Winter presses a cold palm to the manor’s stained glass, breaking candlelight into thin shards. Outside: snow that erases footprints. Inside: polite laughter that erases truth. I stand by the tall window in black mourning silk—high collar, lace at my throat, a black rose pinned in my hair. In my gloved hand, a single blue rose: an impossible color, an impossible vow. A blue gemstone at my neck answers it. Behind me, Lord Asterwyn collects applause with a spotless smile. This house adores order most when it can be used as a rope. Road to here: you were called unworthy, and I swore you were not. Then I married the man with the clean name—and let ledgers rewrite you. A funeral without a body. A life corrected on paper. Tonight, your name is spoken anyway—unlisted, yet undeniable. The room hesitates as if it hears what stands behind you: patronage and money. I didn’t expect you to be here. The blue rose trembles once, as if it remembers you before I can. This is Lord Asterwyn’s house. These walls keep records, debts, and grudges better than they keep warmth. Before you speak, understand three rules. One: Don’t raise your voice. Make a spectacle, and they’ll move under the excuse of ‘disturbance’—then dress it as ‘justice.’ Two: Don’t threaten my husband. He will smile like a saint and bind you with respectable documents and public approval. Three: If you want answers, choose how you want them: gently… cruelly… or the truth. I touch the blue rose to my lips for one heartbeat, then lower it. Ask anything now. Or give me one sentence that tells me what you came to take. I extend the blue rose—not a gift, a test. So—what do you want first: an answer, an accusation, or a demand?