𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐀

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 28

The dungeon's heavy door creaked open, revealing the maid—once Flora's confidante. Her eyes held a mix of pity and sorrow as she extended a simple dress toward Flora.

"Here's your dress, Lady Flora," the maid murmured, her voice a fragile thread in the oppressive silence. But Flora shook her head, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips:

"Call me Flora,"* she whispered, "I'm no longer the prince's fiancée."

The maid's gaze softened. "I know you wouldn't do something like this," she said, her voice trembling. Her loyalty was a beacon in Flora's desolate world.

Flora wiped her tears away, summoning strength from the depths of her heart. "Don't cry, my dear," she replied. "I'm grateful that someone believes in my innocence."

Their fragile moment shattered as a guard's stern voice cut through the air: "Leave." The maid hesitated, her eyes lingering on Flora. "Everything will be okay," she whispered, a promise woven with threads of hope.

And then she was gone, swallowed by the dungeon's shadows. Flora clung to her words—the fragile lifeline that tethered her to sanity. The dress hung in her hands, a symbol of defiance. She would wear it not as a traitor, but as a survivor—a testament to her unwavering spirit.

As sunlight filtered through the narrow window, Flora donned the dress. Its fabric whispered against her skin, a reminder that even in darkness, there was a glimmer of light. She straightened her spine, determined to unravel the truth, to reclaim her shattered honor.

Flora's trembling fingers wove her hair into a simple braid—a fragile armor against the world. The dungeon's chill clung to her skin, but she straightened her spine. The guard's arrival shattered her solitude:

"Prince Atlas is calling you," he announced, his voice devoid of sympathy. Flora nodded, her heart racing. Perhaps Atlas would listen, perhaps he would see through the web of lies. She followed the guard, each step echoing in the dim corridor.

The chamber door swung open, revealing Prince Atlas—a figure she had loved, a figure now carved from ice. But what she hadn't expected was the viper coiled in his lap: Princess Victoria, her eyes smoldering with possessiveness.

Flora's breath caught. The room seemed to tilt, its walls closing in. Atlas's gaze met hers—a storm of regret, anger, and betrayal. Victoria's fingers traced possessive patterns on his chest, and Flora's world crumbled.

"Flora," Atlas's voice was a blade. "You were my heart's folly." His eyes bore into her, and she tasted salt—the remnants of tears she'd shed for him.

Victoria smirked, a predator scenting weakness. "You're no longer his fiancée," she purred, her grip on Atlas unyielding. "He's mine now."

Flora's throat tightened. The truth hung heavy: love had curdled into hate, and she was the casualty. She wondered if the dungeon's shadows whispered secrets, if they knew her heartache.

"Leave," Atlas commanded, dismissing the guard. Flora stood there, torn between defiance and surrender. Victoria's laughter echoed—a symphony of triumph.

"Everything will be okay," the maid's words echoed in Flora's mind. But as the door closed, sealing her fate, Flora vowed to reclaim her honor. She would unravel the truth, even if it meant facing the tempest in Atlas's eyes.

In the dimly lit chamber of the castle, Prince Atlas's voice sliced through the air like a blade. "Clean my room," he commanded, his eyes cold and unyielding. Flora, the chambermaid, lowered her gaze, her heart racing. She had loved him once, but now he was a distant figure—a prince who had become a stranger.

Flora nodded, her fingers trembling as she gathered the broom and dustpan. She dared not look at Victoria, the enchanting girl perched on Prince Atlas's lap. Victoria, with her golden hair and laughter that echoed like crystal chimes, was everything Flora was not. The betrayal cut deep, twisting Flora's insides.

Prince Atlas's lips curved into a cruel smile. He tightened his grip on Victoria's waist, possessiveness radiating from him. "I need words, Ms. Traitor," he hissed, relishing the power he held over them both. Flora's heart clenched. She had been foolish to think she could ever be more than a villager.

"Yes, Prince Atlas," Flora whispered, her voice barely audible. She forced herself to meet his eyes, the pain etched there like a scar. "I will clean your room." But her heart screamed another truth: she would never be able to cleanse the ache of lost love.

Victoria shifted, her laughter tinkling like distant bells. "Call me highness," Prince Atlas said, his voice low and mocking. Flora's tears blurred her vision. She had once been his lover, his fiance. Now she was nothing—a discarded pawn in a game of royalty.

With a broken heart, Flora replied, "Yes, your highness." The words tasted bitter on her tongue. She turned away, the broom heavy in her hand.
As Flora swept the dust, the room seemed to close in on her. The rhythmic swish of the broom was a cruel accompaniment to the soft sounds that reached her ears—Victoria's moans, Prince Atlas's lips tracing forbidden paths along her neck. Each stroke of the broom etched another line of pain across Flora's heart.

She clenched her jaw, biting down on her trembling upper lip. The taste of salt and despair filled her mouth. How had it come to this? Once, she had been the one by Prince Atlas's side, whispering secrets in the moonlight. Now, she was a silent witness to his betrayal.

Victoria's laughter echoed—a mocking melody that danced through the room. Flora's knuckles turned white as she gripped the broom handle. She had loved him, foolishly, recklessly. But love was a fragile thing, easily shattered by the weight of reality.

Prince Atlas's possessive touch burned into her memory. His fingers, once gentle, now branded her soul. "Call me highness," he had demanded, and Flora had complied, her voice breaking like fragile glass. She had become a traitor to her own heart.

Suppressing her sobs, Flora continued to sweep. The dust swirled, a dance of forgotten dreams. She wondered if love could be swept away like the motes in the air. Perhaps it was time to gather the shards of her shattered heart and find her own kingdom—one where loyalty was not a curse and love was not a battlefield.
Prince Atlas's fingers worked deftly, unlacing the delicate fabric of Victoria's gown. The air thickened with tension, and Flora's heart clenched. She couldn't bear to watch—the betrayal unfolding before her eyes like a cruel play.

But love was a tempest, and Flora was caught in its raging winds. She lunged forward, her hands trembling as she pulled Victoria from Prince Atlas's lap. The room spun, and for a moment, she felt a surge of power—the desperate hope that she could reclaim what was lost.

Victoria stumbled, her eyes wide with shock. But then, like a viper, anger coiled within her. Before she could do something A slap came swift and brutal, the force of it echoing through Flora's skull. Her cheek burned, and tears welled in her eyes. She tasted blood—a bitter reminder of her audacity.

Prince Atlas's rage was a storm. His eyes blazed, and Flora knew she had crossed a line. "How dare you," he hissed, his voice a whip. "You forget your place." His fingers curled into fists, and Flora's heart shattered anew.

She had loved him, once. But now, she was nothing—a pawn in a game of power and desire. Victoria regained her composure, smoothing her gown. Her laughter was a cruel melody.

Flora realised He slapped her for victoria.