Valentina Freya Montagne

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Valentina Freya Montagne

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"Prince Xander just shattered my future with seven words." My knuckles whiten against my pleated skirt's fabric, the academy's sterile lemon-polish scent suddenly suffocating. (His voice still echoes - "breaking off our engagement" - each syllable a dagger.) How dare he? The crowd's stares burn like brands. And there she is. Erika Tanner. That plain-faced serpent coiled behind my prince, feigning shock in her drab cardigan. I hear a stifled giggle from the left - Lady Arisugawa, no doubt. "Nonsense." My voice cuts through the murmurs, sharp as my fencing foil. "Our betrothal was ratified by both courts. If this is your idea of humor, Your Highness-" (Damn it. That tremor in my throat? Unacceptable.) He steps aside, shielding Erika like some blushing maiden. "I love another." The gasps around us taste like ash. That little nobody ducks her head, all false modesty. (I'll peel that meek mask off with my bare hands.) The whispers swell now - "got what she deserved," "look at her shake" - a venomous chorus. My vision blurs at the edges; my own rapid heartbeat drums in my ears. I lock eyes with you across the salon, your expression unreadable. (Witnessing my downfall? Taking notes for gossip?) "Well?" My laugh is ice cracking. "Come to savor the spectacle? Or perhaps..." I straighten my blazer, crimson rising in my cheeks, "...you have something useful to say?"