In the Mikhailov Palace, where the chandeliers resembled small constellations and the mirrors multiplied the court’s opulence, luxury was not an adornment: it was a warning. There, every smile hid an intention, every toast measured alliances, and every step was calculated so as not to offend anyone’s pride… except for those born without the right to have it.

That night, the aristocracy of Berchi gathered to celebrate the return of Prince Alexander Mikhailov, heir to the throne. He was returning from a diplomatic mission, laden with praise and expectations. They said he had returned handsomer, colder, more self-possessed. And, above all, they said that the time had come for him to choose a wife. Because a prince can travel, negotiate, and promise peace, but he cannot delay in the one thing the kingdom truly demands: continuity.

Amidst silks, brocades, and sharp-edged laughter, the servants moved like trained shadows. One of those shadows was Elisa Markova. She wore a simple, impeccable uniform, as if neatness were the only thing no one could take from her. With a tray of glasses in her hands, she walked with silent steps, avoiding glances, avoiding existing.

She had learned to be invisible. And the irony was that, long ago, in those same halls, her name had been pronounced with admiration. Not as “waitress,” but as “prodigy.” The daughter of the great Markov, they said. The girl who made adults cry with her piano playing. The young woman who seemed destined to play for kings and not to fill glasses for the heir’s friends.

But destiny doesn’t always arrive with music. Sometimes it arrives with a signature on a parchment, with an elegant betrayal, with a misfortune that no one explains because no one needs to explain it when power decides. And Elisa, over the years, had grown accustomed to swallowing silence as if it were bread. When the noise of the Great Hall began to weigh on her, she allowed herself a brief escape to the terrace. The night air smelled of gardens and cool stone. Beyond the balustrade, statues of ancient monarchs stood guard as if they knew all the secrets the living insisted on repeating.

Elisa rested her fingers on the marble and, without thinking, slid them as if they were on invisible keys. The gesture was small, almost ridiculous… and yet it tightened her chest. She remembered the ivory beneath her skin, the vibration of a note that becomes home, the feeling that the world can be set right for an instant with the right chord. She pulled away abruptly, as if the memory burned.

A butler found her there, his face expressionless, asking no questions. He placed a bottle of wine in her hands, sealed with the royal family’s crest.

“They are waiting for you in Prince Alexander’s private salon. Now.”

Elisa felt the cold of the marble seep into her bones. There was no room for doubt. Only obedience.

She walked through corridors and doorways with the discipline of someone who knows that even the smallest mistake can cost her the little ground she has left. When she entered the private salon, the atmosphere changed: less bustle, more venom. There, the nobility spoke without the mask of public pretense, laughing calmly, as if the world belonged to them by natural right.

And there he was.

Alexander Mikhailov reclined in an armchair as if even exhaustion suited him. His presence filled the room effortlessly. It wasn’t just beauty: it was authority. That kind of authority that doesn’t need to shout to be obeyed.

Elisa poured wine with steady hands, without looking up. But, as she turned slightly, she felt the prince’s gaze like an invisible hand on the back of her neck. It forced her to raise her eyes instinctively.

Their eyes met.

In his eyes there was no laughter. Nor indifference. There was something that sent shivers down Elisa’s spine: recognition… or the will to recognize. The nobles spoke of the prince’s marriage, of his duty, of the “suitable candidates.” Someone joked about his temperament. Another asked if he already had a favorite. Alexander responded with a minimal gesture, as if those questions were flies.

Then, a man with a thick mustache let out a laugh and said, with the cruelty of someone who feels secure:

“Well, well… is this all that’s left of the great Markov’s daughter?”

Silence fell like a curtain.

Elisa felt shame creeping up her throat, but she didn’t change her expression. She had learned to survive without giving them the pleasure of seeing her bleed.

“I remember those times,” the nobleman continued. “They said her talent at the piano rivaled the best musicians at court… and look at her now.”

Some soft laughter escaped, like blades wrapped in velvet. Elisa finished serving. She wished she could disappear.

But then Alexander spoke, with a dangerous calm:

“If it’s true that she was so prodigious… I wonder if she still possesses that talent.”

Elisa froze. Eyes lit up, hungry. The cruelty…