Chapter 1 Introduction

The high society of Valmont was never short on drama, but today, it was as if the entire aristocracy had collectively lost its dignity.

The Scandal at the Tea Party

Celeste, the radiant blue-haired beauty draped in the finest silk, leaned back in her chair, her eyes glimmering with mischief as she sipped her tea. Across from her, Lady Helène, a well-known gossip, was fuming.

"You dare insult me in front of everyone?" Helène shrieked, slamming her cup down, causing a ripple of gasps around the table.

Celeste merely smiled, tilting her head as if she were utterly unbothered. "Darling, I'm simply stating facts. Your husband did lose his entire fortune gambling, didn't he? No wonder you're desperate for attention now."

The room went deadly silent before chaos erupted. Helène lunged at her, sending a teapot flying. Celeste easily dodged, laughing as the noblewomen screamed.

Perfect. This scandal would be the talk of the week.

---

A Fallen Noble and the Widowed Marquis

Meanwhile, in the quiet corridors of an exclusive auction house, whispers followed the sight of a soft-spoken pink-haired woman clutching the arm of Marquis Victor Ravensdale.

Rosalie, the delicate former noblewoman, looked up at him with innocent eyes. "Marquis, I must admit, I feel safer with you by my side."

Victor smirked but said nothing. He was aware of the rumors already swirling—how Rosalie, the destitute young woman from a fallen household, had supposedly seduced him for wealth.

The auctioneer's hammer struck down. "Sold!"

Victor handed Rosalie a golden brooch, slipping it into her palm with a knowing glance. "Consider it an investment, my dear. I do enjoy watching you spend my money."

Rosalie blushed, pressing a grateful hand to her chest. Let the aristocrats whisper all they want. This was all part of the game.

---

The Third Prince and the wandering woman

The royal court was abuzz with speculation. Prince Julian Ashford had once again shocked the aristocracy—but not with reckless antics.

Instead, he had single-handedly dismantled a proposal for a trade alliance that would have benefited the nobility but crushed the common folk.

"The Prince rejected it publicly?"

"He openly debated with the ministers—and won!"

Nobles whispered in both awe and frustration. Some called him reckless, but others saw it for what it was: a display of intelligence and conviction.

Mira, the green-haired woman standing at the back of the chamber, smiled slightly as she watched Julian leave.

"I see you didn't let them walk all over you," she murmured as he approached.

Julian exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I expected more resistance."

"There will be consequences," Mira said lightly. "But you knew that."

He studied her, his sharp amber eyes catching the approval hidden beneath her teasing tone. "You told me once not to let others decide my path. I took your advice."

She smirked. "Good. It suits you."

And just like that, another scandal was born—this time, one that made the kingdom wonder if their third prince was more than just a political pawn.

---

A Painter's Muse

Far from the city's madness, in a quiet studio bathed in golden afternoon light, Sylva knocked on the door of a small villa.

Cassian Vesper, the brooding painter, opened it, his gaze dark but softening upon seeing her. "You're late."

She smiled, stepping inside. "Art shouldn't be rushed, Cassian."

As he began to mix colors on his palette, Sylva walked over, picking up a brush and twirling it between her fingers. "What are you painting today?"

"You," he murmured absentmindedly.

She chuckled. "And what if I suddenly disappeared one day?"

Cassian looked at her, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Then I'd spend my life trying to capture your memory."

Sylva's heart skipped a beat, but she shook off the feeling. This was just another role, another life she would eventually leave behind.

As the sun dipped lower, she rose from her seat, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "I have to go now."

Cassian's eyes traced her as she walked away, the scent of fresh paint and spring lingering in the air.

The moment she stepped outside, Sylva's green hair shimmered under the setting sun—before shifting into soft pink.

"Time to meet the children," she murmured, straightening her dress.

And just like that, Sylva was gone, and Rosalie was born again.

---

By the time morning came, all of Valmont was talking.

-Celeste's tea party battle.

-Rosalie's scandalous attachment to the Marquis.

-Prince Julian's political defiance.

-The mysterious green-haired muse slipping in and out of a painter's life.

No one knew the truth.

Not yet.

But somewhere, watching it all unfold, a man sat in the shadows, flipping through a stack of news articles.

A detective lit a cigarette with practiced ease, the flame briefly illuminating the cluttered corner of his study. He leaned back in his chair, the scent of ink, old paper, and bergamot tea lingering in the air.

The walls of his apartment were a chaotic tapestry of clippings, maps, and hastily scribbled notes. Headlines and sketches connected by red thread like a spider’s web told a story no one else seemed to see.

The Tea Party Tempest.

The Golden Brooch Gifted at the Auction.

The Prince’s Sudden Shift in Policy.

The Elusive Muse Who Changed Her Hair.

His maroon eyes narrowed on the centerpiece of his wall: a composite sketch made from witness descriptions—every version slightly different. Hair colors varied. Names changed. But the eyes... always the same.

He flipped back through the files. Celeste. Rosalie. Mira. Sylva.

It wasn’t just idle curiosity anymore. Every time those woman appeared, power shifted. Fortunes crumbled. Alliances broke. And yet, no one ever questioned the coincidences.

Not until now.

The young man turned to the window, watching the noble district glitter in the distance like a chandelier ready to crash. Somewhere in those lavish halls, she was weaving another web.

The detective frowned, his maroon eyes scanning the headlines.

So many different women.

So many scandals.

And yet… something didn't add up.

He tapped his finger against the last article, his instincts buzzing.

But he was watching now.

And he never lost a thread.

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Elsewhere in Valmont, in a sun-dappled neighborhood tucked between a flower market and an old bookshop, a woman hummed to herself as she swept the steps of her modest home. Children laughed in the distance, the scent of lavender and fresh bread mingling in the morning air. She waved to her neighbors, content in the quiet rhythm of her days, blissfully unaware that her life—so peaceful, so ordinary—was about to be swept into something far beyond anything she could imagine.