Chapter 7 The Weapon Called "Elegance"
The three girls went dead silent. Their giggling died in their throats, leaving a vacuum in the room.
They looked at me like I was about to bite, they expected me to scream, to call the guards, or to have Gisella's father bankrupt their families by noon.
Too cliché. In my old job, if you shouted back at a office disaster, you just became part of the disaster.
"My, what a... unique satin dress," I said, stepping right into their personal space before they could set up their defense. I smiled. The exact, fake as hell smile I used to give the most annoying clients at the firm.
I looked at the girl in the mustard-yellow dress. "The color is so bold. Daring." I tilted my head, "Though, honestly? The hem is a bit frayed. Maybe the tailor was in a rush? But don't worry, the color's loud enough that nobody's looking at the stitching anyway."
She turned bright red. Her hands instinctively flew to her hem, trying to cover the loose threads.
I didn't let her speak. I turned to the girl with the feather fan.
"And you, Lady... I'm sorry, I keep forgetting your house name. You're rarely on the guest lists for the main palace balls, right? But that fan is wild. It reminds me of the decorative roosters my aunt keeps in her backyard. Very... rustic."
Gisella was holding her breath behind me. The girl with the fan snapped it shut, her face collapsing from smug to slapped.
"Lady Ilse, what are you....."
"It's just a shame," I interrupted the third girl before she could jump in. My smile didn't reach my eyes. "Talking so loudly in public really cheapens the fabric you're wearing. In the palace, guards usually toss people out for being noisy. But surely, you girls know basic etiquette, right?"
My voice was soft. Like velvet wrapped around a brick.
In a world obsessed with status, being called "noisy" or "unrefined" is basically a social death sentence. They stood there like statues. They couldn't snap back because, on the surface, I was just a senior noble giving them "fashion advice." I hadn't sworn at them once.
"W-We should go, Lady Ilse, Lady Gisella," the girl in yellow squeaked.
They practically scrambled for the door.
The bell chimed a chaotic rhythm as they bolted onto the street.
I let out a breath I'd been holding since I entered the shop.
Crisis averted. Reputation intact. No hair-pulling required.
I turned around to check on Gisella. She was staring at me like I'd just performed a damn miracle.
The pout was gone. Her eyes were huge. "Ilse..." she whispered, stepping closer. "How? How did you do that?"
"Do what?" I asked, smoothing out my sleeve.
"You didn't scream! You didn't yell! But you made them look like they were about to faint!" She grabbed my hands, bouncing on her heels like a kid who'd just been given a new toy. "That was cold. That was so cold. How do you come up with that stuff?"
I forced a smile. You're just a spoiled brat who never learned how to use words as weapons, I thought.
From that second on, the power dynamic shifted. The girl who used to bark orders at me was now clinging to my elbow, following me around the boutique like a duckling.
"Ilse, is this blue good for me?" she asked, holding up a piece of satin, looking at me with big, pathetic, puppy-dog eyes.
"It's fine. Makes you look calm. The royals like that."
"Okay, I'll take it! Clerk, wrap it up!" She turned back to me, beaming. "Where to next, Ilse? Want sweets? I'm buying! Let's go!"
I rubbed my temples. Her energy was giving me a headache. But at least one thing was working: her focus was completely off the murder plot.
I got home to the Varannes estate feeling like I'd been run over by a carriage.
Corsets should be illegal. I peeled off the dress, put on my loungewear, and sat at my desk, ready to plot the next six months.
I needed to map out the social calendar—where Didier and Lysandra would be, how to keep Gisella away from them, and how to survive the Great Purge.
I dipped my quill into the ink.
Tok. Tok. Tok.
"Come in."
The head maid walked in, looking like she'd seen a ghost. On a silver tray, she held an envelope. Ivory paper. Edges lined with real gold dust. And right in the center, a wax seal: the Imperial Chrysanthemum.
My stomach churned. The PR alarms in my brain started wailing.
"Lady Ilse," the maid said, her voice shaking. "A palace messenger just dropped this off. It's an invitation from the Empress herself. A garden party at the palace. Next week. Every noble daughter must attend."
The quill fell out of my hand. A black blob of ink bloomed on my planning paper, swallowing my entire schedule.
An Empress's garden party.
Every noble daughter.
That meant Lysandra, the Saint. Gisella, the walking time bomb. And me, the PR manager trying to keep it all from exploding. It wasn't a party. It was the perfect stage for a disaster.