As Maia approached the cabin in exhaustion, She paused at the base of the weathered wooden steps, her breath creating light puffs in the snowy air. Through the window, she caught sight of her mother, engaged in conversation with Mr. Ben. their neighbor who lived a little farther down the road. Her mother's expression seemed lighthearted, while Mr. Ben's laugh echoed gently from within. Since childhood, Maia has known Mr. Ben, having seen him countless times during her walks with her mother into the city. His friendly waves, trying to get her mother's attention, made Maia smile in thought.
Maia observed the way he looked at her mother, a tenderness in his gaze that spoke volumes about the feelings he harbored. Yet, deep down, she understood that her mother's heart was a fortress, impenetrable and resolute. The wounds of the past were raw and unresolved, and Maia felt an overwhelming weight on her shoulders, convinced that she was the root of her mother's pain.
Her father had cast aside his pregnant mistress, a brutal act that severed the fragile threads of their lives when they needed him the most. The betrayal left a lingering shadow on their family, and it was clear to Maia that her mother had been irrevocably marked by it. Now, her heart lay dormant, closed off from the warmth of love, and Maia couldn't bear the thought of pushing her mother to embrace the possibility of new affection. Not even for Mr. Ben, a kind gentleman whose gentle demeanor suggested that he would treat her mother with the respect and care she so desperately deserved. The struggle between hope and loyalty twisted inside Maia, leaving her torn between the desire for her mother to be happy and the fear of opening old wounds.
"Mother, I'm back!" Maia exclaimed as she burst through the door of the cozy cabin, the warmth surrounding her like a soft embrace. She quickly kicked off her snow-caked boots and peeled away her tattered, worn coat, shaking off the chill of the outside world.
"How was the performance, dear?" her mother asked as she rose from her chair. She stepped forward and hugged her daughter, flinching when she noticed how cool Maia felt. She gently took the shawl draped over her shoulders and covered her daughter in its warmth. "You're cold," she urged her resistant daughter.
"Mother, it's fine! Really!" Maia insisted, a smile breaking through as she turned to greet Mr. Ben, who approached with open arms and offered her a welcoming hug.
"It's quite chilly outside, and you need it more than I do," her mother demanded in a precious tone. Her motherly concern trumped any other excuse her daughter could give. Maia relented, the shawl settling snugly around her, its fabric infused with her mother's sweet fragrance.
***
Maia saw Mr Ben off with her mother, and she walked her mother to her room, retiring her for the night. As the silence fell upon the old cabin, the only sound that punctuated the stillness was the soft, rhythmic creaking of the old fireplace, where embers flickered in a warm dance. Maia sank deeper into the couch, drawing her knees up to her chest, finding solace in the familiar embrace of her own arms. Her long, red, curly hair fell gently over her shoulders as she rested her forehead atop her knees, creating a small world of comfort amidst the quiet.
In her thin fingers, she held the letter the prince had given to her on opening night, a piece of paper that had traveled with her through countless moments. She carefully uncrumpled it, the familiar rustle breaking the quiet around her, before lifting it sideways to catch the warm glow of the firelight. The flames illuminated the ink, bringing alive the words she had memorized through sheer repetition.
'My love, My Maia,' the letter always began.
'I understand that this situation is far from ideal,' the letter continued, the ink slightly smudged in places, hinting at the urgency and emotion behind each stroke. 'I recognize the silence that has lingered between us, a silence born from my own reluctance to share my true identity. I held back for too long, consumed by my own selfishness. Yet, every moment spent in your presence was a treasured escape. You brought a sense of normalcy to my life, a refreshing contrast to the heavy burden of duty and the relentless obligations that weigh upon me. With you, I was liberated from the expectations of my title. I was no longer the crown prince of Lichtberg. Instead, I was simply Soren, and you, my love, are my lady Maia.'
With trembling hands, Maia gently pulled the letter away from her tear-streaked face, her heart heavy as the words she dreaded loomed in her mind. Tears streamed down her cheeks like the relentless rain outside; each drops a reflection of her anguish. She held no desire to become a mistress; the very thought filled her with a sense of humiliation as if that role would erase her identity and diminish her worth in the eyes of the world.
In her mind's eye, she saw the painful truth―her resemblance to the man who had so callously abandoned her, a mirror image that made it all the more difficult to accept that she could ever fall in love. It felt like a cruel twist of fate, taunting her with the fact that she bore his likeness while grappling with the emotional scars he left behind.
Determined to banish the absurd notion from her thoughts, Maia turned her back on the past. She walked briskly to the kitchen table, a sense of resolve settling over her like a cloak. There, she reached for a match and struck it against the surface, the flame flickering to life. Her fingers trembled slightly as she lit a candle. The warm glow illuminated the shadows of her troubled thoughts, offering a momentary refuge in the soft flicker of the flame.
***
After dutifully delivering the day's news and mail to his master, Mr. Diener was finally dismissed, his presence fading from the room. Soren, the stubborn prince, made his way to his mahogany desk, the rich wood gleaming dully in the dim light as he settled into his leather chair. With a persistent clearing of his throat, he adjusted his tie, which felt as if it were tightening around his neck with each passing moment, a minor irritation gnawing at him.
Soren's mind was a whirlpool of schemes as he poured himself a glass of dark liquor, the amber liquid splashing against the cold ice. He leaned back into the chair as he twirled the drink thoughtfully, gazing into the distance with an unfocused stare. The world around Lichtberg's finest was slipping away into a fog of contemplation. The room was enclosed in shadows, the only sound breaking the silence being the soft clinking of ice against the glass, a rhythmic reminder of his solitude as he took slow, deliberate sips.
Eventually, the prince roused himself from his reverie, standing up with a newfound sense of determination. He smoothed the fabric of his blazer, the sharp lines of his attire reflecting his resolve. Soren strode over to the sleek mahogany credenza and a vintage phone perched on the center of it. With a decisive movement, he flipped the photo next to the phone face down. Then, he picked up the receiver and dialed a number, his thoughts already racing ahead. After a brief conversation, he called back to Mr. Diener, instructing him to prepare the car for their impending departure.