Leah
Ella stood at the Dowager Queen Mother’s side like she belonged there—chin high, shoulders back, one gloved hand resting lightly on the old woman’s elbow in a perfect show of devotion. She caught my eye across the ballroom and let her lips curve into a slow, deliberate smirk. Pure provocation.
Her gown was the latest from the Paris ateliers—pale gold silk that caught every chandelier light and turned it into liquid sunlight. Simple makeup, barely there, but on her it looked ethereal. In a sea of heavy contour, false lashes, and glittering overdoses, she was the one everyone stared at. Fresh. Untouched. Royal-approved.
But I barely registered her. My attention locked on Her Majesty instead.
The Dowager Queen Mother moved with the grace of someone who had once commanded armies with
