The sun rose too quickly.
Beatrice hadn't slept. Not properly. She'd changed, bathed, moved through the rituals of morning like clockwork, but her mind hadn't stopped spinning since the night before.
Francois.
The warmth of his voice still lingered behind her ear. That near-touch, that look, not pity, not strategy, but something dangerously close to recognition.
She stood at her vanity, running a brush through her hair with mechanical efficiency. The reflection in the glass didn't blink. Didn't soften. And when she finally met her own eyes, the only word that surfaced was: careful.
Lily arrived precisely on time.
"You have an escort request this morning, my lady," she said, setting a tray beside the window. "His Highness."
Beatrice stilled. "He sent for me?"
"He asked if you were attending the royal stables this morning. I told him you hadn't decided."
Beatrice gave a quiet breath of something between exasperation and disbelief.
"Then I suppose I have decided."
