Lady Theodora has always known her path in life. As her grandmother's heir to the dukedom of Shefolk, becoming the perfect duchess is her primary goal. Her life is peaceful and her juvenile fantasies are fulfilled by travelling cousins whilst she de...
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I felt as if Gucci had thrown up on me. Even before my grandfather and I had gone to speak to my beloved nan, I should've known she'd turn into the fashion vulture the tabloids claimed she'd been in her youth. I didn't have to do an internet search to see that she'd always been an icon, so it was no surprise when she'd snapped her fingers, and an entire team of stylists had suddenly surrounded me.
It was way more than what I was used to, having only attended events within Shefolk. My people knew me and adored me; there was no need to uphold reputations. But, on the other hand, the rest of Stavros was an entirely different story. Nothing could have readied me for the stares upon entering the ballroom. The whispers had felt like harsh scrapes against my skin, and I'd clung to my grandfather's arm. It hadn't helped that we'd been the last few to arrive moments before the palace guards began ushering everyone to be seated in preparation for the queen's birthday speech.
Thankfully, there'd been a delay–something about Queen Anastasia losing her diamond earring–which allowed me to slip away, even for a moment. I stood in front of a ruby-encrusted floor-length mirror in a private bathroom. Although I felt like a nervous little girl on her first day of school, the trick was making sure my appearance didn't convey that anxiety. I stared long and hard at my reflection, trying to spot any chinks in my armour. Because that's what my grandmother had said this was; armour.
Bloody Gucci armour.
The stylists had adorned me in a pink silk duchesse dress, a fabric of tightly woven satin made of pure, natural silk. The spaghetti straps were black, matching the intricate lace detail running down the sides of the long skirt and just beneath the triangular cut-out centimetres below my breasts. Paired with the sweetheart neckline that exposed some cleavage, the outfit was a little riskier than anything else I'd ever worn. Gaston, my grandmother's head stylist, had said that lingerie silhouettes were making a comeback as unconventional pieces capable of reimagining the concept of elegance.
Still, I'd been nervous, so he'd added the black elbow-length tulle gloves to cover my arms. The shoes, I had no complaints with. At all. They were black leather spool heels with a defined platform sole that Gaston said screamed 70s. Perhaps I loved it for that reason alone because my grandmother had ruled the fashion industry during the 70s. It felt like I was carrying a piece of her, like she was next to me, even if she wasn't.
Making sure my hair was still in its neat state Gaston had left it in, I exited the bathroom, finding myself momentarily baffled by the long corridor. I could barely remember how I'd gotten there, too focused on finding an escape. I glanced around, attempting to find a palace guard. But there weren't any. Finally, frowning, I decided to take a left turn. After a few more turns, I stumbled across another deserted corridor. Agitated voices came from one of the open doors, and I contemplated asking for help.
Peeking inside, I spotted two men. The slim, dark-haired one was Prince Henrik. I only recognised him because he'd been the only prince present when my grandfather and I had entered the ballroom, and I'd had the pleasure of conversing with him afterwards. When I'd seen him, my first thoughts centred around him being the picture of elegance. Well, he looked nothing like that now. His white collar was unbuttoned and ruffled, appearing aggressively tugged on. His face was pallid, and I could see his hands trembling even from afar.
