Eleanor:
The mirror doesn’t lie.
It just doesn’t tell the full truth, either.
My reflection stares back at me in liquid glass and diamond light—poised, polished, perfect. The kind of woman men whisper about from across the room, and women smile at like they’re not already sharpening knives in their heads. My lips are blood-red, my dress black silk, my patience nonexistent.
The Windsor Charity Gala.
My annual circus of donors, sycophants, and self-congratulating aristocrats pretending they care about anything but their names in tomorrow’s society column.
And tonight, I’m the ringmaster.
Halfway through fixing the clasp of my diamond necklace, there’s a knock at my bedroom door.
“Come in,” I say, not looking up.
My father steps inside, sharp as ever in his midnight suit. “You look s
