The morning light filled Elyse de Vernemont's room, but she found no comfort in its warm rays. Sitting before her mirror, she reviewed the events of the previous day. The imperial ball. The moment she would make her official debut in high society. The place where, in the novel, Claris had stolen all the attention, relegating Elyse to the role of a mere humiliated background figure.
But this time, it would be different.
"If I want to survive and rewrite my fate, this ball will be my first step."
She stood up and clapped her hands to summon a servant. The same one from the day before entered, still with the same disrespectful attitude. Elyse decided it was time to change that.
"Bring the seamstress and inform the stable master that I wish to inspect the horses this afternoon," she ordered in a calm but firm voice.
The maid narrowed her eyes, surprised by the cold authority in her tone. Elyse no longer resembled the whiny, docile girl she had despised for years.
"At once, Miss," the maid replied, finally, before leaving the room.
Elyse took a deep breath. If she wanted to assert herself, it had to start here, in her own home. She would no longer be an object of contempt for anyone, not even the servants.
---
A few hours later, the seamstress arrived with several fabric samples, her hands trembling. She was well aware that her reputation depended on her ability to satisfy the whims of the nobility.
Elyse scrutinized the fabrics, contemplating the perfect gown. In the novel, Claris had worn a white dress adorned with pearls, symbolizing her purity and innocence. A gown that had captured everyone's gaze.
But Elyse had no intention of playing on that field.
"Red," she said, pointing to a deep red fabric, almost burgundy. "I want a dress that demands respect. An outfit that no one will forget."
The seamstress nodded but hesitated.
"Miss, a red dress? It's... unusual for a first ball. It might... attract criticism."
Elyse fixed the woman with a cold smile.
"Perfect. Let them criticize, if they want. They will remember me, no matter what."
The seamstress, impressed by this audacity, bowed and immediately went to work.
Later in the day, Elyse went to the stables. Her father had deemed it unnecessary to send her a carriage for the ball, a clear sign that he wanted her to arrive like a second-rate guest. But if Duke Reynard thought she would accept that, he was gravely mistaken.
"Prepare the best horse in the stables," she ordered the stable master, a gruff old man.
He looked at her, hesitant.
"This horse belongs to young master Julien," he said, referring to one of Elyse's older brothers.
"Julien won't need it tonight. This horse is perfect for me, and I won't tolerate any discussion."
She locked eyes with him, and the old man finally relented.
As the evening approached, and the ball drew near, Elyse sat before her mirror, gazing at her reflection. Her red dress was a masterpiece: fitted at the waist, with a delicate but not overly revealing neckline, and golden embroidery that shimmered in the light. Her hair, styled into an elegant updo, exposed her graceful neck.
For the first time, she saw a strong woman in the mirror. Not a despised bastard. Not a victim. A woman ready to fight for her future.
"Tonight, everything begins."
Meanwhile, at the imperial palace...
In a richly decorated room, a male figure observed the preparations for the ball distractedly. The crown prince, Adrian de Valemir, was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, adorned with silver embroidery. His cold eyes fixed on the guest list.
"Claris de Vernemont," he murmured, recalling the young girl adopted by Duke Reynard, known for her beauty and gentleness.
But another name suddenly caught his attention.
"Elyse de Vernemont…"
A smirk stretched across his lips. Few people talked about this bastard of the Duke, but her rare appearances were always accompanied by whispers. He had heard she was insolent, jealous, and insignificant. Yet something about her name sparked his curiosity.
"Perhaps this ball won't be as boring as expected," he said, closing the guest list.
The night of the ball would mark a turning point for Elyse de Vernemont. She was no longer just a bastard. She was ready to impose her presence in a world that had rejected her, a spark ready to ignite high society.