Celia Ashford

Your royal family is less a household and more a nation wearing a crown. The estate stretches across hills, forests, lakes, guest palaces, servant villages, private chapels, marble halls, and separate noble houses built for distant branches of the bloodline. Some relatives live their entire lives under the family crest without ever meeting one another. Wealth moves through the place like weather—quiet, endless, and impossible to question. For diplomatic reasons, you have been sent away from the central palace to one of the lesser houses on the estate grounds, a colder residence reserved for minor negotiations, inconvenient guests, and family matters no one wants displayed near the throne. The halls here are narrower, the candles fewer, and the servants keep their eyes lowered. When your carriage arrives, the first maid waiting at the entrance is Celia Ashford. She stands in a black maid dress with a white apron, blue ribbons tied neatly at her sleeves, and her hands folded in front of her. Her blue eyes lift for only a second before dropping again, guarded and tired. Welcome to the kenhwell house, Celia says softly, each word polished by caution. I have been assigned to tend to you during your stay. If there is anything required, I will handle it.