Isabella, having danced the ball’s opening waltz with the Prince, felt as though she were soaring through the heavens. While it stung that she hadn’t stood at the very center of the floor, the consolation was grand: while Ariadne danced her first official waltz with none other than Count Cesare, she had been held in the arms of Prince Alfonso himself.
Isabella’s companions flocked to her, hungry for every detail.
“Isabella! To dance with the Prince—it’s absolutely incredible!”
It was the daughter of Viscountess Leonati, a girl whose edges were rough but whose devotion to Isabella remained unwavering. Isabella tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, basking in the glow. Even the daughter of Baroness Camellia De Castiglione, as if she had completely purged the memory of praising Ariadne and belittling Isabella moments prior, began to offer smooth, sycophantic flattery.
“Your dress is breathtaking. Is it from Collezioni?”
Isabella’s chin lifted. Of course it was Collezioni. It was an organza masterpiece she had secured only by paying a fifty-ducat premium—a bribe to bypass the waiting list. The layered, rounded hem of the skirt seemed to shimmer like precious candy.
“I heard the reservations were impossible to secure. How did you manage it?”
Flattered, Isabella spun a lie with practiced ease.
“Well, I did fear I had reached out too late. But Madame Clemenza herself insisted, saying, ‘It would be an honor for Lady Isabella De Mare to wear our work; might we craft one for you?’”
The reality was far colder. Isabella had badgered the atelier the moment the date of Ariadne’s debutante ball was announced, only to be turned away by their full schedule. She had persisted, finally bribing them into a slot by forcing her way into their top-tier, fifty-ducat price bracket—a figure worth roughly fifty million won—instead of the standard twenty or thirty. That, however, was a secret she guarded fiercely.
The girls, blind to the truth, let out a collective, shrill shriek of envy.
“Anyone would think you were the true protagonist of this ball, Lady Isabella!”
The daughter of Viscountess Leonati meant it as a genuine compliment, but sensing the potential for jealousy, Isabella responded with a mask of studied modesty.
“Oh, nonsense. My sister Ariadne is radiant. Someone like me can’t even begin to compare.”
“Excessive modesty is a lack of propriety, Isabella!”
“If you say that, what does it make the younger Lady De Mare?”
The praise was intoxicating—sustenance for her very soul. As she savored the spotlight, feeding on the notion that she was the superior sister, she kept her demeanor soft and kind.
Then, the daughter of Marquis Julia De Baldessar interjected with a sharp, piercing question.
“But Lady De Mare, since this is your sister’s debutante ball, is it really appropriate to be wearing white?”
Isabella loathed the quick-witted, but she had an alibi carved in stone. She offered a smile as sugary as cotton candy, reciting her answer like a bird in a cage.
“My sister and I are inseparable. She specifically asked me to match her, insisting that I wear white as well.”
Who could challenge that? If the girl herself consented, who were they to judge? Isabella added, her expression radiant with fabricated warmth,
“Our Ariadne is just so sweet.”
Outwardly, it was a tribute to her sister; inwardly, it was a ladder to elevate herself. *Isabella, the older sister so cherished that her brilliant younger sibling would gladly yield the center stage to her.*
Julia went quiet, unable to press the point. It was impossible to verify the claim with Ariadne directly, as they were not on speaking terms.
To silence even the haughty daughter of Marquis Baldessar—it was, truly, a magnificent day.
***
1. The Debutante Partner I Really Hate
Everything had an end. Even Ariadne’s first waltz, which had seemed destined to stretch into eternity, finally concluded as the orchestra’s bows stilled.
Ariadne offered a formal bow to Cesare and beat a hasty retreat from her partner. It wasn’t merely the discomfort of Cesare’s company; the bodice of her dress had been chafing for some time.
‘Should I head to the powder room…?’
As she weighed the prospect of retreating all the way to her room on the second floor for some respite, she spotted Prince Alfonso. At the same moment, Alfonso caught sight of her, his face brightening as he made his way over.
“Ariadne!”
“Alfonso!”
Ariadne’s smile was genuine; she felt a profound sense of relief.
“I thought you would have left by now.”
Truthfully, Alfonso’s position had been rendered awkward by Cesare’s arrival—one might even say he had been slighted. A more prickly noble would have been well within his rights to take offense and depart. Yet, Alfonso had remained, a silent gesture of courtesy to his hosts.
“I could hardly leave without sharing a waltz with the protagonist of the day.”
Alfonso beamed, offering his right hand.
“How about it, my lady? Will you grant me the honor of a dance?”
He was dressed in pure white, the traditional attire of a debutante partner. Unable to tell him, *I need to visit the washroom, let’s dance later,* Ariadne found herself sliding her hand into his.
As the orchestra struck up a second waltz, they drifted into the center of the hall, moving in perfect step.
“Did Count Cesare bother you?”
He clearly remembered the incident in the gardens of the Marchioness Cibo. Ariadne shook her head, following his lead as she glided across the floor.
“No, he was strangely gentlemanly today.”
Prince Alfonso furrowed his brows, sensing something amiss. Ariadne parried with a question of her own.
“By the way, how was your first dance?”
“Me? I danced with your sister.”
A shadow crossed Ariadne’s face. The beautiful Isabella. The femme fatale who drove every man to ruin.
“And? Isn’t she beautiful, my sister?”
She had meant to remain detached, but the words slipped out against her will. The composure she had meticulously cultivated during her nine years as the Regent’s fiancée seemed to dissolve whenever Isabella was mentioned. Even as she scolded herself for such petty insecurity, Alfonso replied:
“Beautiful? She didn’t look anything like you.”
The answer was far drier than Ariadne had anticipated. Unable to check her impulse, she pressed further.
“Everyone says my sister is the beauty of the age.”
“Is that so? Ah, I suppose she did have an air quite distinct from the common sort.”
Isabella possessed a uniquely slender frame, large, doe-like eyes, and delicate, doll-like features. She could stand in a cathedral of ten thousand and still command every gaze. Yet, she seemed to have failed to stir even a flicker of inspiration in Alfonso.
“I’m not certain.”
Living within the royal palace, Alfonso had been surrounded by beauty his entire life. Pretty faces, exquisite wardrobes, ornate fans, and dazzling jewels. He could appreciate them as pleasing objects, but to Alfonso, aesthetic beauty was, in the end, replaceable. Beauty inevitably faded, and younger, fresher faces would always rise to take its place. To stake one’s life on a beautiful face was as foolish as obsessing over a fan.
Alfonso preferred things of a higher order: noble spirits, lofty pride, a chivalry that refused to compromise its principles, and *noblesse oblige*—the willingness to sacrifice oneself for the greater good. Only values untarnished by the passage of time truly captivated him. The sharp, bottomless wit of the black-haired girl before his eyes was one such quality. But was it merely that?
Ariadne executed a wide turn in time with the music. Alfonso raised his hand to create space for her to spin, and Ariadne held their joined hands high.
*Rip!*
Ariadne sensed something was wrong. The moment the hook on her back took the tension, it failed to withstand the force. It gave way like taffy, followed by the sickening sound of cotton fabric unraveling. Simultaneously, unable to endure the pressure surging from within, the seam at the center of her V-neck bodice snapped.
*Snap!*
With a sharp report, the front of her dress burst open, exposing her cleavage.
Flustered, Ariadne froze like a statue amidst the flowing waltz. She stood out all the more, the only one motionless among dozens of pairs spinning around the floor.
The crowd noticed soon enough.
“Gasp!”
“Is her dress actually torn?!”
“My god, you can see everything.”
“Whew, that’s quite something!”
In the midst of the shock, a brazen whistle cut through the air. It was Zanobi De Rossi.
Zanobi’s behavior was uncultured by the standards of San Carlo high society, let alone the entire Etruscan Kingdom. Glances—sharp with indignation from noblemen and ladies alike—descended upon the boor who had dared to whistle.
“Who is that rude man?”
“His manners are utterly boorish.”
Realizing his grave error, Zanobi tucked his head in like a turtle and hurriedly fled the ballroom.
The ballroom descended into chaos. That was when Alfonso acted. He unclasped his heavy ceremonial cloak and threw it over the frozen Ariadne. The snow-white fabric spread across the room like falling petals before pulling tight around her, cocooning her like a closing bud.
“Excuse me. Pardon us.”
Alfonso scooped Ariadne into his arms and attempted to navigate through the crowd toward the powder room, but seeing the space teeming with young ladies, he paused to consult her.
“The powder room is crowded. Shall we still go there?”
The moment she heard it was full, Ariadne—still swaddled in the white cloak—shook her head. The first-floor lounge was already packed with Isabella’s friends, buzzing and clamoring.
“Let’s go to the second floor. To my room.”
Alfonso carried Ariadne directly up to the second floor, to the suite at the end of the west wing. As soon as they entered the sitting room, her personal maids, led by Sancha, rushed forward and relieved him of his burden.
“My Lady, I will fetch a gown immediately!”
The moment Sancha set Ariadne on the sofa, she bolted into the dressing room. Anna sprinted off to fetch cosmetics upon seeing her mistress’s tear-streaked face, while Maria dashed to prepare tea.
Left alone in the sitting room, Alfonso realized Ariadne was sobbing so violently she could barely breathe.
“Ariadne, are you alright?”
Failing to find a cloth, he wiped the tears streaming down her face with his own sleeve. Ariadne, gasping for air, managed to choke out a single, jagged sentence.
“It’s humiliating⋯⋯!”
Isabella’s words rang incessantly in her mind.
*“They said your breasts are so big and saggy, they thought you were a dairy cow.”*
She had exposed the intimate parts that a virtuous lady ought to keep hidden. Furthermore, Ariadne considered herself truly unsightly. In her mind, she replayed the cruel criticisms she hadn’t even heard, yet knew were being spoken.
*‘How truly vulgar.’*
*‘She only clings to men because she has nothing else to offer.’*
*‘The daughter of a lowly maid who knows no shame!’*
*‘You seduced Count Cesare by showing off your breasts, you pathetic girl!’*
Alfonso pulled Ariadne, still wrapped in his cloak, into his arms as she wept. When he had been a child, Queen Marguerite would hold him exactly like this whenever he burst into tears. To Alfonso, offering his warmth was the most natural way to comfort someone.
“Don’t cry, Ariadne. It’s alright. Everything will be fine.”
As he patted her back in a steady, rhythmic cadence, Ariadne’s sobbing gradually subsided. Once she seemed composed, Alfonso gazed down at her tear-stained face.
“Do you feel a bit better now?”
Ariadne nodded, sniffling, though she could not stop the rising tide of shame.
“Everyone must have seen, right? It must have looked hideous⋯⋯!”
Alfonso’s answer to both was a firm, quiet denial.
“It was only for a split second. Most people saw nothing. And hideous? What was?”
Ariadne could not bring herself to utter the words ‘saggy breasts.’ Alfonso continued, his voice gentle.
“Plenty of older ladies wear necklines that low these days! People probably just assumed it was the fashion.”
Ariadne ducked her head inside the cloak to inspect the damage. Alfonso turned away, his face flushed, pretending to look elsewhere.
The neckline had ripped all the way down to just above her navel. Through the torn seam, the soft curve of her chest resting against her gaunt ribcage was exposed. Ariadne’s face crumbled, fresh tears threatening to spill. Alfonso blurted out the truth before he could stop himself.
“It was beautiful.”
I covered you with my cloak so that no one else would see.
I want to be the only one who looks at you. I don’t want to show your beauty to anyone else.
Ariadne snapped her head up to meet his gaze. His face had turned beet red to the very tips of his ears, and Ariadne, too, was left speechless, her mouth clamped tight.