I shoved open the apartment door with more force than necessary, the hinges groaning like even they were tired of my drama. The living room greeted me with that familiar scent—a mix of herbal tea, old furniture, and something vaguely medicinal. Home.

Or the closest thing I had to one.

The overhead light was off, casting the room in a soft, yellow glow from the floor lamp in the corner. Shadows clung to the walls like they were eavesdropping.

Selene sat on the couch, shawl wrapped around her like a cocoon. A book lay open on her lap, though judging by her glazed-over stare, she hadn’t turned the page in a while.

“You’re home late,” she said without looking up.

“I like to make an entrance,” I said, kicking off my shoes. “Preferably when everyone’s too tired to ask questions.”

She raised an eyebrow at me—subtle, elegant judgment. Classic Selene.

“You look like you lost a fight with a brick wall.”

“I won,” I deadpanned. “You should see the wall.”

She sighed, setting the book aside. “What happened?”

My fingers tightened around my jacket. Where to start?

Well, my studio had decided to spontaneously combust, taking my future, my sanity, and my favorite sewing machine with it. Then I’d almost been flattened by a train—normal Tuesday things. And the mysterious guy at the station had looked at me like he’d read the last page of my story and didn’t like how it ended.

Also, apparently my childhood nickname was back from the dead.

But sure. Let’s call it a “rough day.”

“I got held up,” I muttered.

“Held up by who?” she asked, tone light but sharp. “A fire? The ghost of your ambitions?”

“Yes, actually.”

Selene blinked at me.

I shrugged off my jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. “Look, it’s fine. I just needed some air.”

“Did the air help?”

“About as much as shouting at a burning building did.”

She gave me a long look, the kind that usually meant Don’t push me, Ember, I’ve been alive longer and I’m crankier. Then, without a word, she picked up her teacup and took a slow sip. I could practically hear her judging me through the steam.

“You’re deflecting,” she said.

“Wow, must be your psychic powers kicking in.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I deflect professionally now. It’s on my resume.”

Another long, heavy silence.

I dropped onto the edge of the couch, arms resting on my knees. The cushions sank under my weight like they were sighing.

“I lost everything,” I whispered.

Selene didn’t respond right away. Just sat there, hands wrapped around her cup, letting the words sit between us.

“My sketches. My fabrics. My machines. Everything I built. Gone.” I laughed—sharp and humorless. “The universe must really hate fashion.”

“You’ll start over.”

“Sure. I’ll just walk into a new studio with a cheerful heart and several thousand imaginary dollars.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she pressed a hand to her temple and winced.

“Is it your head again?” I asked.

“Mmhmm. Feels like a woodpecker set up a condo in my skull.”

I glanced at the cluttered coffee table. Medicine bottles stood in formation like little soldiers, their labels smudged from overuse.

“The hospital called.”

“They’ll have to wait,” she replied smoothly.

“Right,” I said, leaning back. “Might as well send them a thank-you note. ‘Dear billing department, kindly take a number and wait your turn. Also, please enjoy this complimentary cookie while we continue being broke.’”

That earned me a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.

“I liked the card you designed for your last failed collection better,” she said. “‘Thank you for witnessing this disaster. Refunds not available.’”

We both snorted at that.

She let the quiet settle again before glancing at me. “Did you see anyone while you were out?”

I paused, fingers drumming lightly against my thigh.

Golden eyes. Smoke. A voice that curled around my name like it remembered me.

“I saw… someone,” I said. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she echoed, like she didn’t believe me for a second.

My gaze drifted to the bookshelf in the corner. Between dusty novels and broken picture frames sat the music box—my mother’s. The fire hadn’t destroyed it completely, but it was… scarred. Like me.

I picked it up and wound it. One turn. Two.

Silence.

Of course.

“You keep trying that like it’s not broken,” Selene said softly.

“I’m stubborn.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Semantics.”

I ran my thumb over the burn marks. “You ever feel like the past is all you’ve got left?”

Selene didn’t answer.

She patted the space beside her. “Sit.”

I hesitated but sank into the cushion beside her. It dipped beneath me like it was used to catching people falling apart.

She reached over and pried the crumpled flyer from my hand. Her eyes scanned the page slowly.

“The palace?” she asked.

I nodded, suddenly feeling very small. “They’re hiring. Maids. Kitchen help. Basic staff. Room included.”

She looked at me, her expression unreadable. “You don’t have to do this.”

“We don’t really have a list of other options, Selene.”

A pause. Then softly, “Are you doing this for me?”

I hated how easily that question made my throat tighten.

“No,” I said too fast.

She said nothing.

“I’m doing it for the rent,” I added, forcing a shrug. “And the glamour of scrubbing royal toilets.”

Still nothing.

I sighed. “Fine. Yes. Maybe. Partly.”

She folded the flyer carefully like it might crumble if she breathed wrong.

“Just promise me one thing.”

“Is it ‘Don’t fall in love with a prince’? Because I think I’m emotionally allergic to men right now.”

She gave me a look. “Promise me… if it becomes too much, you’ll leave.”

I blinked. “That’s weirdly dramatic for someone who once told me to finish a fashion show while literally limping.”

“This is different.”

“How?”

She didn’t answer.

I frowned. “Selene—”

“Just promise.”

Her voice was quiet. Firm.

I swallowed hard. “Okay. I promise.”

She nodded, then gave my hand a soft squeeze. “Good. Now go to bed before your face breaks the mirror.”

“You’re such a nurturing presence.”

“Sleep, Ember.”

I stood up, but something about the way she avoided my gaze… it lingered. Like there was more she wasn’t saying.

Not a lie.

Just… something unspoken.

---

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. The sheets were cold. The room too quiet.

And still, his voice echoed in my mind.

That name.

It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it.

Like he knew something I didn’t.

Like I was a story he'd read the end to.

I turned onto my side, eyes wide open in the dark.

Tomorrow, I’d walk into that palace.

And whatever was waiting for me?

It wouldn’t just be a paycheck.