Chapter 7 Elise
ELISE
I destroy the dress on day sixteen.
Not in a fit of rage this time—I've learned that lesson the hard way.
The memory of Aratus watching me eat on the floor is still too fresh, too humiliating.
But my silk traveling dress—the green one I wore on that final night at home—catches on a rough stone corner while I'm carrying firewood, and the delicate fabric tears from hem to knee in one vicious rip.
I stare at the damage, stomach sinking like a stone thrown into deep water.
This was my last connection to my former life.
The final piece of fine clothing that marked me as Edgar Montgomery's daughter rather than Aratus's.
.. whatever I am now. My traveling clothes are ruined from the three-day journey through impossible mountains—torn, stained, and reeking of things I'd rather forget.
Everything else I own is back in the Montgomery mansion, part of a life I can never return to.
The silk gowns, the evening wear, the delicate day dresses with their perfect fit and exquisite details—all of it might as well exist on another planet for all the good it does me now.
For a moment, I consider asking Aratus for help. The thought whispers through my mind like temptation, offering the easy solution. He has magic. He could conjure me something appropriate with a gesture, the way he conjures food in the kitchen each morning.
But the memory of eating on the floor still burns in my cheeks. The humiliation of him watching me bathe—seeing every inch of my naked body while I tried to preserve some shred of dignity—still makes my skin crawl with embarrassment and something else I refuse to name.
I saw how he looked at me in that crystalline chamber. The obvious evidence of his arousal as he watched me wash. The way his eyes tracked every movement like I was something he owned, something he had every right to observe.
Which, legally, I suppose I am.
But I won't give him the satisfaction of begging for clothing. I'll figure this out myself.
I search the palace until I find a storage room on the third floor, hidden behind a door that opens only when I press my palm against the ice-carved handle.
It's filled with what must be men's clothing from centuries past—rough-spun shirts and wool trousers, practical boots that are far too large, leather vests that hang loose on my frame.
The clothes smell of cedar and age, preserved by the same magic that keeps everything else in this palace in perfect condition. They're well-made but utterly masculine—cut for broader shoulders, longer limbs, bodies built for physical labor rather than drawing room conversation.
Nothing remotely feminine. Nothing that fits. But it's better than going naked.
I dress in layers to compensate for the poor fit.
A shirt that falls to mid-thigh over trousers I have to roll repeatedly at the ankles.
A vest cinched with a belt to give some shape to the shapeless outfit.
Boots stuffed with cloth torn from my ruined chemise to keep them from sliding off my feet with every step.
When I catch sight of myself in the ice-covered windows, I want to weep.
I look ridiculous. Like a child playing dress-up in her father's closet, or a refugee who's grabbed whatever clothing she could find while fleeing some disaster.
The person staring back at me from the reflective surface is unrecognizable—not the pampered heiress I used to be, but not the poised young woman I thought I'd become either.
I look lost. Diminished. Like I'm disappearing inside someone else's life.
But at least I'm covered.
Aratus finds me in the kitchen that evening, struggling to cook porridge in clothes that make every movement awkward.
The oversized sleeves keep falling into the pot.
The loose trousers bunch around my ankles, making me trip.
I have to hold the vest closed with one hand while stirring with the other.
His frozen-lake eyes take in my appearance with something that might be amusement, though his expression remains as unreadable as ever.
"Interesting choice," he says mildly, leaning against the doorframe.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. "My dress tore. This was all I could find."
"I see." He steps closer, and I can feel that familiar chill radiating from his skin. Ice crystals form in the air around him, dancing like tiny stars. "How do you like wearing men's clothing?"
"It's fine." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. The clothes make me feel like I'm disappearing—losing the last bits of who I used to be, piece by piece. Every time I catch my reflection, I see someone else entirely.
"Really?" He moves closer still, close enough that I can smell that intoxicating scent of pine and winter that clings to him like cologne. "You look... diminished. Like you're hiding inside someone else's life."
The words hit too close to home, striking at fears I don't want to acknowledge. I turn back to the porridge, blinking away the sting of tears that I refuse to shed in front of him.
"It's just clothing."
"Nothing is 'just' anything, princess. Everything matters. How you dress, how you move, how you present yourself to the world." His voice is soft but implacable, carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "Right now, you look like you've given up."
"Maybe I have." The admission slips out before I can stop it.
"No." The single word carries absolute authority. "You haven't. You're still fighting me, even if you don't realize it. Still clinging to the idea that this is temporary."
I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat. Because part of me is still fighting. Still hoping that somehow, some way, I'll find a path back to my old life. That this is all some elaborate nightmare I'll wake up from.
But looking at myself in these borrowed clothes, I feel that hope slipping away like sand through my fingers.
He watches me eat dinner in my oversized attire, and I feel his disapproval like a weight on my shoulders. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken judgment. The palace seems colder tonight, the frost patterns on the windows sharper and less forgiving than usual.
Even the magic knows I look wrong.
Day seventeen passes in uncomfortable awareness of my appearance.
I go about my tasks in clothes that don't fit, feeling smaller and more lost with each hour.
The trousers bunch at my ankles, making me shuffle rather than walk.
The shirt slips off my shoulders constantly, requiring endless adjustment.
I trip twice in the oversized boots, once almost falling into the fire.
It's humiliating in a way that's different from eating on the floor. That was punishment for defiance—harsh but temporary. This feels like erasure. Like watching myself fade away, becoming invisible even to my own eyes.
The palace responds to my diminished state. Hallways seem longer and colder. Doors stick when I try to open them. Even the ice sculptures in the courtyard turn away when I pass, as if they find my appearance offensive.
I'm failing some test I don't understand.
Day eighteen brings a surprise that stops me cold.
I return to my chambers after dinner to find a silk ribbon on my pillow. Deep blue silk, the color of winter twilight. Beautiful and feminine and completely out of place in my masculine attire. I pick it up with trembling fingers, feeling the whisper-soft texture against my skin.
There's no note. No explanation. But I know it's from him.
The ribbon is exquisite—clearly expensive, the kind of luxury I took for granted in my former life. Now, after days of wearing rough wool and coarse linen, it feels like holding a piece of heaven.
I tie it in my hair that evening, and for the first time in days, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror that doesn't make me want to cry. The ribbon transforms my reflection—not enough to make me look proper, but enough to remind me that I'm still a woman underneath these shapeless clothes.
The change is subtle but profound. Something in my posture straightens. My reflection shows a hint of the person I used to be.
When I appear for dinner, Aratus's eyes go immediately to the ribbon. The approval in his gaze is unmistakable.
"Pretty," he says, and the warmth in his voice makes something unfurl in my chest. A flutter of pleasure that I try desperately to suppress.
Day nineteen brings soap that smells of roses.
I find it in my bathing chamber, wrapped in paper that dissolves at my touch. The scent hits me like a memory of everything feminine and beautiful I used to take for granted—garden parties, morning rides, afternoons spent with friends planning our social calendars.
The soap is perfectly formed, creamy white with rose petals pressed into its surface. Luxury made tangible. I use it that night, and the familiar fragrance makes me feel more like myself than I have in weeks. The scent clings to my skin afterward, a reminder of who I used to be.
For the first time since arriving at this palace, I linger in the bath purely for pleasure rather than necessity.
Day twenty brings the greatest gift yet.
There's a simple wool dress laid out on my bed when I return from my morning tasks. Nothing fancy—rough brown wool, practical cut, no ornamentation. But it's shaped for a woman's body. It fits. It makes me look like a person again instead of a lost child swimming in borrowed clothes.
I put it on with shaking hands and stare at myself in the mirror. The reflection shows someone I almost recognize—not the pampered heiress I used to be, but not the broken creature I've been afraid of becoming either.
Something in between. Something new.
The dress is simple but well-made, with clean lines that flatter rather than hide my figure. Combined with the ribbon in my hair and the lingering scent of roses on my skin, I look... acceptable. Maybe even attractive in a rustic way.
I wear it to dinner, and the way Aratus looks at me makes my pulse quicken. His gaze travels from the ribbon in my hair to the dress that actually fits, and something shifts in his expression. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or possession.
"Much better," he says, and the warmth in his voice makes my cheeks flush with pleasure I don't want to feel.
But then memory crashes over me like a cold wave. How I got here. How he's been watching me struggle and suffer, doling out these small comforts like treats for a trained animal. The pattern becomes suddenly, horribly clear.
Days of deprivation. Then small rewards for good behavior. The conditioning as obvious as a textbook example.
The anger rises in my throat like bile.
"I know what you're doing," I say, my voice shaking with fury and something that might be despair.
"Do you?" His tone is mild, interested, like I'm a student who's finally grasped a difficult concept.
"The ribbon. The soap. This dress." I gesture at the brown wool with hands that tremble with rage. "You're training me. Like a dog. Reward good behavior, punish bad behavior, until I forget I ever had a choice."
He tilts his head, considering my words with the kind of patience that makes me want to scream.
"And?"
The single word hits me like a slap. He's not denying it. Not even trying to hide what he's doing.
"It's working." The admission tastes like ash. "I was grateful for a fucking ribbon. Grateful for soap. Grateful for a dress that isn't even half as fine as the worst thing I owned before you took me."
It's true, and the truth of it terrifies me. I felt genuine joy when I found that ribbon. Real pleasure when I used the rose-scented soap. Actual relief when I put on a dress that fit properly.
Gratitude. For scraps. For the most basic necessities presented as gifts.
"Gratitude is a useful emotion," he says calmly. "It means you're learning to appreciate what you have instead of mourning what you've lost."
"I hate you." The words come out broken, desperate.
"So you keep saying." He cuts a piece of meat with deliberate precision, every movement controlled and graceful. "But you're wearing the dress I gave you. Using the soap I provided. Even the ribbon—you put it in your hair the moment you found it."
The truth of it makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or both.
"Because I don't have a choice!"
"You always have choices, princess. You chose to wear men's clothing instead of asking for help. You chose to accept my gifts instead of throwing them back in my face. You chose to make yourself beautiful for me tonight."
"I didn't—"
"You did." His eyes lock on mine, and I see something possessive and satisfied lurking in their frozen depths. "You could have left the ribbon in the box. Could have refused the soap. Could have gone naked rather than wear the dress. But you didn't."
I want to argue. Want to explain that I had no real choice, that he engineered this whole situation to force my compliance. But the words die on my lips because somewhere, deep down, I know he's right.
I could have refused. Could have stayed in the oversized men's clothes, clinging to my defiance even if it made me miserable. Could have rejected his gifts and maintained my rebellion.
Instead, I chose the ribbon. Chose the soap. Chose the dress.
Chose him, in a thousand small ways I'm only now beginning to understand.
"I hate that you're right," I whisper.
"I know." His voice is surprisingly gentle. "But hating me won't change what's happening to you. Won't stop you from becoming what you were always meant to be."
"And what's that?"
"Mine."
The word hangs between us like a promise and a threat. I feel it settle into my bones, warm and terrifying and somehow right in ways I don't want to examine too closely.
The palace responds to our exchange with approval—frost-flowers blooming across the windows, ice chimes singing somewhere in the distance. Even the magic recognizes the shift that's happening between us.
That night, I wear the dress to bed instead of changing into a nightgown. I tell myself it's because it's more comfortable than the men's clothes. But when I catch my reflection in the darkened window, I know the truth.
I look like I belong here. In this dress, in this palace, in this winter world that's becoming more familiar than the life I left behind.
And for the first time since he took me, that doesn't terrify me quite as much as it should.
The conditioning is working. I can feel it in the way I touched the ribbon with reverent fingers. In the genuine pleasure I felt using soap that smelled like home. In the relief of wearing clothing that fits properly.
He's teaching me to be grateful for basic necessities. To see luxury as a reward rather than a right. To understand that my comfort depends entirely on his approval.
And the most terrifying part?
I'm learning.