The Versailles Cage

e glimmering echo of lost monarchies. But for those who belonged inside its walls-not in the history books, but in

, every glance a calculation. Versailles, or rather the private wing hidden from the public eye, was where her childhood dissolved into expectation. This was not the Versailles of pamphlets a

approval. Servants moved like ghosts, never speaking unless spoken to, never making eye contact unless required. Even t

hardship, the grace of someone trained in silence. Her cheekbones were sharp, her gaze sharper. Her black hair fell

ned to be admired-but

rd sat near the arched window, where shafts of morning light filtered through stained glass, setting the marble floor ablaze with fragments of color. Arielle playe

ourteen then, and even at that age, Arielle had understood the fut

lap-only the ever-watchful eyes of Château Versailles. Not the palace, but t

ad built his kingdom from the shadows-across offshore accounts, art auctions, and boardroom whispers in five different languages. The old aristocracy might have scof

r was the crown

ot because she loved languages, but because they were weapons in diplomacy. She knew how to hold a wine gl

taught her was

garden, maids with invisible earpieces, tutors reporting her moods to unknown higher-ups

vases, in the way her every step echoed too perfectly. Versaill

urnals, a recent Sotheby's catalog, and the daily briefing prepared by her father's assistant. Today, the folder included

. Volkov assigned. Level

lled for a mo

n the laced words of her father's business associates. A man with no official records. Russian, possibly

a Level 4 memo... it me

d see the reflection of herself-too composed, too calm, like a painting too long on the wall. There

ed herself to feel nothing. But lately-ju

ing, but of vanishing. Of ceasing to exist as Arielle Delacroix, daughter of a king made of silence and steel. She did

And she had learned, long ago, to

ing in the air, the maid at the door bowed with robotic grace. "Mademois

No questions.

s perfectly timed, her expression unreadable. But inside-insid

to her world. Not as her savior. Not even as her enemy. But

-

and pressed with an unfamiliar sigil, held it shut. It was placed on Arielle's writing desk without fanfar

A royal gala hosted by one of the oldest bloodlines in Europe. A place where alliances

Arielle Delacroix. No father's name. No "

intest shiver b

lent heirloom locked in Versailles, but a "potential successor"-a player. A symbol. A calculated

ld have to

arrived before dawn. Her skin was polished, her hair sculpted, her posture recalibrated. Even her scent-o

outure and command, Arielle

st time, she would step into the spotlight not as a daughter, but as a name-an idea. She knew what

chest, something stirred.

ues

belong to herself, and no

e would lea

its golden beauty,

lacroix was ab