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I don’t tell her that I don’t have a few days to heal, just swallow the pills with a gulp of water. She exits the room and I exhale, allowing my eyes to flutter shut. I’m so tired. The last twenty-four hours was an exhausting whirlwind that I feel bone and muscle deep, and Stella’s frantically positive energy is draining what little I have left.

The scrape of the chair across the marble floors snaps my eyes open.

“I’m going to wash your hair now,” Stella brightly announces.

I give a tight grin. “Kill me.”

She grins back. “Can you sit up?”

Sagging in defeat, I relent, using the edge of the tub to pull myself upright. To my surprise, the experience isn’t the worst. Stella pours water over my hair, humming all the while, and when she lathers it up, her fingers massaging my scalp, my face slackens in ecstasy.

Afraid I might actually drift off, I clear my throat and struggle to keep alert. “How long have you been a handmaiden?”

She hums pensively, rinsing the suds from my hair. “About five hours.”

Blinking the water from my lashes, my brow furrows. “You mean–”

“I was hired to beyourhandmaid, specifically,” she confirms, working her fingers through my hair. “I doubt it was anything like your audition, but I had to compete with a few other girls. Gosh, were you lucky you got me! This one girl had super bad breath, and another kept knocking things over.”

Another dump of water. I sputter, water getting in my mouth. “Isn’t the term handmaiden a little antiquated?”

She leans in, scrubbing my hair with strong, firm fingers, but I hear her muse, “Isn’t everything in Forsyth?” She places a hand on top of my head. “Hold your breath.”

I’m dunked, fully submerged and when I come back up, she’s pouring clean water over my head again. “So is everything like this in East End, or is it just… here?” Walking into the Purple Palace is as close as I’ve ever come to entering an entirely different world.

“I wouldn’t know.” She wrings my hair, reaching over my shoulder to grab a bottle of conditioner. “I get the sense that the position of handmaiden isn’t a very sought-after gig in East End. Most of the candidates came from the other corners.”

“Really.” This is intriguing news, although I suppose it makes sense. The women of East End probably wouldn’t dare lower their ambitions to become a mere servant. “So where are you–”

“South,” is all she says, standing to grab a towel. For someone as obnoxiously chatty as Stella, the ensuing silence is conspicuous, drawing my eyes to hers. Water drips down my forehead, and our eyes meet for a second, but I catch it. A flicker of something before she turns away. “Dry off and I’ll get your clothes ready.” She checks her watch, face paling at what she sees. “You need to be downstairs and ready for breakfast in thirty-minutes, and we still need to get you dressed!”

“I’m not hungry.”

The smile she gives me is tense and too bright. “It’s not a request, Princess.”

There’s a heaviness to her words—a warning.

The Princess shall wear the wardrobe provided to her.

I step out of the tub and dry off, thankful for the privacy when she flits out into what appears to be a closet. I use the opportunity to cautiously tuck a hand between my legs, fingers brushing over my sore entrance. I’m so relieved when they come away without blood that I almost don’t hear her quick feet growing closer.

“Here we are,” she announces, holding a pale pink dress aloft. The shoulders are tiny poofed caps, with a scooped neckline and an empire waist. It looks like something out of an old TV show from the 1950s. “Pretty, right?”

“Those aren’t mine,” I say, as though that’s not already obvious. “I had a bag. It was in the room where we prepared for the ball.”

She gives a quick, understanding nod. “Oh, that. It’s all been returned to your home. This outfit, along with the rest in the closet, have been picked out for you by the King himself.”

Not my Princes. The King.

The distinction about who I’m here to serve is clear, and a chill runs up my spine with the realization. I keep further thoughts to myself as I dress in the prim, pink dress, and have my hair and makeup attended to by Stella. I ask nothing when she hands me a thick pad to put in my underwear—there to absorb any remaining blood. Her chatter becomes background noise, and once I grow aware that she’s not expecting any replies, I begin to find it oddly soothing. Back home, I’m used to the noise of rowdy boys and catty girls, but here in the Palace, everything feels unbearably hushed.

Still, I don’t let myself forget who chose this girl to pamper me. I’m starting to understand now that beneath every luxury lurks something terrible. Stella seems nice, if obnoxiously sprightly. But she’s still a part of this machine.

“How do I look?” I tiredly ask, smoothing the dress down my thighs. It’s flattering, I’ll admit that. It makes my waist look tiny and my tits look perky. It’s a far cry from the leather and lace of the cutsluts, and I’m hit with yet another certainty that I don’t belong in it.

“You look like a Princess,” she says, opening the door and marching right through it. For someone from South Side, she has no reservations about traversing the Palace like it’s home. Given no other choice, I follow her down the wide hall, past closed doors, and walls adorned with oil paintings of past PNZ Royalty. My instinct is to observe my surroundings, but Stella’s stride is too fast and I struggle to keep up, wincing with every step down the staircase.

I’ll have to wait for another opportunity to scope the place out.