Crimson Rose Queen

Part 1

"Child, what have you done?!"

A woman—mid-fifties, dressed like she stepped out of a Renaissance painting—burst in, panicking. I'd later learn she was Nurse Margaret. She clutched my shoulders.

"The king left before dawn! The court will—"

"Who are you people?" I hissed. "Where am I?"

Her face turned ashen. "Sweet girl... don't you know? You're Eleanor Sterling. Prime Minister Aldric's daughter. And last night…" She hesitated. "Last night was your wedding."

Wedding. Right. To the psycho who'd just—

I swallowed bile. "Let me guess. Political marriage? He hates me?"

Her silence said it all.

A copper mirror—who even uses these anymore?—was thrust into my hands. I gasped.

That wasn't my face.

High cheekbones. Full lips. Eyes like twilight—deep enough to drown in. Even tear-streaked and furious, the reflection was stunning.

Oh, karma. You ironic bitch.

Margaret whispered the rest: Eleanor's reputation, the king's disdain, the political chessboard I'd just been dropped onto. I was a pawn. A scandalous, inconvenient pawn.

But as the maids laced me into a gown worth a luxury car—hello, diamond-encrusted corset—a plan began to form.

Fine. If I'm stuck as the "Scarlet Rose," I'll play the part.

And maybe—just maybe-I-I—make that icy king regret ever underestimating me.

Part 2

The maids gasped as I demolished breakfast—honey-glazed pheasant, saffron bread, and more.

"You're not eating?" I asked through a mouthful.

Margaret looked faint. "We serve you first, Your Majesty."

Ugh. Feudalism.

"Sit. Eat. That's an order."

They trembled like I'd committed treason.

A steward entered, announcing that the "noble ladies" awaited my presence.

Translation: the king's harem.

Fantastic.

As I entered the hall, a hush fell. Dozens of women in silk and jewels assessed me like vultures circling a fresh carcass.

The boldest—a redhead in emerald velvet—curtsied mockingly. "We heard His Grace was… distraught last night. Poor thing."

I yawned. Loudly.

Gasps.

"Ladies," I drawled, "if you're here to gossip, I'd rather nap. Dismissed."

Their outrage? Chef's kiss.

But as they scattered, Margaret wrung her hands. "That was Lady Isabella! The king's favorite! Her father commands the—"

"Don't care." I flopped onto a divan. "Now, where's this 'Royal Garden'? I need air."

And maybe… a way home.

Or failing that, a way to win.