The laughter in the ballroom grated against Evelyne's skin like sandpaper.
She stood in her private viewing gallery, high above the sea of nobles swirling below, her painted mask resting on her fingertips. Behind her, a pair of servants stood still as statues, knowing better than to breathe too loudly.
Lila Hart.
Lady Lila Hart, now being toasted and twirled across the ballroom as if she hadn't been the forgotten daughter of a ruined house just months prior.
Evelyne's fingers tightened on the balcony railing.
That gown—Seraphina Hart's old dress, tailored and gleaming like it had never faded was an insult.
And that circlet. The Hart circlet.
It should have been rotting in a vault. Buried with that disgrace of a family. Instead, it glittered atop Lila's head like a challenge.
"Bold," she muttered.
"Pardon, milady?" one of the servants asked carefully.
Evelyne turned, smile sharp. "Fetch the wine. The red one."
The servant hesitated a second too long.
"Now."
He bowed and fled.
When she was alone again, she stared at her reflection in the tall mirror by the balcony. Her pale blue gown shimmered with wealth, the tiara atop her perfect curls gleamed with imported pearls. She looked every bit the lady of the court. The puppetmaster behind the throne.
But her mask now hanging from her fingers felt heavier than usual.
Adrian Blackwood had ruined everything. She had built her court like a web. One silk thread at a time.
Blackmail, favors, debts, forged alliances—she had turned every noble in attendance into a piece on her board. And Lila? Lila was supposed to be the cautionary tale. The extra in the background. A shadow to be forgotten.
Instead, she'd arrived like a fallen star. Glowing. Smiling. Daring. With Adrian at her side.
That part still didn't make sense. Adrian Blackwood did not attend parties. He did not escort women. He didn't acknowledge them.
The Duke of Blackwood was many things—powerful, ruthless, dispassionate but sentimental?
No.
That meant one thing: he was using Lila. For something. And Evelyne couldn't see what it was. Yet.
She descended the staircase with grace, her expression carefully curated: half warmth, half distant superiority. The nobles parted before her like waves around a ship's prow. They knew her. Feared her. Owed her.
Evelyne approached the table where the Lady of Solmere sat fanning herself beside a group of younger lords.
"Isn't Lady Hart just radiant tonight?" Evelyne asked, voice honeyed.
"She's quite the surprise," Lady Solmere replied, lips pursed. "I didn't realize the Harts had anything left to show."
Evelyne gave a soft, musical laugh. "Oh, they don't. But one must admire her... audacity."
The men chuckled. One leaned forward. "Rumor is she's wormed her way into Blackwood's good graces."
"Rumor," Evelyne said delicately, "is the language of the desperate."
They all laughed louder than necessary.
But inside, Evelyne filed away each response. Every tone. Every flicker of uncertainty.
People were watching Lila.
Which meant they weren't watching her.
Unacceptable.
She summoned her steward.
"Tell Lord Ferrand I'd like to speak with him. In the east conservatory. Ten minutes."
"Yes, Lady Merrow."
Lord Ferrand was a minor noble. A weasel of a man. But he had something Evelyne valued: access to court records.
And if she couldn't destroy Lila socially, she would destroy her legally.
"Find me the original debt records from the Wrenmere estate," she said when he arrived. "I want to know exactly what that girl inherited. Every unpaid coin. Every suspicious transaction. Every name."
"My lady, those records are sealed."
Evelyne leaned forward, her perfume heady and sweet as poison. "Then unseal them."
Ferrand paled.
"I trust that won't be a problem?"
He bowed low. "Not at all."
She watched him retreat like a man running from a dragon and smiled.
The next move, however, would be more delicate.
She returned to the ballroom just in time to see Lila waltzing effortlessly with Adrian, this made her so angry because Adrian had never—NEVER danced with ladies from poor noble background.
"Interesting," Evelyne murmured.
She didn't approach them. Not yet.
Instead, she caught the eye of the girl she had planned to use tonight—Marianne, niece of Baron Estrow. Young, beautiful, easily led. And dangerously naive.
"Dearest Marianne," Evelyne cooed as she approached. "How enchanting you look."
Marianne curtsied. "Lady Merrow, you're far too kind."
"I wonder," Evelyne said thoughtfully, "if you might help me with a small favor. I fear Lady Hart is not well-acquainted with our... customs. Would you be so kind as to gently remind her where she truly stands?"
Marianne blinked. "Pardon?"
"A simple jest," Evelyne said with a smile. "Nothing cruel. But something memorable. A spilled drink. A stepped shoe. Remind her that she is not the star of this evening."
Marianne hesitated. "Won't that anger Duke Blackwood?"
Evelyne's smile sharpened. "Not if you do it well."
She left the girl standing there, flustered and unsure.
Perfect.
But despite all of Evelyne's efforts, despite every thread of manipulation she wove that night, Lila didn't crack.
In fact, she sparkled. She danced, she laughed, she parried conversations with wit sharper than any dagger. She even brazenly took Adrian's hand and whispered something that made him smirk.
The ballroom saw it. They all saw it. And suddenly, Lady Lila Hart wasn't a ruined daughter anymore. She was a threat.
Evelyne returned to her balcony and stared down at the glittering spectacle. The frost on the windows outside had begun to melt. Something was shifting. Lila wasn't just surviving the court anymore. She was winning.