Yours in Danger, My Prince.

CHAPTER ONE I froze. My eyes locked on the Crimson Palace—the most magnificent building in all of Elysium, and the very place that had destroyed my life. My father never brought me here, no matter how much I begged. A bitter smile tugged at my lips. He had always been stubborn. I used to think it was pride. Now I know it was pain. This was the same palace that ruined us. My father served the Crimsons faithfully for twenty years as their financial secretary. One forged ledger. One accusation. And just like that, he became a traitor. Now he sat behind bars, serving a sentence they called justice. I can still remember that night, the night everything changed. Men in dark suits came before dawn, their faces blank, their knocks sharp and final. My mother screamed his name, but he didn’t fight. He just looked at me once, calm in a way that broke me, and said, *“Don’t cry, Dahlia. They win when you cry. I’ll be back.”* He never came back. The next time I saw him was through cold iron bars, his hands rough, his eyes tired. After that, everything fell apart. My mother remarried and dropped the Richardo name that had become a curse. I learned to survive on whispers and odd jobs. I learned how to disappear. A horn blared behind me. “Hey!” the cab driver shouted. “You planning to leave your luggage for me to carry, or what?” I blinked hard, dragged my suitcase forward, and muttered, “Sorry.” He grumbled something and sped off the moment I closed the door. At the palace gates, a blue scanner swept my face. Two guards in black stood at attention, one scrolling through a tablet, the other rifling through my bag. Every sound felt louder than it should. I had practiced this moment in mirrors—learning how to look like I belonged. “Name?” the guard asked. “Dahlia Rivers. Housekeeping contract.” My voice stayed level. They would never hire a Richardo. Not after what they did to us. So *Dahlia Rivers* was born. The tablet beeped. “D. Rivers—contracted via Hemsworth Services.” The gate clicked open. A plastic badge slid from the machine, marked with my new name and a timestamp. I clipped it on and stepped inside. The grand hall hit me like a wave. Gold. Marble. Silence. Light spilled from chandeliers shaped like stars. The polished floor reflected my face back at me—small, pale, and too aware. For a moment I didn’t look like a maid or a daughter. I looked like a ghost walking back into her own grave. The butler who greeted me moved like a man built on discipline. “This way,” he said, lifting my bags with practiced ease. I followed, careful to keep my shoulders relaxed, my steps measured. We passed through corridors lined with portraits. Their painted eyes followed me, patient and unblinking. My father had walked these same halls once, loyal and proud. Now his daughter returned under a false name. The east wing smelled of soap and silence. Every surface gleamed, yet nothing felt clean. The butler stopped by a small door. “Your quarters,” he said, and left without another glance. Inside, the room was narrow—a single bed, a chipped table, a thin window that barely opened. Still, it was more than I had yesterday. I placed my bag on the bed and exhaled. The air felt thick, heavy with memory. I moved slowly, each action measured, as if stillness could hide the storm breathing inside me. From the bottom of my suitcase, I pulled out a single photograph. My father. His eyes were calm even in black and white. I brushed dust from the glass with my thumb. “This isn’t over,” I whispered. I crouched near the mirror, pried up a loose floorboard, and slid the photo beneath it. His face vanished into shadow. My throat tightened. That face was my reminder. I wasn’t here to serve. I was here to expose what they buried. A sound broke the quiet,soft footsteps in the corridor. My heart kicked. I dropped the board back in place, stood, and smoothed my apron. The door creaked open. A girl peeked in, holding folded linens against her chest. She had a brown hair, bright eyes, a smile that carried the easy warmth of someone who belonged here. “Oh! Sorry,” she said quickly. “Didn’t know anyone had moved in here already.” I forced a polite smile. “It’s fine. I was just… settling in.” She stepped inside, looking around curiously. “You must be new. I’m Liora. I handle inventory and laundry for this wing.” “Dahlia,” I said. “Housekeeping.” Her eyes flicked toward the mirror—toward the spot where I’d just hidden the photo. Something sharp passed across her face, too brief to name. “What’s that?” she asked, stepping closer. My stomach tightened. “What’s what?” She tilted her head slightly. Her voice was lighter now, almost teasing, but her gaze didn’t waver. “Who’s that?”