1. Rosalind
ROSALIND
The parlor room smells like leather, old wood, and the lingering ghost of someone's morning tea.
I sit perfectly straight in my chair, hands folded in my lap, watching Director Sterling shuffle through his papers while trying to look like I'm paying attention to every word about trade agreements and territorial disputes.
But my eyes keep drifting to the small silver-framed photograph on Secretary Cross's desk.
A formal black and white portrait—mother, father, two daughters arranged in careful poses, all of them sitting perfectly still for the camera's long exposure.
The woman's hand rests on her younger daughter's shoulder, their faces solemn but content in the way of proper family portraits.
The familiar ache starts in my chest, that hollow feeling I've carried for fourteen years.
"Miss Whitmore?" Director Sterling's voice cuts through my distraction. "Your thoughts on the proposed cultural exchange?"
I blink, refocusing on the room full of government officials who are all staring at me with varying degrees of expectation.
The mahogany table stretches between us, polished to a shine that reflects the gas lamp fixtures hanging overhead.
Rain patters against the tall windows, and somewhere in the building, a clock chimes eleven.
"I think it's exactly what we need," I say, though I'm not entirely sure what we've been discussing for the past twenty minutes. Something about the Thorn Court. Something about negotiations.
"Excellent." Sterling makes a note. "And you understand the... unique challenges this particular mission might present?"
The way he says 'unique challenges' makes my skin prickle. Of course I understand. We all understand, even if no one wants to say it outright in a room full of government officials.
They're talking about omega claiming.
"I understand completely," I tell him, lifting my chin. "I also understand that successful diplomatic relations with the Fae courts are essential for our future prosperity."
Secretary Cross leans forward, his weathered face creased with what might be concern. "Miss Whitmore, given your... background in linguistics and cultural studies, you'd be invaluable to this mission. But we want to ensure you're fully informed about the risks."
Risks. Such a polite word for what everyone knows happens to young women who spend too much time around Fae alphas. I've read the reports, studied the statistics, attended the briefings about omega biology and claiming bonds. I know exactly what they're worried about.
"I appreciate your concern," I say, keeping my voice steady. "But I'm confident in my ability to resist fae influences. I was raised to be a diplomat and my training, not to mention my breeding, will surely protect me."
The men around the table exchange glances. I catch the slight pursing of Sterling's lips, the way Cross taps his fingers against his leather portfolio. They think I'm naive. They think I'm just another sheltered diplomat's daughter who doesn't understand what she's volunteering for.
They're wrong.
I know exactly what I'm volunteering for, and I know exactly why I won't fall victim to it like those other women. I've spent my entire adult life building walls around my heart, learning to be self-sufficient, proving that I don't need anyone's protection or devotion.
Because I learned early that depending on someone's love is the fastest way to end up broken and alone.
The memory hits me like it always does—sudden and sharp and completely unwelcome.
I'm eight years old, padding down the hallway in my nightgown, drawn by the sound of muffled sobbing coming from Father's study.
Claire is fast asleep in her bedroom—only five years old and blissfully unaware that anything is wrong.
The door is cracked open, gaslight spilling through the gap, and I can see him sitting at his desk with his head in his hands.
"Father?" I whisper, pushing the door open wider.
He looks up, and his face is all wrong. Red-rimmed eyes, tear tracks on his cheeks, mouth twisted like he's trying not to make any noise. In his hand is a piece of cream-colored stationery, the kind Mother uses for her correspondence.
"Rosalind." His voice breaks on my name. "You should be in bed."
"Is Mother sick?" I step into the room, bare feet silent on the Persian rug. "Is that why she didn't say goodnight?"
Something crumbles in his expression. He sets the letter down carefully, like it might catch fire if he's not gentle enough.
"Your mother..." He clears his throat, tries again. "Your mother has gone away."
"Away where?"
"I don't know."
The words don't make sense. Mother doesn't go away without telling me. Mother tucks me in every night and reads me stories and brushes my hair before bed and tells me I'm her precious girl, her little flower.
"When is she coming back?"
Father's face does something terrible then, like he's aging years in the space of a heartbeat.
"She's not coming back, Rosalind."
I grab the letter off his desk before he can stop me, scanning the elegant handwriting I know as well as my own. Most of the words are too advanced for me, but some phrases leap out:
...can't breathe in this life...
...need my freedom...
...better off without me...
"She left because of me," I whisper, the truth hitting me. "I wasn't good enough to stay for."
"No." Father reaches for me, but I'm already backing toward the door. "Rosalind, that's not ? —"
But I'm running, letter clutched in my small fists, racing back to my room where I slam the door and crawl under my covers and try to understand how someone who said she loved me could just... leave. Leave me and Claire, who keeps asking when Mother is coming home from her trip.
The letter stays on my nightstand for three months before Father finally takes it away. By then I've memorized every word, including the ones I had to look up in his dictionary, and I've learned to tell Claire that Mother went away on a very long trip and probably won't come back.
Freedom. Liberation. Suffocating.
All the things I apparently wasn't worth staying for.
"Miss Whitmore?"
I jerk back to the present, heat flooding my cheeks as I realize the entire room is staring at me. Secretary Cross has stood up, one hand extended like he was about to touch my shoulder.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I was just... considering the implications."
Sterling's eyes narrow slightly. "Are you quite alright? You seemed..."
"I'm fine." I straighten my shoulders, forcing my voice into the crisp, professional tone I've perfected over years of diplomatic training. "Just focused on the upcoming mission."
Focused. Right. Not lost in fourteen-year-old memories that still have the power to hollow me out from the inside.
"The mission," Cross repeats slowly, settling back into his chair. "Yes. Well, as I was saying, the Thorn Court has requested a cultural liaison for their upcoming border negotiations. Someone to help negotiate agreements between human and Fae border territories."
"And you believe I'm qualified for this position?"
"Your language skills are exceptional," Sterling says. "Your academic background in fae relations is impressive. And your father speaks very highly of your diplomatic instincts."
My father. General Robert Whitmore, whose praise I've been chasing for fourteen years without ever quite catching it. He loves me, I know he does, but love and attention are different things, and I learned the difference the night Mother walked away.
"However," Cross continues, "we need to be absolutely certain you understand what you'd be walking into. The Thorn Court's prince has a... reputation."
"What kind of reputation?"
The men exchange those looks again. Finally, Sterling clears his throat.
"Prince Kaelen Valorious is over six centuries old.
He's sophisticated, charming, and according to our intelligence reports, has been unmated for an unusual amount of time for a mature fae male.
While he has requested a female diplomat for this particular issue, we are.
.. concerned that he is also searching for an omega to claim. "
Claim. The word sends an involuntary shiver down my spine, part fear and part something else I don't want to examine too closely.
"I see." I keep my voice level. "And you're concerned that I might be... susceptible to his influence."
"We're concerned," Cross says carefully, "that you might not be prepared for the intensity of alpha pheromones in such a concentrated space. Many young women find themselves... overwhelmed by the experience."
Overwhelmed. Claimed. Bonded. All such polite words for what everyone knows really happens.
Women go into Fae territory as diplomats or researchers or ambassadors.
They come back—if they come back at all—as devoted omega mates, glowing with happiness and magical markings, speaking in dreamy voices about finding their true purpose.
The newspapers call them love stories. The government calls them successful cross cultural connection. I call them exactly what they are: ancient predatory males taking what they want while dressing it up as romance.
But I also know I'm different from those women. I have to be.
"Gentlemen," I say, leaning forward slightly.
"I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing.
But I think you're underestimating my ability to maintain a lady's comportment.
I've spent years studying Fae psychology and culture.
I understand their methods, their techniques, their approach to human women. Knowledge is protection."
Sterling makes another note. "And you're confident this knowledge would be sufficient to resist... influence?"
"I'm confident that I'm not the type of woman who loses her head over a handsome alpha, no matter how old or powerful or charming he might be."