Gold glitter stung my eyes, but I kept my smile wide. My cheeks ached, a sharp throb pulsing beneath the thick layers of white powder and pink rouge. Every muscle in my face screamed for relief, but I forced the corners of my mouth to stay pinned to my cheekbones.
"Lighter, darling, hold your chin higher," my mother hissed from the crimson throne beside me. Queen Eleanor of Hearts didn't look at me, her fingers wrapping tighter around her golden, heart-shaped scepter until her knuckles turned a deadly shade of white. She was always on the verge of an explosion, her temper a sleeping dragon we all tiptoed around.
Candle wax dripped onto the gold candelabras, scenting the air with honey and burning tallow. I took a slow breath, trying to steady my racing pulse. Every eye in the room was on the royal dais, waiting for us to set the tone of the evening.
Rubies caught the light of a thousand flickering candles, casting blood-red glints across the grand ballroom. Around us, the high society of Wonderland moved in rigid, choreographed patterns. Every guest wore a mask of absolute perfection, terrified of showing a single flaw that might draw my mother's wrath.
Red, my older sister, stood a few paces away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn't bother pretending, her dark eyes scanning the exits with open, rebellious contempt. She could afford to be angry; she was the wild one, the sister who fought back.
I couldn't afford to do that. Survival in this court meant being the bright, cheerful backup, the perfect daughter who never made a wave. If I kept smiling, if I kept the peace, then the heavy blade of my mother's anger would never fall on me.
"Everything is absolutely beautiful tonight, Mother," I murmured, my voice dripping with sugary sweet enthusiasm. "The roses are the perfect shade of crimson, and the music is simply divine."
My mother grunted, her eyes scanning the crowd like a predator searching for a weak link in the herd. She hated weakness, hated mistakes, and most of all, she hated anything that disrupted her absolute control.
To my left, a courtier cleared his throat, adjusting a ridiculous feathered hat. Everyone was on edge, balancing on a razor's edge of courtly etiquette. One wrong step, one misplaced word, and the entire night would devolve into chaos.
A sharp crash shattered the music.
Guests gasped, parting like a sea of terrified fish. In the center of the polished marble floor, a young servant boy trembled, his hands shaking violently over a shattered crystal decanter. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, his pale face draining of all color as he stared at the disaster at his feet.
Dark red wine pooled across the pristine white rug, spreading like a fresh, jagged stain of blood. It was a beautiful, expensive rug, imported from the outer realms of Wonderland, and now it was ruined.
"Guards!" my mother roared, her voice shaking the heavy crystal chandeliers above us. Her face twisted, her perfect regal composure melting away to reveal the volatile monster beneath. A vein throbbed violently at her temple, her chest heaving with sudden, explosive rage. "Off with his head! Right now!"
Heavy iron boots clanked against the stone floor. Two armored guards seized the weeping boy by his shoulders, dragging him toward the center of the hall. He struggled, his shoes slipping in the puddle of wine, leaving red streaks across the white stone.
Panic flared in my chest. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not tonight. Not on the night where everything had to be flawless. If a public execution happened now, the entire gala would be ruined, and my mother's mood would remain black for weeks.
"Please, Your Majesty!" the boy sobbed, his knees scraping against the hard marble. "It was an accident! The glass was slippery—"
"Silence!" My mother stood, her heavy crimson gown billowing around her like a wave of blood. She raised her scepter, pointing it directly at the boy's trembling neck. "No one ruins my gala. Executioner!"
A massive man in a black leather hood stepped from the wings, his heavy silver axe gleaming under the candlelight. He didn't hesitate, his boots thudding rhythmically against the floor as he approached the kneeling boy.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked around the room, searching for someone, anyone, to stop this. But the guests only turned their faces away, their smiles frozen in terrified compliance. Even Red had gone still, her jaw clenched, her hands balled into fists, but she knew she couldn't step in without causing a war.
If I let him die, the blood would stain this room forever. The harmony would be broken, and the fragile peace I fought so hard to maintain would shatter. I couldn't bear the thought of another life lost to my mother's temper, not when I could do something to prevent it.
"Stop!" I gasped, leaping forward before my brain could process the sheer danger of my actions.
My heavy silk skirts bunched in my hands as I rushed down the stairs of the dais, throwing myself directly between the shivering servant and the executioner's raised blade. I could feel the cold draft from the heavy silver axe as it hovered in the air, inches from my own face.
Silence fell over the ballroom, so heavy it felt suffocating.
"Pink?" My mother's voice dropped to a dangerous, low rumble. "What is the meaning of this? Move aside."
"Oh, Mother, you don't understand!" I forced a high-pitched, bubbly laugh to escape my lips, though my stomach twisted into tight knots. I clapped my hands together, looking at the spilled wine with exaggerated delight, pretending my heart wasn't trying to escape my chest.
"I ordered this!" I exclaimed, spinning around to face the stunned crowd. "Look at it! It's absolutely brilliant!"
My mother narrowed her eyes, her nostrils flaring as she stared down at me. "You ordered a mess?"
"It's not a mess, it's art!" I insisted, my voice rising as I committed to the desperate lie. "I told him to drop it. Just look at the way the deep red contrasts with the stark white of the rug. It's an artistic aesthetic! A performance piece highlighting the temporary nature of beauty."
I bent down, dipping the hem of my pristine pink skirt directly into the pool of red wine, dragging the expensive fabric through the puddle. The wet silk clung to my legs, cold and heavy, but I kept my wide, painted-on smile firmly in place.
"See?" I beamed, holding up the stained silk with a bright, manic grin. "It's fashion! It's the new trend! I wanted to surprise everyone with a live exhibition."
Whispers erupted through the crowd. Courtiers glanced at each other, instantly trying to decide if they should agree to stay in favor with the royal family. They looked at my mother, then at me, trying to read the shifting winds of the court.
"An... exhibition?" a duchess murmured, adjusting her gold monocle.
"Yes, of course!" I cheered, my heart pounding so hard I feared it would burst through my chest. "Let us celebrate the beautiful mess of creativity!"
My mother stared at me, her sharp eyes searching my face for any sign of defiance. I held my smile, keeping my eyes wide and innocent, praying she wouldn't hear the frantic beating of my heart. I was playing a dangerous game, mocking her authority, but I wrapped it in so much bubbly enthusiasm that she couldn't call it rebellion.
Slowly, the Queen lowered her scepter.
"Very well," she sniffed, her voice cold. "If my daughter wishes to indulge in such bizarre, modern displays, I will allow it. Clean the rest of this room immediately."
A collective sigh of relief swept through the hall. The guards released the servant, who scrambled away into the shadows, casting a quick, terrified look of gratitude in my direction. He was safe, at least for tonight.
Applause broke out, soft at first, then growing into a polite roar as the guests eagerly accepted the distraction. They clapped for my 'art,' laughing nervously as they returned to their champagne and idle gossip.
I stood there, my skirt dripping with dark red liquid, my face frozen in that exhausting, perfect smile. The adrenaline began to fade, leaving me hollow and incredibly tired. My hands trembled slightly against my stained dress, the weight of the lie pressing heavily on my chest.
Looking up toward the shadowed balcony overlooking the ballroom, my breath caught.
Max sat perched precariously on the gilded railing, one leg dangling over the edge. He wore a dark, velvet coat that seemed to absorb the candlelight, and his signature top hat sat tilted rakishly on his messy, dark curls. A brilliant, mocking smirk played on his lips.
Our eyes met across the vast, noisy space. He didn't join in the applause, his intense, mercurial gaze cutting right through the thick layers of my makeup. He knew. He saw right through the ridiculous performance. He saw the terror I was trying so hard to hide.
As the crowd applauds Pink's quick-thinking lie, Max leans over the banister and whispers loud enough for only her to hear: 'How many layers of paint does it take to hide a bleeding heart, Princess?'