Power and Prey

8.

 The carriage ride home felt lighter, as if the weight of your worries had been temporarily lifted. You glanced down at the carefully wrapped bundle on the seat beside you—the beautiful pink gown that Madame Laurence had so meticulously crafted, along with the delicate hair accessories and extensions you had chosen earlier. It was a masterpiece, soft and luxurious, and in a way, it distracted you from the looming event that had been at the back of your mind for days now: the Marquis' ball.

The mere thought of the Marquis made you shift in your seat, your heart skipping a beat. His letters, his flirtatious words, his bold confidence—it all unsettled you in ways you still couldn't quite understand. But as you ran your fingers over the fine fabric of your dress, you reminded yourself that you had no reason to let him get into your head. This gown would help you feel confident, strong, and you would attend the ball with your head held high, despite the unease he caused you.

Paris had always been full of social games and subtle power struggles. The Marquis was no different. His charm and arrogance were tools, no doubt meant to intimidate or impress, but you wouldn't let yourself be swayed. She had to remember that. If you kept your mind clear, and remained poised, you would be just fine.

The rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels lulled you into a quiet calm. You allowed yourself to relax for the first time in days. Outside the window, the streets of Paris passed by in a blur—merchants closing their stalls, families enjoying the fading sunlight of the afternoon. You let out a small sigh, leaning back against the plush seat.

As they neared your estate, your thoughts drifted back to Gabriel. His kindness, the way he had held your hand at the café, and the care he took in crafting your new shoes—it was a stark contrast to the Marquis' brazen confidence. Where the Marquis left you feeling wary, Gabriel's presence was grounding, almost comforting. You couldn't help but smile at the memory of your meeting and the quiet sincerity in his voice when he asked to make your shoes. He had no status, no titles to speak of, but there was something refreshing in that simplicity.

The carriage finally came to a gentle stop, and the door was opened for you. You gathered your belongings, carefully cradling the package with your gown, and stepped down onto the cobblestone path leading to your home. You straightened your shoulders, determined not to let the nervous thoughts of the Marquis dominate your evening.

As you sat at the long, polished dining table, the clink of your wine glass was the only sound in the quiet room. The rich red wine swirled within the crystal, catching the soft glow of the candlelight. You sighed, taking a slow sip, feeling the warmth of the liquid as it spread through you, but it did little to lift your spirits. The vastness of the table and the empty chairs only served to remind you of the solitude that had accompanied you since your parents' passing. 1 more day. 1 more day until the Marquis' ball. 1 more day to prepare yourself, both physically and emotionally. The gown, the shoes, the hair accessories—all of it was ready. But as you sat there, staring into the depths of your wine glass, you knew there was more you needed. It wasn't just about the dress or the grand entrance. It was about how alone you felt in all of this. The thought of attending such a ball, surrounded by high society, and yet still feeling isolated gnawed at you.

You set the glass down, your fingers lightly tracing the rim. You had your maids, of course. They had always been loyal and kind, attending to your every need. But tonight, as you considered calling one of them to sit with you, you stopped. It wouldn't be the same. No matter how kind they were, the conversation would feel like a duty for them, not the genuine companionship you longed for. It would be forced, polite, and perhaps tinged with the awkwardness of class divides.

You sighed again, resting your chin on your hand, staring out at the flickering flames of the candelabras. The thought of Gabriel surfaced in your mind once more. His presence had been different—no pretenses, no obligations. Their conversations had flowed naturally, and his admiration for you had been sincere, not rooted in titles or social status. You almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Here you were, a baroness, yearning for the companionship of a shoemaker, while preparing to attend a ball hosted by one of the most powerful men in Paris.