Y/N stepped down onto the stone, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Servants in livery swarmed past, carrying trunks and linens, their eyes averted. Nobles lingered at the edges of the courtyard, jeweled fans fluttering in a rhythm that spoke of whispered words hidden behind painted smiles.

Inside, violins echoed from somewhere deep within the halls, a melody that seemed to pulse with the very heartbeat of the court.

A liveried footman bowed. Mademoiselle de Vermandois. If you will follow me.

Y/N walked. The marble floors gleamed beneath her shoes, reflecting the chandeliers above like a river of light. Portraits of kings and queens stared down from gilded frames, their painted eyes following her every step.

And then, through an open doorway, she saw the salon.

The Queen of France stood at the center of it all, a vision in pale blue silk and powdered curls. Marie Antoinette laughed at something a courtier said, her smile radiant, effortless — and then her gaze drifted, catching Y/N's across the crowded room.

The smile did not falter. If anything, it grew warmer.

But Y/N's attention was pulled elsewhere.

A man leaned against a marble pillar, dark eyes glittering with amusement. He raised a glass of wine in a silent toast, his lips curving into a smile that promised nothing but trouble. The Marquis de Valois.

And beyond him, near the tall windows, stood a man in the blue and silver uniform of the royal guard. His arms were crossed, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on Y/N with an expression that was not admiration.

It was suspicion.

The footman cleared his throat. Mademoiselle? The queen is waiting for you.