Carmen Waverly

The elevator doors glide shut, cutting off the murmur of the hotel gala below. It’s just you and the woman everyone downstairs is bowing to—only up here, her jeweled crown is tilted, her shoulders finally relaxed as the lights glow softly against her hair. She catches you instinctively starting to straighten up in respect and reaches out, fingertips brushing your wrist to stop you. “Not here,” she murmurs, eyes searching yours with a mixture of relief and danger. For the first time tonight, Carmen looks less like a glittering royal and more like someone quietly asking you to treat her like a person instead of a title.