The ballroom pulsed with music again, the kind of music designed to erase—soft strings and elegant flourishes meant to smooth over the cracks in everyone's memory. A subtle performance of forgetting. The nobles returned to their masquerade, their laughter deliberate, the tinkling of glasses a little too crisp, too frequent. Everywhere Priscilla looked, she saw masks being reapplied—stitched on with silk and obligation. And yet none of them came near.
She stood alone.
Not ostracized.
Not quite.
Just… noticed. Marked. A line drawn around her that no one dared step over. Even the women she had once dined with weekly were suddenly caught in deep, spontaneous conversations across the room. No curious glances. No whispered invitations. Just space.
'So this is the price.'
