**THIS STORY WILL BE REMOVED AS OF 06/01/24 TO PURSUE SELF-PUBLISHING OPPORTUNITIES, THANK YOU ♥**
**THE PRINCESS SERIES is part of the GOLDEN UNIVERSE, and considered a sequel to THE GOLDEN QUEEN/A BRAZEN LOVE**
♦YOU MUST HAVE READ THE GOLDEN UNIVE...
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♪ I know I took so long to give you a response It was just my pride pushing it aside, pushing you aside, make you wait for once ♪ {FLETCHER—Strangers}
Cordelia refused any further visits that day, especially from Clarisse. She ensured her other ladies barred the girl from coming within a few feet of her door, and ordered them to leave her meals in the sitting room.
She wouldn't cry; no, she wouldn't. Princess Cordelia hadn't cried since one of the nights when her mother had been at her worst. When her breathing had been so haggard and her bones so brittle, no one believed she'd survive to the following morning. And even at that time, Cordelia had excused herself and strolled down the Palace corridors and unleashed her tears once she was in a closet in a secluded room no one ever used, at the back of the property.
She hated crying. Hated showing weakness. Hated admitting that Antoine had won, that he'd cornered her, that he'd gotten his way. Her brothers always had the upper hand, the last say—and though for years she'd kept her mouth shut and allowed it, she no longer wished to permit such unfairness. Why did they overpower her, control her image, decide for her? Because she was a woman? The weaker sex, the fragile sex, the one meant to be pretty but never to speak more than a few eloquent sentences in a row?
No.
She refused to be demeaned like so. Every other woman in Totresia might have accepted such behaviors—if anything, until they found husbands—but she'd never tolerated it. Why else had she avoided courtship for so long? She despised the games, the power men had over women, and knew her opinions were ill-received in the current world. Which was why she yearned, craved to escape. To find a place where she'd no longer be a pawn to her brother's schemes, nothing but a confidante, a secondary character, a wallflower everyone loved to look at but never wanted to listen to.
The following day, she eased her restrictions, having had a night of tossing and turning and realizing that Clarisse, despite her eagerness to tattle Cordelia's plans of escape, was her friend. The person who tuned in to her woes, counseled her, chastised her if need be, shared her meals, her passions. Clarisse enjoyed writing, too, and had a knack for poetry, Cordelia had found out. And the night after the three-way-ambush, Cordelia would have needed a late-night tisane and a poetry reading. But no one but Clarisse would have known how to make her feel somewhat better.
Clarisse was discreet when bringing breakfast and tidying up, that morning. She knew Cordelia was still angry, and wouldn't do anything to rouse her emotions again. And Cordelia watched her from the corner of her eye, still sulking, but a part of her desperate to ask why she did it, why she blabbered the truth to Marigold, why she didn't keep her secrets.
But I know why—she is looking out for me, and worried my running off would be dangerous.
And those were Marguerite's reasons, too. To protect Cordelia, or so she'd said. And apparently protecting Cordelia meant keeping her locked up with irksome debutantes who despised her, and frivolous gentlemen who were too eager to get to know her and throw their plans for marriage at her feet, to be the highest bidder for her affections.
