Faded Corsage's Waltz Oath

The vanity's brass lock had rusted shut. Ayla split a nail prying open the third drawer. The faded iris corsage lay on velvet lining, its silver petals rimmed with oxidation stains like waterlogged stationery. When she pinned it to her collar, her clavicle prickled—countless threads seemed to burrow from the clasp into her veins, yanking her arm toward the doorway.

(Fingertips brushed petal creases that felt like Lucas' metallic joint grooves)

Chandelier glare sliced his pallid cheek with prismatic blades. His prosthetic palm at her waist burned half a degree warmer than memory served. As cufflinks grazed the corsage, the first petal snapped loose, cerulean powder puffing from impact.

"Madam's etiquette lessons," his palm damp against her lower back, prosthetic oddly feverish, "include concealing daggers in waltzes."

Ayla ground the petal debris under her heel, powder whining against marble. The second petal shed during a spin, revealing yellowed photo edges—young Odile's stiff smile under flashbulbs, identical corsage pinned beside a stranger's arm.

(Lucas' thumb pressed her nape through lace gloves, heat seeping)

"Respiratory rhythm deviates seven counts." He eyed her stumbling steps. "Matches your first tequila theft at fourteen."

Eric's chuckle seeped past champagne towers, watch chain scraping ice buckets: "Had Young Master devoted half this cardiac focus to family affairs..."

The third petal split, exposing photo verso's char marks. The stranger's watch chain grooves mirrored Eric's cherished heirloom. Lucas' index finger spasmed, scorching her scapula as music halted—Odile's perfume and turpentine descended the spiral stair, all guests pivoting toward their clasped hands.

"Van Neumann daughters," crimson skirts swept crushed petals, "require prosthetic guidance for basic dances?"

Ayla bit through her cheek. Blood seeped into corsage prongs as the final petal burst, fragments assembling a mutilated ball invite: "Odile van Neumann & Guest, Midsummer 1999..." The date's ink bled into scar-like smudges.

(Flickering chandeliers. Lucas pulled her back, prosthetic shielding her bleeding palm)

"Antique compartments aren't worth excavation," his breath bitter with oversteeped chamomile, "even Eric confuses relics and decoys."

When a waiter spilled cherry liqueur, Ayla let it pool over carpet patterns—camouflaging her retrieval of petal shards. Lucas bent to feign assistance, his prosthetic finger now glacial—matching the patina temperature of Odile's beau's pocket watch.