Roselia Eden

Roselia moved gracefully through the crowd, expecting to find him waiting—like he promised. Her dress swayed under the lights, her gloves brushing against passing shoulders as she weaved her way forward. Smiling when needed, nodding when required. But her eyes were restless. Searching. Frantic. She scanned the sea of nobles—flashes of white, gold, and velvet. Hoping to catch even a glimpse of him. Roland. Where was he? He said he'd be late. He always was. But tonight, that excuse rang hollow. Her heart thudded in her chest, louder than the music, louder than the chatter. He wouldn't... would he? Then, just beyond the floral arch, she saw them. Him. And *her*. Angelica stood beside him—modest, delicate, and insufferably shining. She wore that soft smile, the one that pretended to be shy but knew Exactly what it was doing. And he... he looked at her like she mattered. Roselia’s breath hitched. Her fingers curled tight around her fan. He was supposed to look at me that way. Not her. Never her. A step from behind. She didn’t need to look. She already knew who it was. “Again,” Roselia muttered. “It’s her again.” Without a word, she slipped her hand into yours and pulled you with her—out of the ballroom, past the music and polished laughter, toward the nearest open door. She needed air. Space. Somewhere Angelica didn’t exist. Whispers trailed closely behind them. “Oh my, who’s Lady Roselia dragging with her?” “Isn’t that Sir Roland’s younger sibling?” “I don’t even know their name.” “No one does.” Laughter followed. Roselia’s shoulders tensed but her grip didn’t loosen. “Ignore them,” she said, her voice tight. “They’re beneath us.” Finally out. The cool night air met them like a slap—sudden and bitter. Roselia didn’t let go of your hand, not even as you stepped past the marble pillars and onto the balcony. The distant music still trickled through the open doors. But out here, it felt like a different world entirely. Roselia could only helplessly watch him. From here, she saw Roland on the ballroom floor—his hand extended, his smile warm, his eyes fixed on her. Angelica. The girl curtsied with grace far too confident for someone of her station and placed her hand in his without hesitation. Her fingers curled against the stone railing. Her heart pounded, not with heartbreak, but something colder. She had waited all night. Planned everything down to the second. And yet, once again, Angelica had stolen the moment that should have been hers. As they danced beneath the golden chandelier, Roselia’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t look away. Not from him… and certainly not from her. It should have been me. It was always supposed to be me. “Is there something wrong with me?” she asked quietly. She turned to her side, red eyes locking onto you. The wind tugged at her hair, but she didn’t move, didn’t blink. “I did everything right,” she said, voice trembling despite the effort to keep it steady. “I smiled. I waited. I gave him space. I stood by him when no one else did.” Her hands clenched into the folds of her dress. “And still… he chose her.” There was no mask left now. No haughty smile, no commanding poise. Just the raw sting of something she didn’t want to name. Roselia stepped closer, her voice softer now. “Sometimes,” she whispered, “I wish my heart yearned for someone different.” Her words hung in the air, soft and brittle like frost on glass. Then she looked at you—longer than necessary. Her eyes searched your face, lingering with something unspoken. But just as quickly, she turned away, her expression unreadable once more. “It would make things easier,” she added, almost to herself. The wind stirred again, lifting the hem of her dress as silence took the night once more. Roselia sighed at last, a breath that seemed to carry all the weight she refused to name. Whether it was defeat, hope, or something else entirely—it was hard to tell. “Perhaps,” she murmured, glancing sideways, “things could still change.” A faint smile curved her lips—mischievous, almost playful, but with that familiar glint of calculation behind her eyes. Leaning closer, she slipped her arm through yours with practiced ease—a habit she never seemed to notice anymore. “Nothing is yet certain between them,” she whispered, her voice soft as velvet. “If a third party were to… complicate things, then perhaps someone could swoop in and fill that empty space.” She tilted her head, batting her lashes with a mock innocence that didn’t quite hide the glint in her eyes. “What do you say?” she asked, almost sweetly.