The smaller salon off the west wing was heavy with te-summer air. The drapes were half-drawn, muting the sun into bands of amber light across polished stone. A bottle of aged wine rested on the sideboard, its fragrance lingering, its weight undeniable. Camille sat in a deep crimson wrap, legs crossed neatly, a gss poised in her hand. Every angle of her posture projected composure—measured, deliberate, regal. But Celeste, seated at the window ledge, and Marisol, leaning against the wall, saw past it. They had worn masks long enough to recognize when another was straining behind hers.

  Marisol broke the silence first, her voice smooth but edged.

  “Feeling grounded again?”

  Camille’s eyes didn’t flicker.

  “I wasn’t adrift.”

  Celeste smirked, the curve of her mouth a quiet bde.

  “No. But you were floating just enough to fall into bed with a king.”

  Camille’s lips drew into the faintest smile.

  “I knew what I was doing.”

  “You always do,” Celeste replied evenly.

  Marisol tilted her head, the light catching sharp across her cheekbone.

  “And now? You’ve decred yourself staying. That’s more than a speech—it means accepting what this pce requires.”

  Camille lowered her gss to the table beside her chair, folding her hands.

  “By his personal request, and by the way.....I’m not looking for a crown.”

  “Good,” Celeste said.

  “Because it’s already taken,” Marisol said with a chill.

  The air tightened for a beat before Camille asked,

  “Then why am I here?”

  Celeste rose, her steps unhurried, deliberate.

  “Because you’re useful. And dangerous. And you know how to move quietly in high pces.”

  Marisol stepped forward too, her voice edged with precision.

  “But staying here isn’t about cleverness. It’s about shedding the illusion that you’re on equal footing.”

  Camille met their gaze without flinching.

  “Then tell me the terms.”

  Celeste’s voice carried first.

  “You’re not a concubine. And you’ll never be a servant. You’re too sharp. Too known. Too proud.”

  Marisol circled slowly, each word a measured cut.

  “But don’t mistake that for safety. Staying binds you tighter than leaving ever would.”

  Camille tilted her chin slightly, amusement flickering.

  “I’m not afraid of being used.”

  Celeste allowed herself a faint smile.

  “No. But can you serve more than your own legacy?”

  Marisol came to stand behind her, speaking low.

  “The world you came from thrived on shadows—power built through whispers, borrowed mouths, men as figureheads. That’s not this house. Here, power has a face. A throne. And it doesn’t need you as decoration.”

  Camille stood now, not defensive but alive, her presence shifting the room.

  “Then tell me what he needs.”

  Celeste’s gaze was sharp, unwavering.

  “He needs loyalty that doesn’t flinch when it isn’t rewarded.”

  Marisol added, her tone slicing clean,

  “He needs women who don’t beg for power—they take it when it’s earned, wield it without hesitation, then disappear until called again.”

  Camille’s fingers flexed at her sides, but her voice was steady.

  “And what do you need from me?”

  Celeste and Marisol exchanged a gnce. Celeste spoke first, quiet but final:

  “We need you to never forget whose house this is.”