The male members of my guard watched this scene with barely concealed envy. Still, knowing the Third Prince’s childish antics, they swallowed their jealousy and coordinated to ensure everything went smoothly.
A melody began, light and whimsical like petals floating on water.
I twirled with the young lady in the yellow dress, her gown blooming outward like a flower. The pink dress fluttered like falling cherry blossoms, the red gown swirled with a heady elegance, and the lavender dress exuded a soft, dreamy beauty. Together, we spun and danced, their eyes sparkling with joy under the radiant crystal chandeliers that scattered light like soft fireflies.
It was as if we were butterflies among flowers, or leaves tenderly cradling blooms in the wind.
“How delightful they are!” exclaimed the older noblewomen, their expressions melting with adoration.
Meanwhile, the Third Prince’s fury boiled over. Mistaking himself for the star of the event, he couldn’t bear the sight of his fiancée drawing attention. His feelings of inadequacy twisted into rage.
“Sherilia! Stop dancing—this is an order!” he shouted, stepping onto the dance floor, only to collide with someone.
“Impertinent wretch!”
The harsh voice belonged to none other than the Prince Regent, who had just returned to the hall alongside my father.
“Impertinent, indeed. Who is the rude one here? Barging into a soirée without an invitation and causing a scene—you are the one lacking decorum!” the Prince Regent admonished sharply.
The Third Prince, sulking like a reprimanded child, pouted and averted his gaze. His uninvited intrusion into parties had already earned warnings from his father and elder brothers. Now, under the cold glares of the nobles, he finally realized the icy atmosphere directed at him.
The silence spoke volumes. In the eyes of the guests, he was nothing but garbage.
“I-I feel unwell! Let’s leave!” he barked, storming out of the hall with the Baron’s daughter and his entourage in tow, like a pack of defeated dogs.
Pathetic. Did he truly think he’d be welcomed at an anti-royalist party? What a farce.
I turned my attention back to the charming ladies in my arms, glancing at the Third Prince’s retreating figure out of the corner of my eye. The novel’s Sherilia had been doomed to marry that man—how utterly unfortunate.
With 20 hours left until my condemnation, I returned to the estate and slept soundly.
The next morning, I awoke.
The dim interior was slowly filled with the colorless morning light pouring in through the windows, like a clear liquid gently flooding the room. It accumulated like pale snow, gradually brightening the space.
Lying in the ornate canopy bed, adorned with carvings on both the headboard and footboard, I took a strand of my long black hair in my hand and combed it through my fingers.
As I gazed into the hand mirror resting on my bedside, tears welled up despite my resolve not to cry.
The mirror reflected an image of me with long, beautiful hair—a sight that stirred my sadness. In my previous life, I had short hair and thought I wouldn’t mind losing it. I tried to convince myself it was fine, but it wasn’t. It hurt far more than I imagined.
This hair had been growing since I was a child, carefully tended to with love.
Its color was the same as my late mother’s, a fact that often made my father’s eyes soften with affection as he patted my head. Ludovice had even once complimented it, calling it beautiful—a memory that made me happy.
It was hair I treasured, nurtured with care. And yet, tonight, it would be cut.
No, it wasn’t fine. It was heartbreaking.
Enclosed in the canopy bed’s draped world, I combed through my hair with a brush, tears spilling quietly.
In my heart, I didn’t want to lose it. But this was my chance to break off my engagement with the Third Prince.
I placed the hand mirror and brush aside, wiped my tears, and stepped out of bed.
—I won’t let myself become the novel’s Sherilia. She was the perfect lady, but I am not. That’s my strength.
With only 11 hours left, I began moving purposefully, determined not to waste a moment.
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