A Reign of Roses

The Perfect Bloom

The next afternoon, Anastasia sat across from her older sister, Isabelle, in the drawing room. The delicate porcelain teacups clinked softly as their mother poured the tea, the quiet chatter of the household filling the background. Anastasia sipped her tea absentmindedly, the faint taste of jasmine not doing much to soothe her frustration.

Isabelle, seated gracefully across from her, was the epitome of composure. Her perfectly pinned dark hair and soft lavender gown made her appear as if she were carved from porcelain—a picture of the ideal woman. As always, Anastasia felt a pang of discomfort in her chest, the feeling of inadequacy creeping up on her like a shadow she couldn't shake off.

Isabelle set down her cup with a gentle smile, her blue eyes sparkling as she glanced at her younger sister. "So, Anastasia, I trust you're preparing for the ball this evening?"

Anastasia, however, was far from prepared. She hadn't even considered the ball until that very morning, and the thought of yet another evening spent circling made her stomach twist. She hadn't expected another ball so soon, and the idea of donning yet another gown to parade before men who were more interested in her title than her person only deepened her weariness.

Anastasia's fingers tightened around her cup as she took a slow sip. "I suppose I am." Her tone was absent, a polite mask over her growing unease. She wasn't interested in the ball, or any of the men she would inevitably meet there. But she was expected to go, to entertain, to allow the men to fawn over her like they had at every ball she'd attended since she'd come of age. It was a game she was growing increasingly weary of. Isabelle's eyes softened with a mixture of understanding and gentle amusement. "You know, dear, it's high time you found a partner. Someone you can settle down with. It will ease our mother's mind, and it's only what is expected."

Anastasia's grip on her teacup tightened, the edges of the delicate porcelain biting into her palm. "I'm perfectly fine on my own, Isabelle," she replied coolly, her voice betraying none of the frustration she felt. She wasn't interested in a partner—she never had been. The thought of marrying a man chosen for her, simply because it was expected, filled her with a quiet dread. The idea of being shackled to someone she barely knew, a stranger whose only purpose was to fulfill some societal role, made her skin crawl.

Isabelle's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of concern in her eyes. "Oh, Anastasia, you're young. But there's only so much time before you'll be considered..." She paused, as if trying to find a word that wouldn't sound too harsh. "Less desirable."

The air between them shifted, and Anastasia's fingers gripped the cup so hard, she feared it might shatter. She forced herself to speak calmly. "I don't care about being desirable, Isabelle."

Isabelle's lips parted, surprised by the sharpness of Anastasia's reply. For a moment, the silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. But Isabelle recovered quickly, her smile returning as if nothing had happened. "I know you don't, darling. But surely, you don't want to live this life forever." She gestured around them—the comfortable, well-appointed drawing room, the luxurious surroundings, the quiet hum of life outside. "You'll want someone to share it with. Someone who understands you, someone who will be your equal."

Anastasia's eyes flickered toward the window. The gardens outside were full of flowers in full bloom—roses, lilies, and tulips all swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. Their colors, so vibrant and full of life, once again seemed to mock her. In the garden, every flower had its place, each one following a precise pattern, just as she was expected to do. Be the perfect daughter. Marry well. Play the role.

But Anastasia had long stopped believing in the perfection that Isabelle so embodied. The perfect daughter. The perfect sister. The perfect wife. She wasn't sure she even wanted that life anymore.

She glanced back at Isabelle, her expression softening, though her voice remained firm. "I'm not interested in marriage, Isabelle. I'm not like you."

Isabelle's smile didn't falter, but there was a sadness in her eyes, a pity that made Anastasia want to lash out. "You say that now, but you'll understand one day. I promise."

Anastasia looked away, her gaze drawn once again to the flowers outside, feeling the weight of expectations pressing down on her chest. The thought of becoming a perfect image like Isabelle was suffocating. She wanted freedom. Freedom to choose her own path, free from the constraints of her family's ambitions. But as always, the walls of her life seemed unyielding, and the desire for escape seemed farther away than ever.