Deviating from the original plot

Chapter ninety

"Where is he?" she asked, her voice hoarse, barely masking the tremor beneath it.

The maid, arranging a tray with a pitcher of water and a folded cloth on a nearby table, glanced up briefly. "The prince? He's occupied with court duties this morning, my lady. He instructed me to ensure your comfort."

"I need to leave," Genevieve said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "Where's my dress? I need a carriage—now."

The maid hesitated, her hands pausing over the tray. "Your gown... it's being cleaned, my lady. It was soiled last night. I can bring you something else to wear, and I'll arrange for a carriage if you wish."

"Soiled?" Genevieve's voice sharpened, her heart pounding. "What do you mean, soiled?"

The maid averted her gaze, busying herself with the tray. "You were unwell, my lady. I'll fetch a fresh gown immediately." She moved toward the door, but Genevieve's voice stopped her.

"Do you know what happened to me?" she demanded, her voice low but fierce.

The maid froze, her hand on the doorframe, her expression unreadable. "No, I don't," she said carefully. "His Highness brought you to the palace, and I was only told to care for you this morning."

Genevieve's chest tightened, the maid's evasion ringing hollow. She stood, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to topple her, and crossed the room to the mirror. Her reflection was a ghost of herself—pale, dishevelled, her eyes hollow. The undergown was crumpled, one strap torn, and faint bruises marked her wrists. Her breath hitched, and she turned away, unable to face the image any longer.

"I'm leaving," she said, more to herself than the maid. "Get me something to wear."

The maid nodded. "I'll bring a dress and speak to the steward about a carriage. Please, wait here, my lady." She slipped out, leaving Genevieve alone in the suffocating silence of the prince's chamber.

When the maid returned with a simple but elegant gown, Genevieve dressed quickly, her movements mechanical despite the ache in her body. The maid led her through the palace's labyrinthine corridors, past guards who barely glanced her way, to a courtyard where a carriage waited. The driver tipped his hat, and the maid handed her a cloak, murmuring, "For the chill, my lady."

Genevieve gave a nod, wrapping the cloak tightly around her shoulders as she stepped into the waiting carriage. Exhaustion weighed on her, leaving her feeling hollow, her body moving as if detached from her will. All she could do was hope she'd find a way to be whole again after this.

A Few Days Later~

The prince's arrival at her family's estate sent a chill through Genevieve. Her parents greeted him warmly, their faces alight with the honour of his presence, inviting him to join them for dinner. Genevieve moved through the evening like a shadow of herself, her responses mechanical, her mind trapped in the suffocating memories of that night—his hands on her, his whispered words that caused chills.

She tried to steady her breathing, to anchor herself in the clink of silverware and the murmur of conversation, but the prince's gaze bored into her from across the table. His eyes, sharp and knowing, seemed to strip her bare, and it took everything in her not to flinch under their weight.

She wanted to flee, to let the tears burning behind her eyes spill over, but she couldn't afford to draw attention. Not here, not with her parents beaming at the prince as if he were a gift from the heavens.

"Genevieve, are you alright?" Her mother asked, her brow furrowing as she noted the pallor in her daughter's face. "You look unwell."

"I'm... fine," Genevieve replied, her nod rigid, her voice strained. "Just exhausted."