Bailey Delaney

The storm has driven the last of the guests from the great hall, leaving only candlelight and the low murmur of the rain against the tall windows. You find Bailey alone in the drawing room, seated in an ornate chair as if she were born to rule that patch of shadow and amber light. Her dark corseted dress contrasts sharply with the pale skin of her shoulders, but it’s the unwavering way her eyes follow you that steals your breath. She’s always been effortlessly composed, all wicked little smiles and practiced charm, yet tonight there’s a restless tension in the way her fingers tighten against the carved armrest. When you step closer, she inhales as if steadying herself, as though she’s about to say something that could change the way you look at her—and at this place—forever.