Because a man could not remain in a young lady’s chamber for long, Alfonso departed as soon as Ariadne had calmed down, moving quickly to avoid being seen. He wanted to ensure that if anyone did happen to spot him, he could simply claim he had ‘merely escorted her back.’
He had never given much thought to why men were forbidden from entering a young lady’s private quarters, but now, he understood. It was the sanctuary of her existence—her personal belongings, a lingering scent distinct from a man’s room, a delicate blend of floral notes and the sweet, powdery fragrance of a maiden—and there was Ariadne, left vulnerable within it.
“They must have all seen, right?”
Her tears.
Never before had he wanted to wipe away tears so desperately. The moment he saw them, his heart had crumbled. He wished she would never cry, that her beautiful eyes would hold nothing but smiles.
And her fair skin…
Alfonso was startled and shook his head violently to sever the thought.
What he had seen played on a loop in his mind. If he, a man, felt this way, it was certain that allowing men unrestricted access to a lady’s room would lead to nothing but trouble.
Shifting the blame onto men in general, Alfonso shook his head and clenched his fists, trying to dispel the intrusion.
‘I am a respectable gentleman. I must not do this. Even imagining such things is an insult to a noble lady.’
After cooling his head in the hallway for a moment, Alfonso felt he had regained his composure.
‘I can restrain myself. I can.’
He was a believer in chivalry who had received the finest education, hailed as the most outstanding young monarch. Restraint and patience were virtues he had been taught his entire life. It was not difficult. Or so he believed.
However, Alfonso did not realize that because he had squeezed his hands so tightly, his fingernails had dug into his palms, drawing blood.
* * *
‘For every gain, there is a loss.’
Isabella was truly feeling the weight of this proverb today. It had been fine to tamper with Ariadne’s debutante dress. It was clever to use Ariadne’s new maid—whose name she had already forgotten—to swap the iron hook for a lead-heavy one so the cotton would fray, and it was even better to have Maletta sneakily rip the stitching along the front bodice.
But she had never imagined that what would spill out would be her real breasts, rather than ‘chest pads’ and pathetic wads of cotton.
‘Is she a fool? Why would she bind them up like that instead of showing them off?!’
Breasts that stood firm and supple, like summer peaches, without any external aid, were exactly what Isabella had dreamed of. She would have done anything to possess such a figure. And yet, she had kept them bound so tightly!
Ultimately, the scene Isabella had imagined—of ‘chest pads’ being exposed and two cotton pouches falling from beneath the cotton fabric—had not occurred. But the clever Isabella knew how to make the best of what she had.
“Didn’t she tear it on purpose to show off her chest?”
This was the remark Isabella tossed out like a dagger while noblewomen were gathered in groups, discussing the ‘wardrobe malfunction’ that had occurred moments ago.
“My sister has always had an excessive pride in her figure. I knew she was the type of person to do anything to draw attention, but…”
It was a possibility the ladies and young misses had never even imagined. Lowering their voices, they began an intense debate over whether it could be true. While many of the older matrons were skeptical, thinking ‘Surely not,’ the young ladies—many of whom were Isabella’s friends—tended to agree with her.
“If she showed off her chest by pretending it was a mistake, she certainly made sure everyone would remember her.”
“Honestly, isn’t this ball way too much for her anyway? Who does she think she is, holding a solo debutante ball? If one didn’t know better, they’d think she was royalty.”
“How on earth did she get the Prince to be her partner? Does anyone know?”
However, the conversation between Isabella and her friends circled less around Ariadne’s actions and more around a singular, festering grievance: how a base-born girl, the daughter of a maid and raised in the countryside, dared to receive treatment superior to their own. Because they loathed her, they had already decided that Ariadne’s misfortune was no accident, but a calculated, shameful display. They poured their vitriol accordingly.
“Is that girl even pretty?”
“I honestly can’t tell.”
“Her figure was decent, I suppose.”
To a comment from a bystander who innocently praised Ariadne, Viscountess Leonati retorted with a sharp sting.
“Anyone looks like they have a good figure if they parade about with their chest exposed. Honestly, isn’t Camellia far more refined than the little De Mare lady?”
Baroness Camellia De Castiglione, inwardly pleased, offered a modest reply.
“Oh, no. And isn’t one’s figure only something men notice when they have lewd thoughts? If you consider her face and everything else combined, Isabella is the most beautiful.”
The girls argued among themselves, reinforcing their rigid internal hierarchy. While some objective ranking of beauty was involved, the conversation was largely a reflection of their social standing. They inflated the charms of their allies, while those without status were deemed beneath mention.
As Isabella and her circle huddled, whispering over their table, a man’s voice—thick with fury—cut through the air.
“Are you not ashamed?”
It was Prince Alfonso, his face flushed with indignation. It was customary for a gentleman to feign ignorance of the intimate conversations of ladies, but after hearing Ariadne so basely maligned, he could not remain silent.
“Do you have proof that she did this on purpose? Why are you assuming the worst and vilifying her? You saw how distressed she was; how can you claim she orchestrated such a horrific accident with her own hands?”
The young ladies exchanged flustered glances. This was a catastrophe. They had never expected the Prince to intervene.
To be openly reprimanded by the Prince in an official setting! He was the very man every woman here dreamed of impressing.
However, there were always those who lacked the sense to stay in their place. Viscountess Leonati, who had never harbored illusions of marrying the Prince—given her status, appearance, and reputation—and therefore felt no need to court his favor, reacted with hostility to his rebuke.
“We offer our greetings to the Little Sun of the Empire, Prince Alfonso. But this is a matter concerning only us.”
As Viscountess Leonati took the lead, the surrounding girls began to murmur.
“That’s right. How would Prince Alfonso understand the wiles of women? Are you perhaps fond of the little De Mare lady?”
“Did he fall for her because of her chest? Oh my, I never thought the Prince was that sort of man.”
“He must have been bewitched by that vixen! How much did she have to wheedle him for the Prince to act like this? How would he even know how distressed she was?”
Alfonso was taken aback by the sudden vitriol. In his life, even when his words were unconventional, his peers had always smiled at him rather than show open disdain. This was the first time women had been so hostile toward him, despite him defending the truth. Standing behind the group, Isabella wore a cunning, victorious smile, acting as the commander of the fray.
Just then, Prince Alfonso’s reinforcement arrived: Countess Marquez.
“If a peer has suffered a pitiable incident, one should know how to show solidarity and offer comfort.”
Countess Marquez swept her gaze across the room, her eyes cold. She had been raised in a high-ranking family where the Holy Scriptures were the standard for etiquette and grace. Moreover, the Prince’s reputation was at stake, and she would not allow it to be tarnished further.
“Why are you flapping your tongues like fish out of water? Is this how your parents taught you to behave?”
She scolded the young ladies with a voice as sharp as frost.
Yet, these young women were on the verge of driving away even the Prince; they were not the sort to admit defeat easily. While they might have brushed off any other noblewoman with a muttered, “Who is that old hag?”, Countess Marquez was a different matter. She was the Queen’s closest confidante, the mistress of the prestigious House of Marquez, and the undisputed queen of San Carlo’s social scene.
Having dominated the elite circles for over twenty years, no one dared tell Countess Marquez that she “didn’t understand the world of women.” Thus, though the young ladies twisted their faces in frustration, none dared lash out.
The seasoned Countess clearly saw who was driving the conflict. She singled out Isabella with one final, pointed remark.
“Firstborn daughter of De Mare, I understand you are the apple of your father’s eye, raised with the utmost care. I have no doubt your father wishes for sisters to maintain close bonds and support one another.”
The Countess, who valued lineage above all else, held back her favorite barb regarding the “daughter of a vulgar mistress,” given they were at a party hosted by the De Mare residence. Yet, the nuance was not lost on anyone present; her icy glare and the pointed omission of Isabella’s mother spoke volumes.
*‘That meddlesome old hag!’*
Isabella’s face turned bright red with rage and humiliation. But, a creature who was fierce toward the weak and timid toward the strong, she could not bring herself to voice her true feelings to Countess Marquez—especially not in front of the Prince.
Isabella decided to play the victim. Summoning her volatile emotions, she forced tears into her ducts. Soon, crystal drops began to spill from her large, violet, puppy-like eyes. Her translucent skin flushed pink, and her small, delicate frame trembled with calculated fragility.
“That… that was not my intention…”
With a fairy-like beauty weeping before a young man and a stern woman in her forties, the tide of public opinion began to turn against Prince Alfonso and the Countess, regardless of the facts.
— “Goodness, why is that girl crying?”
— “Did that noblewoman make her cry?”
— “It’s Countess Marquez. She is known to be a bit prickly. But why is the Prince standing there, too? Did he make a mistake?”
As the whispers swirled, Countess Marquez felt a flicker of fluster, though she managed to suppress her bewilderment and maintain an elegant mask. Isabella was, indeed, not an easy opponent. Just as the Countess was pondering how to extract Prince Alfonso from this mess without damaging his reputation, Ariadne, having changed into her second debutante dress, descended the stairs with the help of her personal maids.
Ariadne was blindingly beautiful. One might have believed this second dress had been specifically tailored to eclipse the earlier incident. It featured a high neckline and sleeves that reached her fingertips, minimizing exposed skin; yet, the way it clung to her frame emphasized her silhouette perfectly, without appearing overtly provocative.
Every eye turned toward the protagonist of the day, who commanded the room’s attention. Noticing the commotion, Ariadne approached Prince Alfonso and Countess Marquez, coming to a halt beside them.
Ariadne and Isabella now stood side by side, a silent confrontation. Among guests dressed in somber colors out of respect for the debutante, the two sisters stood in snow-white gowns, shining as if caught in a spotlight.
1. The Debutante Ball
Isabella was like cotton candy today—both in the good sense and the bad. Her round skirt, layered with white organza, caught the light and shimmered with every movement, pinning every eye in the room to her. Yet, the heavy makeup she had applied to avoid being overshadowed only served to drown out her greatest charm—her rabbit-like innocence. Depending on the angle, she looked less like a young debutante and more like a clown.
Ariadne’s appearance, by contrast, was defined by a striking, poised restraint. Her makeup was minimal; save for a subtle flick of eyeliner to round her eyes, she wore only a soft, natural tint of pink on her cheeks and lips. The simplicity of her dress accentuated her tall, lithe figure without the need for forced adornment. She had left the ‘Heart of the Blue Deep’ behind, choosing only the diamond and white topaz earrings gifted by the Queen, which hung like miniature chandeliers.
As the two young ladies stood, positioned crosswise in the room, a question that had been murmuring through the crowd—the one Isabella had desperately tried to silence—surfaced once more.
Why was Isabella De Mare wearing a gown as white as snow when this wasn’t even her own debutante ball?