She barely remembered that night six months ago, only that there was wine—too much of it. And lips that tasted like smoke. A fumbling of hands, of clothes, of lies whispered in the darkness. A proper girl—a princess—was meant to remain pure and untouched until her wedding night—her virginity a gift to her husband. That Cleo had made such a mistake with someone like Aron, whom she could barely tolerate while sober, shamed her like nothing else.
