As we approach the table, the Duchess remains silent. She doesn't need to speak; she lets the atmosphere do the talking. The room is freezing, and the only sound is the clinking of heavy silver.
The Great Dining Hall feels like a tomb. As the servants place the plates down, a heavy silence falls over the room. Even the guards at the door seem to hold their breath.
"In the House of Valerius, seafood is a forbidden ghost. Everyone—from the youngest stable boy to the Duke himself—know that Elanore is violently allergic to it. Even a small bite will cause her face to swell, her skin to break out in a terrible rash, and her breath to fail. It's the one rule the kitchen never broke."
"Until today.
The Duchess has disguised the seafood beneath a rich, creamy sauce and a layer of harmless-looking vegetables. To someone who doesn't know the secret recipe, it looks like a standard luxury dish. But to the Duchess, it's a weapon."
"If she eats it and reacts", the Duchess thinks , her eyes glittering, "it proves she has lost her mind. Elanore will have to be insane to eat the one thing that can kill her. Arthur will see a swollen, gasping girl instead of a princess."
"Sara looks at the plate. Her office brain is scanning the textures, trying to identify the ingredients. She notices the sauce is thick, hiding whatever is underneath. She feels a strange, instinctual prickle of fear—her body was trying to warn her, but she doesn't understand the signal yet."
"The aroma is... unique," Arthur remarks, picking up his fork. "Is this a specialty of your house, Duchess?"
"It is a very special recipe," the Duchess replies, her voice smooth as honey. "Designed specifically for my daughter's 'recovery.' Eat, Elanore. You need your strength."
I lift my fork. I focus myself on my manners, on holding the silver correctly, and on showing Arthur I'm refined and mature woman.
I take a small bite. But I don't know why I feel that I shouldn't take another bite . My spine is pressing against the cold velvet of the chair. I can feel the weight of every eye in this room. To my left, Arthur is watching me with a mix of curiosity and concern. Across from me, my "mother" wears a smile that feels like a spider's web—thin, sticky, and dangerous.
"Eat, Elanore," the Duchess says, her voice shimmering with fake warmth. She gestures toward my plate, which looks slightly different from Arthur's. "I had the chef prepare this specifically for your recovery. It's a delicate blend to help your strength return."
Specific for me? My "Office Brain" sends up a tiny red flag. In my old world, when a boss gave you a "special project" that no one else was doing, it usually meant you were being set up to fail. But I look at the creamy sauce and the colorful garnish. I don't smell anything strange. I don't see any warning signs.
I want to show them I'm not the "broken" girl they think I am. I want to show Arthur I can handle myself.
I lift the silver fork. My hand is steady. I take another bite.
The flavor is rich, buttery, and complex. As I swallow, I prepare to offer a polite compliment. But before I can speak, I hear the sharp clatter of silver hitting porcelain.
I turn to my father. The Duke, a man who usually looks like he is carved from grey stone, has snatched a piece of garnish from my plate and tasted it. His face is no longer cold—it is a mask of pure, terrifying fury.
"Stop eating!" he bellows.
The sound echoes off the high stone ceilings like a crack of thunder. I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. I've never heard him raise his voice like this.
"Elanore, put that down this instant!" He stands up so quickly his chair screeches against the floor. He isn't looking at me; he is glaring at the Duchess with eyes that could set the room on fire. "What is the meaning of this, Catherine? You know the laws of this kitchen. You know what happens to her if she tastes even a drop of sea foods!"
I stare at the plate in horror. Sea food? I feel a sudden, strange tingle at the back of my throat. My heart begins to hammer against my ribs. I don't know the history of this body, but I know the look of a man who just saw his daughter take a bite of poison.
I look at the Duchess. The fake smile is gone, replaced by a pale, trembling mask of "innocence," but I see the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. She isn't worried that I'm hurt—she's angry that she got caught.
Beside me, Arthur has dropped his own fork, his hand flying to the hilt of the ornamental dagger at his waist. "Duke Valerius? What is wrong with the food?"
I try to answer, but my tongue feels heavy.
The air in my throat suddenly feels thick, like I'm swallowing wool. I look at my father. His face is a storm of panic and rage—emotions I didn't think he was capable of feeling.
Why is he acting like this? I wonder, my mind spinning even as my body begins to fail. Is it because Arthur is watching? Is he protecting the "family image," or is there a tiny piece of a real father buried under that ice?
Then, I glance at the Duchess.
She isn't looking at me with worry. She is smoothing her napkin, a tiny, dark smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. It's the look of a manager who just successfully sabotaged a rival's presentation. She knows exactly what she did.
In that moment, a cold clarity washes over me. If I just sit here and recover, she wins. She'll call me "clumsy" for not checking my food and the lunch will continue.
No. If you want to play dirty, Mother, let's play.
I let my fork clatter to the table. I grab my throat, my eyes widening in forced terror. I make sure my breath comes out in ragged, wheezing gasps that echo through the silent hall.
"I... I can't..." I gasp, my voice high and thin.
I let my body sway. I see Arthur half-rise from his chair, his face pale with shock. I see my father's eyes widen. I put every ounce of my Office Sara dramatic flair into this. I let my head loll back, my eyes fluttering shut as I slide slowly off the velvet chair.
"Elanore!" my father screams. "Physician! Get the Royal Physician now!"
I feel the hard floor rushing up to meet me, but before I hit the stone, a pair of strong arms catches me. The scent of sandalwood and expensive soap fills my senses. It's Arthur. He's holding me against his chest, and I can hear his heart racing—a frantic, panicked thrumming.
"I have her," Arthur says, his voice shaking with a protective fury I've never heard from him. "Duke, I am taking her to her chambers. Send the doctor there immediately!"
As he lifts me, I keep my body limp. I feel him start to run, his boots thudding against the floorboards as he carries me away from that poisoned table.
But as we leave the hall, a pang of guilt hits me harder than the allergy ever could. Arthur is genuinely terrified. He thinks I'm dying. I can feel his arms trembling as he holds me tight, treating me like a glass doll that's already shattered.
'I'm sorry, Arthur', I think, keeping my eyes closed. 'I'm not dying... I'm just winning the game.'