1. Rosalind #2
The words come out sharper than I intended, carrying an edge of something that might be anger or might be desperation. Because if I'm not that type of woman—if I'm not special enough, strong enough, different enough to resist—then what am I?
Just another replaceable girl who wasn't worth staying for.
"Very well," Sterling says finally. "Miss Whitmore, on behalf of the Department of International Relations, I'm officially offering you the position of cultural liaison to the Thorn Court.
The mission will last approximately six weeks, with the possibility for an extended stay.
You'll be provided with full diplomatic immunity, appropriate escort, and hazard pay commensurate with the unique challenges involved. "
Hazard pay. For a diplomatic mission. The irony would be funny if it weren't so telling.
"I accept," I say without hesitation.
Cross shifts in his chair. "Perhaps you'd like some time to consider?—"
"No." I meet his eyes directly. "I don't need time to consider. This is exactly the kind of opportunity I've been preparing for."
And it is. A chance to prove myself, to show Father and everyone else that I'm valuable enough to trust with important work. A chance to finally earn the kind of devoted attention I've been craving since I was eight years old, even if it's professional rather than personal.
A chance to prove I'm special enough to keep.
The meeting wraps up with scheduling discussions and paperwork, but I barely hear the details. My mind is already racing ahead to preparations, to the research I'll need to do, to the clothes I'll need to pack for six weeks in Fae territory.
Six weeks with Prince Kaelen Valorious and his legendary charm.
Six weeks to prove that knowledge really is protection, that intelligence really can overcome biology, that I really am different from all those other women who fell under Fae influence.
Six weeks to prove I'm worth something.
As the officials file out of the conference room, Secretary Cross lingers behind, gathering his papers as slowly as possible. It's clear he's dawdling so he can speak to me.
"Miss Whitmore," he says once we're alone. "Might I offer some advice?"
"Of course."
"Don't underestimate the power of wanting to be wanted." His weathered face is kind but serious. "Sometimes the most dangerous trap is the one that feels like coming home."
Before I can ask what he means, he's gone, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of old leather and the photograph of a smiling family I'll never have.
Three hours later, I'm standing in my bedroom, staring at my open wardrobe while trying to decide what one packs for a diplomatic mission that might end in being magically enslaved.
My rooms in Father's townhouse are elegant but sparse—cream-colored walls, burgundy drapes, furniture chosen more for function than comfort. Everything neat and organized and carefully neutral, like the diplomatic training that shaped me.
I pull out my most conservative dresses, the ones with high necklines and long sleeves that scream "serious professional woman." Dark blues and grays and browns, fabrics that don't cling or reveal. Armor disguised as fashion.
But as I fold each dress into my traveling trunk, I can't stop thinking about what Cross said. Don't underestimate the power of wanting to be wanted.
I do want to be wanted. The admission sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and uncomfortable and impossible to ignore. I've spent fourteen years telling myself that independence is strength, that self-sufficiency is safety, that needing no one is the same as being strong.
But late at night, when the house is quiet and dark and I'm alone with my thoughts, I remember what it felt like to be someone's precious girl. To have someone's complete attention, someone's unconditional love, someone who thought I was worth staying for.
I remember, and I ache for it.
The mirror on my dressing table reflects a composed young woman with auburn hair pinned into a neat chignon and green eyes that reveal nothing of the desperate hunger underneath. I look capable. Professional. Completely in control.
I look like exactly the kind of woman who wouldn't fall for a fae prince's seduction.
"You're different," I tell my reflection, the same words I've been telling myself for years. "You're smarter than that. Stronger than that. You know what to watch for."
My reflection stares back, unconvinced.
"You've studied every report, every case study, every piece of pre-Sundering history. You know how Fae alphas operate. You know their techniques, their patterns, their methods of... persuasion."
But even as I say it, my traitorous mind whispers the question I don't want to acknowledge: What if knowledge isn't enough? What if all my training and preparation and careful defenses crumble the moment I'm faced with someone who actually wants me?
What if I'm just as ordinary and replaceable as Mother thought?
I close the trunk with more force than necessary, the sound echoing in my quiet room.
No. I won't think like that. I can't think like that.
I am Lady Rosalind Whitmore, daughter of General Robert Whitmore, graduate of the Royal Academy with highest honors in linguistic studies and inter-cultural relations. I speak four languages fluently and can navigate the most complex political negotiations without breaking a sweat.
I am not the kind of woman who loses herself over a charming alpha.
I am not the kind of woman who abandons her life for romance.
I am not my mother.
The thought sustains me as I finish packing, as I double-check my travel documents, as I write careful letters to my few friends explaining that I'll be away on government business for several weeks.
I hesitate over the letter to Claire, wondering how much to tell my nineteen-year-old sister about where I'm really going.
She's grown into a clever young woman despite—or perhaps because of—Mother's abandonment, but she still looks at me sometimes like I might disappear too.
I am different. I have to be different.
Because if I'm not—if I'm just another weak woman who craves male attention badly enough to sacrifice everything for it—then Mother was right to leave. Right to think I wasn't worth staying for.
Right to choose freedom over a daughter who would always need too much.
I look at myself one more time in the mirror, memorizing the face of the woman I am before I leave for Fae territory. Professional. Composed. Strong.
In six weeks, I'll be back in this room, in front of this mirror, proving to myself and everyone else that I really am special enough to resist what no other woman has managed to resist.
In six weeks, I'll finally have the devoted attention I've craved my entire life—Father's pride, the recognition of his peers, my own sense of self-worth.
All I have to do is spend six weeks with the most dangerous alpha in the Fae courts and come home unchanged.
How hard could it be?
The question follows me into uneasy sleep, along with the memory of cream-colored stationery and words that still have the power to break me:
Better off without me.
Tomorrow, I leave for the Thorn Court.
Tomorrow, I prove once and for all that some things are worth staying for.
One of those things is me.