Across the room, her bookshelves stood in perfect vertical lines, full of worlds where girls ran, fought, vanished, returned, and burned kingdoms for less than this.
In this world, Rosette Olsen was expected to smile on a cruise.
Maybe dance with a man chosen for her.
Maybe let society whisper about how finally, finally, someone respectable had come along to tame the reckless Olsen heiress.
Her throat tightened.
She forced it down.
“What time is the stylist?”
Relief and pain moved together across Elara’s face.
“Five-fifteen.”
“Convenient.”
“And your father wants us ready before seven.”
“My father wants a great many things.”
“Yes,” Elara said.
The single word carried more sadness than agreement.
Rosette pushed the sheets away and stood. Her bare feet sank into the thick black rug beside the bed. For a second, the hangover made the room tilt, but she steadied herself before her mother could reach for her.
She would not look weak.
Not today.
Not for Magnus.
Not for some Damon Aristotle with a perfect surname and a cruise invitation.
Elara rose with her. “You should eat something first.”
“I need coffee.”
“You need water.”
“I need both.”
Elara smiled faintly. “That can be arranged.”
Rosette walked toward the bathroom door, then stopped.
“Mom?”
Elara turned.
Rosette wanted to ask if she could refuse.
She wanted to ask if her mother would stand beside her if she said no.
She wanted to ask if love had any power in this house at all.
Instead, she asked, “Is he handsome?”
Elara’s expression broke for half a second.
Then she answered the easier question.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Very.”