Perhaps it was for the best that I was born and raised working class, read: poor, in my past life. Being a socialite is not for the weak.
My cheeks hurt from maintaining a placid smile, making sure any laughter is pleasant and melodic to the ear, and nailing the fine line between being an active listener and giving kind yet witty responses. My body must remain still yet relaxed, every sip of tea maintaining the strict manners that have been trained and beaten into me from the moment I arrived at the palace. What salacious gossip it would make if I were to err in behavior? My enemies would feast on reputation while the ambivalent would watch me get ripped limb from limb.
So my calm smile doesn't budge an inch.
