something deeper than the cold night air. But she couldnât stop.
Because she had seen it.
Francesca had known. She had looked Zarai dead in the eye and done nothing.
Zaraiâs entire body convulsed with a shudder, and she pressed a trembling hand against her mouth. It wasnât Monet. It wasnât just him. It had never just been Monet. It was the way this world was built, the way her mother allowed it, the way it was as normal as breathing.
TRIGGER WARNING: Sexual Harassment, Self Harm
**Sola 25, 1739 - Midday to Evening, Casa del Sol**
After the Edwards's soiree, Zarai's itinerary was cleared of all lunches, invitations, and calls. She had been excited about the prospect of spending the day with her friends playing card games, but Sir Barrios had escorted her from the gathering without room to protest. Now, the princess was owed an apology, one Zarai intended to soften with some warm and delicious pastries. But that would be for another day. Today was special.
Today was moving day. How fun.
Duchess Francesca had finally secured a lavish manor just outside Sorianâa mere thirty-minute carriage ride from the city. The estate, grandiose and dripping with excess, boasted three stories, sprawling gardens, a private lake, two greenhouses, stables, and far too much land. Its name, Casa del Sol, inspired by the enormous skylight in the main entrance.
Zarai couldnât help but wonder where the money had come from to buy such a place so quickly. She had tried snooping through her motherâs temporary study at the guest house, but Lady Kate had caught her in the halls before she could even make it to the office.
Red.
A wave of disgust hit Zarai as she thought about the money being wastedâfunds that could have repaired roads, rebuilt bathhouses or improved Puerto Vira. Instead, it was funneled into a country they barely visited, spent on a mansion her mother would use for a season every other year.
The knot in her stomach formed and tightened painfully. She was so far from the guest house now. Far from friends. Far from Fritz andâ
âNiña!â Francescaâs sharp voice snapped her out of her thoughts. âStop standing around and help me! Show these imbeciles where the drawing room is. Must I do everything myself?â Her mother brushed past her, not sparing a glance as she insulted the workers to their faces.
Zarai cringed, her heart sinking as the men carrying the red velvet sofa exchanged a wordless glance. "I am so sorry about her," she whispered, knowing they wouldnâtâcouldnâtârespond. She led them silently to one of the many drawing rooms, her stomach churning with each step.
ă â ă
**Sola 25, 1739 - 8:30pm, Casa del Sol**
âYou were right about the iron shipments. Our supplierâs prices have gone up, but Iâd rather pay the premium than let Varian merchants meddle in our business.â Francesca, to Zaraiâs right, said before sipping her red wine with mastered elegance.
âA wise decision, Your Grace. Keeps things tightly within your control.â Lord Monet, across the table, nodded, cutting into his steak. The blood dripped from the meat onto the porcelain plate, making her stomach twist. âBesides, with the premium, you can report certain quantities as âlostâ en route to Sorian, letting you claim back some taxes on paper.â
âPerfect. Now, the new route expansionâhow are we progressing on that? If we can avoid unnecessary tariffs, the railway toward Felippina will be that much more profitable.â
âIâve already arranged alternate paths to cut down on the tolls. By directing goods along the coast and throughâŠâ
Their voices drifted into a monotonous hum as Zarai took another sip of her wine, its bitter sweetness mingling with the Alidashtian herb oil sheâd rubbed under her tongue before dinner, each sip pulling her further into a fog of artificial calm. The nice fluffy haze dulled the sharp edges of her discomfort, a welcomed feeling from the weight of their boring conversation.
The discussion was important, and it was unlike her mother to discuss business while Zarai was still in the room. Francescaâs confidence in Zaraiâs state of inebriation seemed to have convinced her to speak freely with the bloated, oily Lord Monet. Who could not stop glancing her way with a repulsive mix of condescension and lust.
Why is he looking at me with those nasty-ass eyes, like a bloated hog sizing up its next meal? Zaraiâs thoughts churned, venomous and relentless. Heâs a festering insult to decency itself, waddling around reeking of wet dog and desperation. If mirrors donât shatter at his reflection, itâs only because they pity the glass more than him. Her grip tightened on her fork, her knuckles whitening as she fought to keep her face neutral as she chewed on her steak.
Soon, it all began to blend together into a formless droning in her mind, the flames of the candle flickering hypnotically before her.
Right, left. Left, right.
Dancing in the middle of the room, the fire moved like nothing else matteredânot their conversation, not the growing discomfort clawing at her insides. Zarai's gaze locked on the flickering flame, her heart aching with envy. She wanted to be that fireâuntouchable, unrelenting, free.
Left, right.
Right, left.
Up, down.
Down, up.
The flame twisted and swayed, alive in its dance. Dance, it seemed to whisper to her. Dance until there's nothing left. Her mind spun with the rhythm, her heart echoing the frantic tempo. Zarai wanted to be that fire. Let it take her. To burn, burn, burn until every piece of her was charred, her existence finally extinguished.
Then, all at once, the haze lifted, jolting her back to the sharp reality as something cold and hard pressed against her ankle beneath the table.
Zaraiâs posture stiffened, and her eyes widened briefly as she looked at Monet. He sat there, a smug smile on his lips as he continued to talk to her mother. As if his shoe were not slowly teetering closer to her knee. It was like a poison slowly seeping past the fabrics of her dress and into her skin, slow and poisonous. Nasty. Disgusting.
Bile rose in her throat, and she glanced toward her mother, her eyes pleading for interventionâfor anything. For a split second, their icy gazes met, a flash of awareness crossing Francesca's face, but she turned back to her wine, swirling with passive indifference. Zaraiâs heart sank like a stone to the bottom of that snowy lake she often dreamed of, where darkness stretched endlessly. Her pulse throbbed in her ears as she struggled to draw breath, her mind recoiling in disgust.
âIndeed. And, Your Grace, the increased demand in Caesonia will mean weâre only just beginning to see returnsâ Agh!â Lord Monetâs fork clattered against his plate as he reached under the table, his blazer sleeve catching on his plate, sending the bloody remnants of his meal splattering across the pristine fabrics of his tails. His expression twisted into one of annoyance, embarrassment, and something else Zarai knew all too well.
Sheâd kicked him. Hard and on his shin with her pretty crystal-encrusted shoe. She hoped it bled. She hoped it hurt to the bone and left a nasty, ugly bruise.
He tried to rub his shin, but the mess on his chest only slipped down and splatted on the floor with a disgusting wet sound.
The silence that had fallen in the dining room broke as Zaraiâs chair scraped loudly against the marble as she rose, her hands steady despite the anger simmering under her skin. She smoothed her dress, keeping her expression calm as she locked eyes with her mother. âExcuse me, I am not feeling well.â
âZarai Luzero Lesdeman!â Francescaâs voice lashed out as she stood, sharp and cutting, as she yanked Zarai back by the arm and delivered a stinging slap across her face. âYou will not be rude to our guest! Este no es un comportamiento apropiado para una dama de tu posiciĂłn!â
Roll.
Roll.
Her vision blurred, and her ears rang for a second before Zarai brushed her faded copper tresses from her face to look at Francesca with burning cold eyes. âEso serĂa todo?â Her voice was devoid of emotion, even as her insides screamed. She wanted nothing more than to pick up the porcelain plates and hurl them across the room. Wanted to take the candle holder and plunge it into Monetâs stupid eyes so he could never look at her again. Wanted to burn this house to the ground with them inside of it. âExcuse me.â Was all she said as she curtseyed stiffly and left the room.
ă â ă
The moment the door closed behind her, Zarai kicked off her shoes and tore at her dress, desperate to be rid of the suffocating layers trapping her. With blurred vision and shaky fingers, she managed to pry her corset off. It fell with a soft thud, joining the layers of expensive yellow silk and lace pooling around her feet.
She stood in her new pristine room in only her undergarments, decorated with the same excess as the rest of the house. Her skin still felt choked, as if it could never be free.
Zarai stumbled to the window and flung it open, greedily gulping the cool night air, as if she could force out the sickening filth clinging to her skin. But the air did nothing to alleviate it. She still felt it. His presence. There. Polluting her.
Her hands drifted to her legs.
She rubbed at her skin, as if she could erase the feeling of his shoe pressing against her. But rubbing did nothing. The touch was still there. Crawling up her thigh like a slow-burning sickness.
She scratched.
Harder.
Harder.
Blood beaded beneath her nails, smeared across her thighs in jagged lines. Her breath came in sharp gasps, her body shivering from something deeper than the cold night air. But she couldnât stop.
Because she had seen it.
Francesca had known. She had looked Zarai dead in the eye and done nothing.
Zaraiâs entire body convulsed with a shudder, and she pressed a trembling hand against her mouth. It wasnât Monet. It wasnât just him. It had never just been Monet. It was the way this world was built, the way her mother allowed it, the way it was as normal as breathing.
Roll.
Roll.
She should have said it in the morning.
She should have confessed her thoughts-âher darkest, most forbidden thoughtsâto him.
Damn his trusting eyes, his silent acceptance, his understand that made her believe she could bare the ugliest corners of her heart to him.
Roll.
Roll.
Damn his gentle words of encouragement, that quiet hope he kept planting in her heart, urging her to riise above it all.
Roll.
Roll.
And damn the way she could feel the weight of his disappointment, a bitter ache twisteing in her gut.
Roll.
Roll.
Breathing.
It dragged her like a tide, suffocating.
Endless.
Her motherâs face.
Roll.
Roll.
Contempt.
Que lastima.
Basta. Pobrecita.
Roll.
Roll.
Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
Zarai sucked in a breath.
Her fingers were numb.
Her legs were slick with red.
Roll.
Roll.
Her reflection in the glass window stared back at herâwild-eye, unrecognizable.
She still, she felt nothing.
Not the pain. Not the relief. Just⊠weight.
Heavy.
Settling in her bones.
Not the kind of numb she liked.
No, this one was worse.
C l i n k ! C l i n k ! C l i n k ! C l i n k !
Like tiny bells in her mind. Ringing and raging. All around. Everywhere and nowhere.
This one was real.
Roll.
She should have said it in the morning.
She should have confessed her thoughts-âher darkest, most forbidden thoughtsâto him.
Damn his trusting eyes, his silent acceptance, his understand that made her believe she could bare the ugliest corners of her heart to him.
Roll.
Roll.
Damn his gentle words of encouragement, that quiet hope he kept planting in her heart, urging her to riise above it all.
Roll.
Roll.
And damn the way she could feel the weight of his disappointment, a bitter ache twisteing in her gut.
Roll.
Roll.
Breathing.
It dragged her like a tide, suffocating.
Endless.
Her motherâs face.
Roll.
Roll.
Contempt.
Que lastima.
Basta. Pobrecita.
Roll.
Roll.
Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
Zarai sucked in a breath.
Her fingers were numb.
Her legs were slick with red.
Roll.
Roll.
Her reflection in the glass window stared back at herâwild-eye, unrecognizable.
She still, she felt nothing.
Not the pain. Not the relief. Just⊠weight.
Heavy.
Settling in her bones.
Not the kind of numb she liked.
No, this one was worse.
C l i n k ! C l i n k ! C l i n k ! C l i n k !
Like tiny bells in her mind. Ringing and raging. All around. Everywhere and nowhere.
This one was real.