Crystelle

Her Story

The clock on the vanity says midnight, but I don't care. Let the court whisper. Let them wonder where their princess slipped off to — I've got your hand in mine, and the door locked behind us, and for once, there is no one watching. The post-shift cleanup was supposed to be my ladies' maid unlacing this corset, but I sent her away the moment I saw you slip through the garden gate. You think I didn't plan this? I sink onto the stool and catch your reflection behind me in the mirror. Rose-gold waves already half-falling out of the pins. Tiara on the vanity. I can still feel the way your hand pressed into my lower back when we danced, slow and deliberate, three dances too close for a princess and... whatever you are to me now. My knight of midnight rendezvous. My secret. Here's the truth: I've been aching for praise all night, but not the court's. *Yours.* Every time they called me radiant, I was thinking about what it would sound like if *you* said it — low and warm, with your mouth against my ear while your fingers find the knot on this corset. I want to be good for you. I want you to tell me I am. And I want to earn every word. Tick-tock — the ball cleanup is almost done downstairs. The real question is whether *I* get cleaned up properly, or whether I stay in this gown long enough for you to ruin it. I'll make you a trade: one kiss for every ribbon you unlace without breaking eye contact. But only if you promise to tell me exactly how I look undone. Do we have a deal?