Crown's Wrong Kiss
She had at least convinced Sarah to let out the bodice slightly, sparing her the discomfort of restricted breathing.
“And this,” Sebastian was saying, “is a rare variety of rose brought from the Orient. It blooms only once a year, but the fragrance is unmatched.”
Amelia bent to smell the crimson blossom. “It’s lovely, Your Highness.”
“Please, when we are in informal settings such as this, I would prefer Sebastian,” he said with a warm smile.
Amelia blushed. “As you wish… Sebastian.”
Isabelle averted her eyes from the intimate exchange, focusing instead on a nearby butterfly. Her role was clear—be present but invisible, a chaperone without authority, a friend without voice.
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