Stunning Debut

The doors of Yanbei Hall creaked open, and the chatter died mid-syllable—as though the room had collectively choked on its own pearls. There, haloed by candlelight and the smug aura of perfectly timed theatricality, stood Ella Smith.

Her gown was the night sky distilled into silk: black jade brocade embroidered with silver begonias that glinted like celestial secrets. No ruffles. No diamonds. Just a single jade hairpin spearing her coiled braids—a nod to tradition that somehow screamed rebellion. Cindy, drowning in her own peacock-feather skirts, dropped her wine cup.

"That's Ella Smith?" muttered a baron's daughter, her voice shrill enough to pierce glass. "Did she… sell her old personality?"

Mia snorted into her goblet. "No, she just stopped dressing like a distracted magpie." Her own blush-pink gown suddenly looked garish, and she tugged at her sleeves self-consciously.

Ella glided forward, nodding at gawking nobles like a queen tolerating peasants. Let them stare, she thought, biting back a smirk. Funny how "plain" becomes "mysterious" when worn with enough contempt.

Amy blocked her path, a hurricane of lace and spite. "Black? How original. Are we mourning your reputation?"

"Actually," Ella said sweetly, "it's to hide the bloodstains when I throttle anyone who mentions the words 'Crown Prince' tonight." She paused, tapping her chin. "Do alert James Brown to sprint faster, would you?"

The crowd tittered. Carter Wen, a scholar notorious for writing odes to his own eyebrows, leaned toward his friend. "She's not pretty," he declared. "But there's… something."

"Yes," his friend replied dryly. "A complete lack of interest in your opinion."

As Ella claimed a seat, noblewomen swarmed like anxious sparrows. "Where did you commission that gown?" pressed Zoe, whose own dress appeared to be attacking her with sequins.

"Oh, this?" Ella fluffed her skirts, releasing a hint of sandalwood scent. "It's just Great-Aunt Matilda's curtains. Turns out mothballs add character."

Cindy, rallying, hissed, "You look like a governess!"

"And you look like a chandelier fell on a peacock." Ella sipped her wine. "But who am I to critique art?"

Mia sidled up, lips twitching. "Careful, coz. They might start a religion around you."

"Doubtful. The only miracles here are Aunt Chloe's face staying intact without scaffolding."

Laughter rippled through their corner—a novel sound, unpracticed and genuine. Ella watched Mia's smile soften, recalling the girl who'd once sneered at her "rustic" hems. How quickly allegiances shift when intimidation fails and wit amuses, she mused.

At the dessert table, a cluster of men debated in overly loud tones:

"Bold choice, the black…"

"Unwomanly, if you ask me."

"Exactly why it's brilliant. Like chess—sometimes the queen's power is in standing still."

Ella resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Ah, men. Always mistaking basic competence for sorcery.

When the musicians struck up a waltz, Ella lingered near the balcony, savoring her solitude—until Mia materialized, offering a jasmine tart. "Truce?" she said, crumbs betraying she'd already eaten three. "I've decided being your enemy is bad for my waistline."

Ella regarded her. "You're not afraid they'll demote you from 'radiant blossom' to 'Ella's shadow'?"

"Darling, have you seen your dress?" Mia popped the tart into her mouth. "Everyone's your shadow tonight."

Across the room, Cindy whispered furiously to Amy, their glares sharp enough to slice bone. Ella raised her glass to them, smiling beatifically. How odd, she thought. They aimed to bury me under mockery, but all they did was water a seed.

As the night deepened, the black gown became a Rorschach test—a widow's defiance to some, a rebel's manifesto to others. But to Ella, it was simpler: armor woven from silence and audacity, worn by a woman finally bored of others' scripts.

When she left, the whispers trailed her like eager puppies:

"…so cold, but did you see how Carter Wen…"

"…heard she tutors the Shadow Prince's nephew…"

"…probably poisoned Chloe's…"

Mia, lingering at the gates, called out, "Do return next month! Watching you terrify the aristocracy is my new favorite sport."

Ella tossed her a macaron from her hidden stash. "Stick around, Mia. The scorpion in satin act grows on you."The carriage rumbled away, leaving behind a hall full of unraveling expectations—and one black-clad figure smiling like she'd already won a game no one else knew they were playing.