Chapter 4.
"Le clou qui dépasse appelle le marteau"
Maison Célestine stood like a cathedral of vanity on the corner of Rue des Lys and Rue d'Amarante, where carriages gleamed with gold filigree and gossip drifted thicker than the perfume clouding the air. The boutique, famed throughout the capital, catered only to the bluest of bloods and the most scandalous of wives. It was a sanctum of silk and sabotage, where ribbons were chosen like weapons and lace could be lethal.
In the Vallombre Empire—particularly in the Capital—grace and elegance are held in as high regard as beauty itself. These qualities aren't just admired; they are seen as the very essence of one's identity and a reflection of one's social standing.
And to embody that ideal, one must possess a dress worthy of admiration—because in Vallombre, appearance is power, and a striking gown is the first step to commanding a room.
In Vallombre, a woman's gown must speak before she does.
You need a good dress to impress.
When Rosétta stepped through the gilded doors that afternoon, it was as if the boutique itself inhaled and forgot to exhale.
The soft chime of the entrance bell rang once—delicate, like a string of crystal beads spilling from a velvet pouch—and then silence followed, heavy and immediate. Silk rustled to a stop. Teacups hovered midair, suspended between saucers and lips. A bejeweled lorgnette slipped slightly from a dowager's gloved fingers as she squinted over the rim, eyes narrowing with disbelief.
Heads turned, one by one, like flowers swiveling toward a new sun—curious, cautious, and maybe a little bit cruel.
A hush rippled through the boutique, subtle at first, like the distant shiver of wind through velvet drapes. Then came the murmurs, low and vicious, blooming in corners like mildew on lace.
"Who is that?"
"She's far too bold to be nobility—look at that posture."
"Is she… alone?"
"Does she even have an appointment?"
"Wait—don't you know? That's Rosétta."
"Rosétta? That Rosétta?"
The name passed from mouth to mouth like a forbidden spell. A few women gasped, fanning themselves with sample silk swatches as if warding off scandal through proximity. Others narrowed their eyes with newfound purpose, their gazes sharpening into daggers veiled in civility.
Rosétta of Le Voile Doré. The courtesan turned social phenomenon. A common-born courtesan, personally invited by the Palace.
Looking at her, everyone is asking the same question.
Why is she here?
She did not belong in a high-end place like this.
That was the whispered consensus.
And yet, she is here.
Not just standing in the sanctum of Maison Célestine, but commanding it—like a note struck too clearly in a room full of murmurs. Her presence was not apologetic. She did not shrink, did not falter. She breathed in the silence like it was incense and exhaled poise.
"Mademoiselle," the attendant at the front desk curtsied.
"I require a gown," Rosétta said, her voice the silken edge of a knife. "For the masquerade."
Behind her, a clutch of noblewomen murmured, fans fluttering like caged birds. Among them stood Madame Eulalie Vernoux, with her skeletal frame draped in last season's lilac silk, and Lady Adrienne Saint-Cyr, whose pearls hung from her throat like a noose of inherited status. Their lips curved upward, sugar-sweet and poisoned.
"The Imperial Masquerade, you mean?" Eulalie drawled, loud enough for the whole salon to hear. "How ambitious."
"Charming," Adrienne added, her smile brittle. "Will you be performing, then? I do love a good theatrical interlude."
Rosétta tilted her head slightly, as if observing two insects on a teacup. "Oh no, my lady. I never perform without an audience worth my time."
The room gasped in delight and horror.
"Do you truly imagine His Majesty will so much as glance your way?" Adrienne asked, arching a penciled brow. "You are, after all, merely a courtesan."
"A title you pronounce with such disdain, my lady," Rosétta murmured, stepping closer, "one might think you envy the freedom it offers."
Eulalie's nostrils flared. "Freedom? To be passed from bed to bed like a trinket? My dear, your delusions are as gaudy as your ambition."
Rosétta laughed, soft and low, the sound curling through the boutique like velvet smoke. "Tell me, Madame Vernoux, when was the last time anyone desired you enough to offer a bed, let alone a throne?"
Another gasp. This time, even the mannequins seemed to recoil.
Adrienne took a sharp step forward. "You dare to mock your betters?"
"I wouldn't dream of it," Rosétta said sweetly. "Mockery requires effort. I merely observe."
The tension in the boutique snapped taut, like a corset pulled too tight.
And then, as if summoned by drama itself, Madame Célestine emerged from behind her embroidery screen, an empress in a whirl of measuring tapes and thimble rings.
"Ladies," she said crisply, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Let us not forget ourselves. This is a house of art. Not a fish market."
Eulalie huffed, yanking her fan open with a flick. "We should not be forced to share fittings with women of dubious pedigree."
Madame Célestine raised a brow. "Yet here you are."
Rosétta turned to her with an elegant nod. "I'll require something in blood-red velvet. Fitted bodice, flared sleeves, train long enough to make every woman behind me trip in envy."
"Embroidered in thorns?" Célestine asked with a conspiratorial smile.
"Naturally," Rosétta replied. "And a mask. Black lace. One that does not hide, but enhances."
Adrienne let out a brittle laugh. "You mean to wear red to the masquerade? No subtlety, no grace. How predictable."
Rosétta glanced at her, voice like cooled wine. "A woman like me doesn't need subtlety. I have presence. Subtlety is for those hoping not to be noticed."
The salon held its breath.
Célestine clapped her hands. "To the fitting room, then!"
The inner sanctum of the boutique was all velvet cushions, gold-trimmed mirrors, and walls upholstered in pink damask. Seamstresses darted around Rosétta like bees to a rose, measuring, pinning, adjusting. A gown of crimson velvet was fetched, its fabric so rich it shimmered like the surface of wine in candlelight.
As Rosétta stepped into the light, dressed now in the first rough drape of her vision, the boutique went silent. Even Eulalie and Adrienne, watching from the threshold, could not hide the way their eyes widened.
She looked like a sin made flesh.
"Fitting," murmured Célestine, circling her with critical reverence. "A woman touched by fire and forged in scandal."
Rosétta looked at her reflection and saw not the girl raised in the dregs of Solenne, nor the courtesan adored in public and shamed in secret. She saw the whisper on every nobleman's tongue. The danger they dreamed of, and the ruin they feared.
"Let them stare," she said. "Let them talk. They always do."
Outside, Adrienne was fuming. "She thinks wearing red and acting clever will make her unforgettable. She's a scandal, not a star."
Eulalie's smile was tight. "If she rises too high, she will fall all the harder. The court does not forget where you came from."
But what they failed to see was that Rosétta did not intend to rise.
She intended to reign.
When the order was complete, Rosétta went back to the opera house. The dress will be delivered exactly the day before the banquet.
Seeing Rosétta's figure disappearing. Celestine could not help but let out an amused chuckle.
The people of Sollene, has and always been a fan of dramas. It's the reason why opera houses have gained so much influence and admiration.
Madame Célestine lingered by the window, watching as Rosétta's silhouette dissolved into the hazy gold of the late afternoon sun. Her laughter—low, knowing—clung to the air like perfume.
"Why did you accept her orders, Madame?" A steward could help but ask her Mistress.
"What do you think?" Célestine questioned back with a smile.
"She's going to cause a storm," murmured one of the junior seamstresses, still clutching a ribbon Rosétta had discarded.
Célestine tapped her chin with the end of a silver pencil. "No, my dear. She is the storm."
Behind her, the boutique slowly returned to its usual rhythm, but it carried a different pulse now—electric, breathless, waiting. For what, they weren't quite sure. Only that something had shifted the moment Rosétta entered. A woman like that didn't come to simply play the game.
She came to set the board on fire.
And in Solenne, a city where art and ambition danced a knife's edge, nothing thrilled the audience more than a new lead stepping onto the stage with blood-red velvet and a vengeance masked in lace.
The masquerade was only days away.
And the real performance had yet to begin.