Morgana Adams

[morganaadams]

MASTERLIST

Bridgerton masterlist

Oneshots

• The Queen’s Protégé

• Incoming Soon....

• Incoming Soon.....

• Incoming Soon.....

• Incoming Soon.....

Series

• The Shadow of the Vale

• Incoming Soon.....

• Incoming Soon...

• Incoming Soon.....

Imagines

• Incoming Soon....

• Incoming Soon.....

• Incoming Soon.....

• Incoming Soon.....

Fluffys

• Incoming soon.....

• Incoming soon.....

• Incoming soon.....

• Incoming Soon.....

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON MASTERLIST

Oneshots

• Incoming Soon.....

• Incoming Soon....

• Incoming Soon.....

• Incoming Soon.....

• Incoming Soon.....

Series

• Incoming Soon.....

• Incoming Soon.....

• Incoming Soon...

• Incoming Soon.....

Imagines

• Incoming Soon....

• Incoming Soon.....

• Incoming Soon.....

• Incoming Soon.....

Fluffys

• Incoming soon.....

• Incoming soon.....

• Incoming soon.....

• Incoming Soon.....

[morganaadams]

The Queen’s Protégé

Part 10

Before The House

The morning light barely touched the velvet drapes of Violetta Laurent’s chamber when the summons arrived. It came not with the softness of a whispered courtesy or the gentleness of a familiar handmaiden, but as a sharp knock on the heavy oak door — deliberate, intrusive, official.

Violetta sat on the edge of her chaise, hands trembling as the folded parchment was handed over by a stranger she did not recognize. A footman from Parliament, no less, his eyes cold and devoid of sympathy. The seal was unbroken, the handwriting precise and unfamiliar. It was not a letter of comfort or inquiry. It was an order.

She unfolded the document slowly, as if the words might burn her to the touch.

“Lady Violetta Laurent is hereby summoned to appear before the House of Lords on the matter of her title, legitimacy, and the inheritance of the House of Laurent.”

The room, once a sanctuary filled with the soft scent of lavender and old books, suddenly seemed a cage. The walls pressed inward. The air grew thick and suffocating, heavy with the unspoken weight of what was to come.

Her hands clenched the letter until the paper crumpled beneath her fingertips. The tremors grew, and a bitter laugh escaped her lips — low, bitter, a sound devoid of hope.

“You already stripped me of my title,” she murmured to the empty room. “What else is left to take?”

Her voice echoed back at her like a cruel refrain.

The summons demanded urgency. No time for preparation. No advocate or ally offered. She was to appear alone — a solitary figure summoned to the heart of the British government, to be questioned and judged not by family, not by the Queen, but by men whose names she barely knew, whose eyes would seek to unravel her.

When the Queen called for her before departure, Violetta had half expected mercy. Instead, she found cold detachment.

“You must carry yourself with dignity,” Queen Charlotte intoned, her voice as smooth and hard as polished marble. “Be gracious in defeat.”

Violetta’s eyes flashed, unmasked fury simmering beneath her composed exterior.

“Defeat?” she said quietly. “You already stripped me of my title. What else remains to be taken?”

The Queen’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“Your silence,” she replied.

Those words struck deeper than any sword.

The day of the hearing dawned gray and unforgiving, as if the skies themselves mourned what was to unfold. Violetta dressed in mourning black — her gown a heavy weight, every stitch a reminder of loss. Her reflection showed a woman poised and regal, but her eyes betrayed the storm within.

She arrived at Westminster alone. No carriages waited. No attendants whispered words of comfort. The great doors of Parliament loomed before her, ancient stones cold as the judgment awaiting her inside.

The chamber was a cathedral of power and tradition. The Lords sat elevated, their faces impassive masks behind gilded benches. They held the letter — the leaked family document — and a stack of genealogical papers, as well as transcripts of whispered rumors.

The hearing was neither trial nor debate. It was a procession of accusations disguised as questions.

One by one, they interrogated her:

The midwife who had attended her birth — was she legitimate?

The records of her baptism — where were they?

The lineage of the Laurents — did it truly flow through her veins or was she an impostor?

Each question was a blade, cutting into her identity, her dignity. The room’s cold air pressed down, but Violetta stood her ground.

When the letter was read aloud — its words heavy with insinuation and doubt — the chamber hushed. The document suggested that her birth had been shadowed by scandal, that whispers of illegitimacy had followed her like a curse, that her parents had feared for her place in the world.

She could feel the weight of every eye, every whispered doubt hanging like a noose.

And then, beneath the steady gaze of the Lords, something within her snapped.

She straightened, lifting her chin with a slow, deliberate grace.

“You do not erase a legacy with ink and a title,” she said, her voice steady and cold as steel. “You erase it with cowardice. And I will not bow to that.”

Her words rang out, and for a moment, the chamber was silent.

Outside, the city was ablaze with gossip and speculation. The ton was divided. Some whispered in hushed tones of sympathy — the orphaned princess fighting for her rightful place. Others sneered, calling her a usurper, a fortune-hunting vixen who had spun tragedy into gold.

In her private chambers, Violetta wept. Not for lost titles or fading honors, but for the silence that had wrapped itself around her like a shroud.

The next morning, clad in full mourning dress, she walked alone through Hyde Park. The weight of stares was a physical thing, pressing in on her shoulders, testing her resolve. But she met each gaze with unflinching eyes, no longer shrinking beneath the burden of whispered judgment.

Late that evening, a letter arrived. No seal, no signature. A simple piece of parchment bearing a single message:

“If they bring you before them once more, do not go alone. You have allies. You simply do not know their names yet.”

Violetta stared at the words, burning the paper slowly in the flickering candlelight. The smoke curled upward like a silent vow.

“Let them come,”

[morganaadams]

The Queen’s Protégé

PART 9

The Crown’s Cage

The morning light that filtered weakly through the heavy velvet drapes did nothing to brighten the cold stone walls of Lady Violetta Laurent’s chambers. The room, once a sanctuary, now felt more like a prison cell. The gilded frames of portraits lining the walls—the stoic faces of ancestors long dead—seemed to watch her with silent judgment, their eyes accusing her of crimes she had yet to commit, or perhaps crimes she was powerless to avoid.

Violetta stood motionless before the towering mirror, her reflection fragmented in the polished glass. Dark waves of hair framed a pale face carved sharp with grief and determination. Her eyes, deep and unreadable, betrayed none of the storm raging within. The gown laid out on the chaise longue was a masterpiece of Parisian craftsmanship, spun from silk in the deep shade of twilight amethyst, embroidered with seed pearls that caught the meager light like frozen dewdrops. It was beautiful—too beautiful for a prison.

Her slender hands moved to the gown, tracing the delicate embroidery as if it were a map to freedom she could never reach. As she began the slow, deliberate ritual of dressing, the memories came flooding unbidden—snippets of a childhood spent under the suffocating gaze of the crown, fragments that cut sharper than any blade.

She remembered the day when, as a small girl, she had reached out with innocent hope toward the other children in the gardens of the palace. Their laughter had been a song she longed to join, but the Queen’s sharp voice had called her back. “Violetta, you must learn your place,” the Queen had said, her tone both gentle and absolute. “The crown requires sacrifice. It is not a game.”

The memory of that moment was a wound that time had never healed. She had felt herself shrink beneath those words, an invisible cage snapping shut around her fragile spirit.

Years later, the Queen’s protection had become a mantle she could neither cast off nor fully embrace. Whispered warnings in the corridors, veiled barbs disguised as guidance, the endless parade of court duties that left no room for personal desire or rebellion. The price of her title was the loss of self.

The weight of it pressed down like the tight corset she fastened, each button a reminder of the constraints imposed upon her.

Her breath was steady, but her heart thundered beneath the calm facade. Today, she would confront the woman who had claimed to be her protector, but who had instead been the architect of her captivity.

The corridor outside the Queen’s chamber was long and silent, the polished marble floor reflecting the faint glow of morning light. Each step was measured, her heels clicking softly like a metronome marking the beat of her resolve. The heavy door loomed ahead, a barrier between her and the reckoning she had awaited for so long.

She knocked, her knuckles tapping a quiet rhythm against the wood.

“Enter,” came the imperious voice.

Inside, Queen Charlotte sat in regal stillness, the embodiment of unyielding authority. Her pale eyes lifted to meet Violetta’s, sharp and assessing, as though weighing the very essence of the girl she had molded.

“Lady Violetta,” the Queen began, voice calm but laced with steel. “Do you understand the position you occupy in this court? The expectations it entails?”

Violetta met her gaze without flinching. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she replied, voice low but steady.

The Queen’s eyes narrowed slightly. “There are rumors circulating—whispers that threaten not only your reputation but the very stability of the crown.”

The words landed like stones, cold and heavy.

Violetta felt the anger rise beneath her skin but held it in check, sharpening it into a blade of resolve.

“You gave me a title,” she said quietly, “but you took everything else.”

The Queen’s face remained an unreadable mask, but a flicker of something passed through her eyes—perhaps surprise, or something darker.

“You have kept me a prisoner,” Violetta continued, voice rising just enough to carry the weight of years spent in silence. “Hidden behind silk and ceremony. A symbol to be displayed, a tool to be wielded. I am not your pawn.”

The room seemed to contract with the tension of her words.

The Queen’s reply was measured, a chilling reminder of the balance of power. “The crown endures because it demands loyalty and obedience. Your place here is a privilege granted by sacrifice.”

A bitter laugh escaped Violetta’s lips, sharp and disbelieving. “An instrument that bleeds in silence,” she whispered, her fists clenching at her sides until her nails bit into her palms.

The Queen rose, regal and resolute. “Remember this, Lady Violetta: disobedience will carry a steep price.”

Without another word, Violetta bowed, the weight of those final words trailing her as she left the chamber.

Back in the solitude of her own rooms, the opulence that surrounded her—the velvet drapes, the gilded mirrors, the heavy tapestries—felt like chains forged of gold. She paced the length of the chamber, each step a beat in the drum of her rising fury and despair.

Memories surged—lost childhoods, stolen moments of freedom, the endless sacrifices demanded in the name of duty. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes but she would not let them fall. Weakness was a luxury she could no longer afford.

Her breath came in shallow gasps, her chest tight as if squeezed by invisible hands. The girl who had once dreamed of a life beyond these walls was gone, buried beneath the weight of expectations and betrayals.

And yet, beneath the despair, a fire ignited—a vow forged in pain and defiance.

She would reclaim herself.

Not as a prize to be paraded.

Not as a pawn in a game of crowns.

But as a woman carved from sorrow and fire, determined to carve her own path through the darkness.

The room was silent save for the steady beat of her heart, echoing the fierce promise that the days of submission were over. But for now—

She was no one….

[morganaadams]

The Queen’s Protégé

PART 8

The Stillness Between Movements

The opera house had been candlelit to its grandest edge. Crystal sconces caught the flicker of flame and threw it in fragments across painted ceilings, down gilded arches, over polished marble. Every eye gleamed, every fan fluttered. The ton arrived as if for a coronation, or a funeral. It made little difference. Either way, it was spectacle.

And seated above them all, wrapped in sapphire silk and scandal, sat the girl without a name.

Violetta had chosen the Laurent box not for its view—though it was excellent—but for its height. The box perched above the stalls, high enough for her to look down upon them all. She sat in the centre chair. The one once reserved for her father.

She did not speak to her lady’s maid. She did not glance at the boxes across or below. But she felt them watching. Oh, how they watched.

The opera tonight was Don Giovanni. Fitting, really. A story of seduction, destruction, and damnation. The man sinned and was dragged to Hell. The women were simply made to watch.

Her gown was a mirror of her mother’s from years ago—same exact shade of Laurent blue, same embroidery down the sleeve. That was deliberate, too. The seamstress had offered modern touches. Violetta refused them. If she were to be extinguished, she would do it clothed in her lineage.

She heard the whispers before the overture even began.

“She’s wearing her mother’s mourning dress, isn’t she?”

“No husband. No name. But look—still the best box in the house.”

“She doesn’t blink. I don’t believe she’s real.”

Her spine did not falter, but her jaw did. Just slightly.

The music began.

By the end of the first act, she could no longer hear the baritone. The stage blurred. Her fan was still in her lap, untouched.

There was a tightness under her ribs. Like a seam pulled too taut. She could feel it cracking.

She stood.

No one moved.

She descended from the box like a shadow wrapped in silk. Her maid stumbled after her. Violetta did not wait.

She walked through the corridor behind the velvet curtain and slipped, without hesitation, through a door no one remembered.

It was a storage room once. Or perhaps a prop room. Dust hung in long silver strings from the ceiling. The velvet curtains draped along the walls were years out of fashion—gold, thick, weighted, like stage coffins. A broken candelabrum stood half-melted near the wall.

Here, in the muffled dark, she let herself breathe.

Not cry.

Just breathe.

She moved toward the far wall and pressed one hand against it. Her glove creaked faintly with the pressure. She did not remove it. She simply leaned forward, the way one might lean into a door they hoped would open.

She did not hear him arrive.

But she felt him.

That flicker, that shift in air—like a storm creeping beneath a windowpane. She turned, slowly, expecting a servant. Or perhaps Cressida come to gloat.

It was Bridgerton.

Colin, again.

She exhaled sharply.

“You,” she said. Not a greeting. A diagnosis.

“I saw you leave,” he replied.

“You and half the theatre.”

“I followed.”

“Of course you did.”

They stood ten feet apart. The opera hummed faintly beyond the walls, muted by drapery. The smell of wax and old perfume lingered like a ghost.

Violetta did not ask why he was there. She did not offer him a seat.

Colin spoke first. “They are cruel. What they say. About you.”

“I’m aware,” she said, voice flat.

“You shouldn’t have come alone.”

She turned her head slowly, as if inspecting a mark on the wall behind him.

“If I’m to be extinguished, Lord Bridgerton, let me burn on my own terms.”

“That’s poetic.”

“That’s honest.”

She walked to a table in the corner, gloved fingers trailing along the edge. Her touch left a clean line in the dust.

He watched her. Not like a hawk. Not like a suitor. Like a man who had stumbled into a room and found something beautiful he did not understand, and could not touch.

She spoke again, quieter this time. “Do you think yourself kind, for following me here?”

“I don’t know what I think.”

“You don’t strike me as a man prone to confusion.”

“I’m not.”

She looked at him now, properly. The light was dim. It softened him.

“Then why did you follow me?”

He didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

“I have been called many things in the past weeks,” she said. “A fraud. A bastard. An illusion. What would you like to add to the list?”

“I came because I wanted to see you,” he said plainly. “Not the version on display. You.”

A silence, sharp and fragile, like a thin glass flute.

Violetta stared at him. Her eyes, normally so composed, flickered. Just once.

“You’re a fool,” she said.

“Most likely.”

“I will never belong here again.”

“Perhaps,” he replied. “But neither do I.”

She blinked.

And there it was.

Recognition.

Not kinship. Not sympathy. But something quieter. The stillness between movements.

She moved to pass him. Her sleeve brushed his. It was a nothing touch. Barely contact. But they both froze.

He turned his head slightly, as if to speak—but said nothing.

And she did not look back.

Outside, the second act was beginning. The chandeliers burned brighter than before.

But behind that door, in the forgotten room beneath the opera, something had cracked open.

Not enough to name.

But enough to remember.

[morganaadams]

The Queen’s Protégé

PART 7

The Weight of Shadows

The late afternoon sun filtered weakly through the high windows of Violetta’s drawing room, casting long, pale rectangles on the floor that seemed to stretch into endless grayness. The room itself was furnished with the muted elegance befitting a princess without a house: heavy velvet curtains that hung like mourning shrouds, an expanse of polished mahogany that gleamed coldly, and a solitary chaise where Violetta sat, hands folded, expression unreadable.

She had not moved from this seat for what felt like hours, the letter from the Queen’s herald still pressed against the side table. It had been a week since the royal decree had declared the House of Laurent extinct, and the poison of rumors still festered in every whispered corner of the ton. But it was not these alone that weighed on her—it was the knowledge that she had become a solitary figure painted with suspicion, a portrait stripped of identity and trust.

The sound of footsteps echoed lightly in the hall. Not the usual timid knocks of servants or the bright chatter of ladies’ maids, but measured, deliberate steps—the kind that carried authority without need for ceremony. Violetta’s heart did not leap; instead, it stilled, steady and expectant.

Lady Danbury entered without announcement. Her presence was a force neither warm nor cruel, but a tangible pressure that settled over the room like a thick fog.

“Lady Violetta,” she said, voice even, measured, “I trust I find you well.”

Violetta rose, smoothing the folds of her gown, and offered a curt nod. “I have been better.”

Lady Danbury’s eyes, sharp as ever, caught the faint tremor of her lip, the tightness in her posture. She stepped closer, hands folded beneath the folds of her dark dress. “That is hardly a surprise.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the quiet between them deeper than any conversation could pierce.

“I am here for no idle visit,” Lady Danbury continued at last. “The court has been merciless. You know this.”

Violetta’s fingers clenched into her palms. “They do not know me.”

“Precisely.” Lady Danbury’s gaze did not waver. “And because they do not, they fear you. They fear what you represent, a shadow of power unclaimed, a future unwritten.”

The words hung heavily. Violetta swallowed. “I have no power left.”

Danbury’s mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile. “On the contrary. You have only begun to wield it. But be warned: power is not given freely. It must be taken, defended, and often, it must be paid for in solitude.”

Violetta lowered her eyes, the weight of that solitude pressing into her chest like a stone.

“The court will seek your weakness,” Lady Danbury went on. “They will probe your past, your lineage, your every misstep. They will do so not because they doubt your grace, but because they hope to find fault. If you give them an inch, they will take a mile. They will use your silence as a weapon against you, twisting it into proof of guilt or deceit.”

Violetta’s jaw tightened. “I will not give them the satisfaction.”

“Good.” Lady Danbury’s voice softened, though no less serious. “But you must learn to arm yourself—not with sword or gun, but with strategy, patience, and a coldness you may not yet possess. The game has changed, and you must change with it. Or you will be consumed.”

For a moment, Violetta allowed herself to meet Lady Danbury’s gaze. “And if I fail?”

“Failure,” the older woman said quietly, “will be your erasure. Not only from society but from history itself.”

She turned to leave, then paused. “You are not alone, though it may often feel so. There are those who watch, who wait, and who will strike when the time is right. But until then—”

Lady Danbury’s gaze sharpened. “Until then, survive. Thrive if you can. And when the season begins, be ready.”

The chill of Lady Danbury’s words lingered long after she had left. Violetta sank back into her chaise, the faint clatter of distant carriages drifting up from the street below. The season was coming—the season where masks would be worn with more weight than ever before, and every smile would hide a blade.

In the days that followed, the household stirred with urgent purpose. The coming ball was not merely an event but a crucible. Violetta’s wardrobe was scrutinized, every detail weighed by eyes unseen but deeply felt. The seamstress fretted over the hem of her gown, Lady Brindle fussed over her gloves, and even the servants whispered as they moved through the halls, their voices low and watchful.

The rumors, far from abating, had grown sharper. Invitations were scrutinized; some were conspicuously delayed, others suddenly rescinded. Courtiers whispered in salons, where laughter rang brittle and false.

Violetta moved through it all with the practiced grace of a dancer performing a delicate, deadly ballet. The gown she would wear was a deliberate choice: deep sapphire blue, rich as midnight skies, embroidered with threads of silver to catch the light but never to outshine. The jewels she wore were understated yet exquisite—a necklace of moonstone drops, earrings of fine aquamarine, heirlooms of the Laurent line that now carried more weight than any title.

Each morning, Colin Bridgerton arrived unannounced, always with a purpose thinly veiled by casual remarks. He watched her prepare, his eyes shadowed with something neither anger nor admiration could fully capture.

“Do you truly believe they will let you shine?” he asked one afternoon, as she fastened the last clasp of her gown.

Violetta met his gaze in the mirror, expression unreadable. “They will let me do whatever I am allowed to do. That is all any of us ever have.”

Colin shook his head, frustration tight in his chest. “You are more than what they will allow.”

She smiled, but it was cold. “Perhaps. But I have learned that power wielded without caution is power lost.”

The evening of the ball arrived with the weight of expectation pressing down on every breath. The grand ballroom of Lady Danbury’s estate gleamed under crystal chandeliers, the polished floor reflecting a thousand twinkling lights. The air was thick with perfume and whispered alliances.

Violetta entered as the room’s quiet axis, her sapphire gown trailing like liquid night, her eyes steady and alert. Yet beneath the surface, a storm churned—of doubt, of determination, and the haunting knowledge that every move she made was observed, dissected.

The whispers followed her like shadows. Among them, the faintest trace of a new rumor—one darker than any before.

A note slipped into her gloved hand as she navigated the crowd, the script delicate and familiar:

“Look to the past. The truth lies buried deeper than the stone.”

Days later, in the solitude of her chamber, Violetta sat before the flickering candlelight, the note clenched tightly in her hand. The message gnawed at her, a relentless echo.

Her fingers traced the edges of an old leather-bound journal—a relic she had inherited from her mother’s belongings, kept locked away in a drawer of her writing desk. Until now, she had avoided its pages, afraid of the memories it might awaken.

With trembling resolve, she opened the journal. The scent of aged paper and lavender rose between the covers. The script was delicate, the handwriting unmistakably her mother’s.

Page after page revealed the life of a woman torn between duty and desire, love and despair. Among the careful entries, a single passage stood out—a letter never sent, hidden between the pages, folded with meticulous care.

It spoke of secrets—of alliances forged in shadows, of debts owed and betrayals endured. Most haunting was the mention of a meeting, months before the tragedy, between her father and a stranger whose name was crossed out in ink.

Violetta’s breath hitched.

The margins held a cryptic note, written in a hand she did not recognize:

“The truth lies where blood and power collide. Seek the forgotten.”

For hours, she read and reread, the lines weaving a tapestry of deceit that threatened to unravel everything she thought she knew. The massacre, the rumors, even the Queen’s cold decree—it all suddenly felt less like fate and more like a calculated severance.

And beneath it all, the question that refused to be silenced:

Who truly holds the strings?

[morganaadams]

The Queen’s Protégé

PART 6

The Shape of Silence

It began, as most cruelties do, not with a sword but with a whisper.

By the time Violetta reemerged into society—weeks after the ball, after the frost between herself and the Queen, after Colin’s eyes turned cold—there was already something in the air. A scent. A movement behind fans. The feeling of being observed not with curiosity, but with calculation. Measured. Weighed. Doubted.

The Duchess of Maybourne called her “darling girl” five times in as many minutes. Lady Cowper curtsied too deeply. And at tea with the Featherington girls, Prudence leaned forward and asked, with the solemnity of a bishop:

“Who did you say your mother was again? Was she not… from the continent?”

That night, Whistledown published the line that gutted everything:

“Not all princesses are born of kings.”

No name. No context. But everyone knew.

They always knew.

Within two days, three variations of the rumor bloomed like mold on fruit. That Violetta was the natural daughter of a chambermaid. That she was Queen Charlotte’s illegitimate child, hidden and placed with the Laurents to preserve propriety. That Lord Laurent had fathered her with a servant, and the lady of the house raised the child in bitterness. One girl at a dressmaker’s claimed she had “proof” — that Violetta’s christening record had been sealed and never unsealed.

Violetta said nothing. She answered no letters, sent no rebuttals. Her silence became her accuser.

And it was that silence—carefully cultivated, terrifyingly heavy—that turned every small social engagement into a trial. The gazes lasted too long. The men grew too formal. The ladies became too sweet, like meat left too long in wine.

Even the Queen said nothing.

No correction. No public gesture. No word from the Palace.

Until the decree arrived.

It was brought by a footman in the navy and gold of the Crown’s heraldry, his eyes locked to the ground as he handed the letter to Lady Violetta Laurent of No Official Residence.

The paper was thick. Heavy enough to bury a body. The seal red. Not wax — lacquered.

She did not open it until she was alone. Not in her sitting room, not at her desk. She took it to the garden behind the townhouse, the place where the dead roses had bloomed last spring.

She sat on the stone bench and broke the seal with the edge of her thumbnail.

It read:

By command of Her Majesty the Queen, the Peerage recognizes the House of Laurent as concluded.

Its honors, responsibilities, and heraldic identity are hereby relinquished.

Lady Violetta Laurent, as a ward of the Crown, shall retain her current standing under royal protection. No further claims may be made to the Laurent name, bloodline, or properties.

— Lord Pemberton, Keeper of Heraldic Records

She read it twice.

The first time, as a person. The second, as a ghost.

Then she folded the letter and tucked it into the pocket of her gown. She did not cry. She did not faint. She simply sat very still, and let the wind take pieces of her hair across her mouth.

That evening, she tried to visit the Laurent family vault.

She arrived in black gloves and a black veil, not mourning anything in particular—only that which was now gone.

But when she stepped from the carriage and approached the cemetery’s gates, she found them shut. The gatekeeper bowed low and did not meet her eyes.

“There’s been… instruction, Your Highness,” he said softly.

“What instruction?” Her voice was gentle. Too gentle.

“The family vault is no longer registered. Her Majesty’s decree struck the name from the records. It is as if—” He stopped himself. “I was told… no visitors.”

“No visitors,” she repeated. “To a tomb.”

He gave a nod that was not an answer.

She stared at the gate for a long time. Beyond it, the crypt where her father was buried, where her mother’s locket had been laid beside him, where a space had always been left—just one—for her.

She pressed her gloved hand against the cold iron, feeling the weight of a name vanished, a legacy undone—and in the silence that swallowed her, she breathed one word, fragile yet fierce: “Erased.”

She turned without another word.

[morganaadams]

The Queen’s Protégé

PART 5

Beneath The Crown…

The heavy velvet curtains hung like silent sentinels, swallowing the light from the tall windows of Queen Charlotte’s chambers. The air was cool, scented faintly of lavender and old parchment, an atmosphere as solemn as a tomb. Violetta stood stiffly just inside the door, her palms clammy, heart thrumming a brittle rhythm against her ribs. She had been summoned, but the invitation was void of warmth—no delicate phrasing, no veiled consolation. The queen wanted her here, on her terms.

Queen Charlotte sat beneath the gilded canopy of her throne-like chair, her posture regal yet weary. Her dark eyes, sharp as obsidian, fixed on Violetta with a measured calm that made the girl’s fragile confidence waver. For a moment, there was silence. The kind that stretched thin and made the weight of every breath feel like a confession.

“My dear,” the queen said, voice low, carrying the weight of duty and something harder to place—something like sorrow restrained behind layers of discipline. “The ton is unforgiving. The ball has set tongues aflame and sharpened knives. You must understand: you are not merely a young lady of fortune and title. You are a symbol. A beacon, and a target.”

Violetta’s throat tightened, but she lifted her chin. “I am prepared to bear it.”

Charlotte’s eyes softened momentarily, a flicker of the woman beneath the crown breaking through. “Prepared is a luxury you do not have. You will bear it, yes. But the cost will be more than you imagine. I have kept you close to shield you—”

“To cage me,” Violetta interrupted, voice barely a whisper.

The queen did not answer immediately. When she did, it was with the quiet finality of a verdict. “Perhaps.”

The room seemed colder then, the distance between them stretching like a chasm. Violetta stared at the intricate patterns on the Persian rug beneath her feet, feeling the silence between them fill with unspoken truths.

“I have seen what power does to those who wield it unprepared,” Charlotte continued, voice brittle now. “Your family’s legacy is a storm you cannot escape. There are those who would see you broken. The court is no friend.”

Violetta swallowed the lump in her throat, the bitterness rising like bile. “I do not fear them.”

“No,” the queen said softly, “but you will learn fear’s shape soon enough.”

There was a pause, fragile and tense.

“Why did you take me in?” Violetta asked finally, voice raw with the weight of years.

Charlotte’s gaze faltered, then settled like stone. “Because I saw in you something I recognized in myself—something abandoned and needing a home. You remind me of a time long past, a girl who lost everything and learned to endure. But love… love is not what I offer you. Survival is.”

The words landed with the coldness of a verdict, but beneath them, Violetta felt a flicker—something fierce, something like a flickering ember in a pile of ash.

Charlotte rose, her figure imposing and unyielding. “Remember this, Violetta. Grace is a weapon. Silence, your shield. And loyalty—well, loyalty is a currency more valuable than gold. You will pay it, but you will never own it.”

With that, the queen turned away, leaving Violetta alone with the shadows.

⸻

The chamber door clicked shut behind her, leaving the girl swallowed by silence so thick it pressed against her skin.

She sank to the edge of a marble chaise, the cool stone biting through the thin silk of her gown. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers curling and uncurling like restless birds. The words of the queen echoed relentlessly—the chilling reminder that she was both shielded and caged, protected and prey.

She closed her eyes, and the world fell away.

She saw the twisted wreckage of the carriage, the screams that shattered her childhood, the faces of those lost forever. The scent of burning wood and crushed flowers. The sharp sting of loneliness that had never left her since.

Her breath hitched painfully, shallow and broken.

They do not want you.

You are a beautiful lie in a world that craves truth.

You are the ghost in every whispered curse, the shadow in every jealous glance.

The girl who had once believed in fairy tales and kindness now saw only the razor’s edge beneath the velvet glove of courtly life.

Her reflection shimmered in the dark glass of the window—pale, haunted eyes staring back at her. A crown perched awkwardly atop tangled hair, a delicate princess carved from sorrow and survival.

Her fingers brushed the cold metal of a small, silver locket resting against her chest—the last gift from her mother, hidden beneath layers of lace.

It was the only piece of her past she could touch without the pain overwhelming her.

A single tear traced a line down her cheek, swift and silent.

She wiped it away with the back of her hand, setting her jaw.

“I will cannot break,” she whispered, voice cracking yet resolute.

“No matter the cost.”

[morganaadams]

The Queen’s Protégé

PART 4

She Who Remains

She could not breathe.

Not in the way one forgets, or panics, or gulps too much air. No. This was deeper. Like her lungs had sealed shut from within. As though her body had finally learned what her heart had known all along—

She did not belong here.

The marble was cold beneath her knees, sharp through the silk, and she let herself kneel. Not gracefully. Not like a princess.

Like a thing undone.

Her gloved hands shook. Her spine trembled. The pins in her hair had come loose, and one was cutting into the base of her skull, but she didn’t reach for it. She didn’t move at all.

The wind did not whisper.

The night did not comfort her.

And when the door behind her creaked open, she did not turn.

She couldn’t bear to be seen.

Not like this.

Not after that voice—male, amused, close enough to wound—had said it:

“I wonder what a royal endorsement tastes like in bed.”

She had barely made it through the last bars of the waltz before the room blurred, before the air turned sour and thick, before the pounding in her ears drowned everything out but those words. Her vision had tunneled. Her breath had gone shallow. She had fled, like a coward. Like a girl.

Like prey.

Footsteps approached—too soft for a guard, too confident for a servant. But she still did not turn.

“Go away,” she whispered.

It wasn’t a command. It was a plea.

But the footsteps didn’t stop.

They slowed, then halted just behind her, the silence pressing against her back like a hand.

“I said go.”

Another beat. Then—

“I heard what they said.”

His voice was low. Steady. English, yes, but not court-trained. She hated that she noticed that. Hated even more that his tone was not cruel.

“Did you come to add your own?” she asked, bitter and soft, not rising.

“No.”

“You’re late, then.”

Silence again.

She hated this—the not-knowing, the vulnerability of it. The helpless angle of her body, curled like a child at the edge of the world.

“Who are you?” she asked without turning.

“Colin Bridgerton.”

That name again. Familiar, forgettable, one of the many who loitered near the Queen but never dared too close. She remembered vaguely—a brother, a writer, a ghost at his own family’s table.

“And what do you want?”

“Nothing.”

She laughed. Not a real laugh. A broken sound, bitter and sharp.

“No one in this palace wants nothing.”

“I didn’t come from the palace.”

“You came from the ballroom.”

“Yes.”

“So you heard them. The way they spoke of me. The way they—”

Her voice caught. She swallowed.

“I heard.”

“And still you followed?”

“I didn’t follow. I waited. Then I came.”

That stopped her.

The difference was meaningless. And yet not.

She turned slightly, enough to see him now. The terrace lantern caught the side of his face—fine-featured, unreadable, not handsome in the way court loved, but… watchful. Like someone who had learned not to speak unless the words mattered.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” she said.

“I know.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why haven’t you left?”

“Because you look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.”

She blinked.

And hated him for being right.

She turned back toward the railing, dragging herself up with the last dregs of dignity, though her legs protested. Her corset dug into her hips. Her chest was too tight. Her mouth too dry.

“Do you think it’s true?” she asked suddenly.

He didn’t answer.

“That I earned everything I have by lying on my back. That the Queen took me in because she—because I—”

She choked on the rest.

“Do you think I killed them?” she said instead, the words dropping like lead.

Her voice was thin. Hollow.

“My father. My mother. My sisters. Alexandre. The footmen. Even the dogs. All of them. In pieces. Do you think I orchestrated that? Do you think I set it in motion just so I could wear this cursed title and stand in rooms full of people who look at me like I’m already rotting?”

Her breath came faster. Her ribs wouldn’t expand. Her hands gripped the stone railing so hard her knuckles went white.

“Do you?”

“No.”

He said it without emphasis. No performance. No pity.

Just the truth.

She turned toward him again. This time fully.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve seen what grief looks like when it has no place to go.”

Her throat tightened. Her vision blurred again.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I know.”

“You need to sit.”

“No.”

But her body betrayed her again. Her legs buckled, and this time when she hit the marble, it was not a choice.

Colin moved, not quickly, but with purpose. He didn’t touch her. Just knelt a few feet away, keeping distance like reverence.

“Breathe,” he said.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I’m not—” her voice broke, “I’m not weak.”

“I never said you were.”

“I won’t cry.”

“I don’t care if you do.”

She covered her face with one hand, teeth clenched so hard her jaw throbbed.

“They hate me,” she whispered. “All of them. Every single one. I walk into a room and it empties, even as they pretend to bow. They want me to fail. They want to see me bleed.”

She shook her head slowly, as if to dislodge the thought.

“But I won’t give them that. I won’t.”

“You already have,” he said, voice low.

She froze.

Then looked up. A single, slow movement.

“What did you say?”

“You already bleed,” he said again. “Every day. You just do it quietly.”

She stared at him.

Something inside her twisted. Not pain. Not shame.

Recognition.

The silence stretched between them like thread.

Then finally, she whispered, “I hate you.”

“I know.”

“I hate your face. I hate your voice.”

“That’s alright.”

“I hate that you saw me like this.”

He nodded. “So do I.”

Her chest rose. Fell.

“You won’t tell anyone?” she asked, hating the pleading note.

“No.”

“Not even your brothers?”

“Especially not them.”

“And not the Queen?”

His gaze sharpened slightly. “No.”

A pause.

“I should hate you more for seeing me like this.”

“Then do.”

Another silence. But it was different now. Not easier. Just… honest.

When she finally stood again, her limbs trembling but her chin lifted, he did not reach to help her.

She was grateful for that.

She adjusted her bodice. Brushed invisible dust from her skirt. Tucked a loose curl behind her ear with fingers that still shook.

And when she turned to go, she paused at the door.

“Colin Bridgerton,” she said, not looking at him. “If you ever speak of this—if you ever even look at me like you remember it—I will destroy you.”

He didn’t flinch.

“You already have.”

And she left.

Alone.

As always.

[morganaadams]

The Queen’s Protégé Oneshots

ONESHOTS

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

PART 4

PART 5

PART 6

PART 7

PART 8

PART 9

PART 10

MORE COMING SOON….

[morganaadams]

The Queen’s Protégé

PART 3

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

April 8th, 1815

The Curious Case of Lady Violetta Laurent: A Princess Royal or a Royal Pawn?

Ah, dear readers, with each passing season, the ton becomes more and more enamored with spectacle. And what better spectacle could there be than the curious case of Lady Violetta Laurent, a young lady whose story is as mysterious as it is intriguing?

Lady Violetta, the Queen’s protégée, is certainly a lady of remarkable poise, beauty, and intellect. But is there more to her than meets the eye?

A royal title granted by Queen Charlotte herself and a fortune inherited from the tragic deaths of her entire family would surely raise questions, wouldn’t it?

Indeed, it is hard to ignore the peculiar nature of Violetta’s rise to prominence. A tragic accident claimed the lives of her parents and their entire family, leaving her as the sole survivor of the Laurent clan.

How convenient, one might think, that a young orphan now stands poised to inherit the Laurent fortune—vast estates stretching across England, Europe, and even Mayfair itself.

The very land that many in society only dream of owning now belongs to her, a girl who has risen from tragedy to wealth with such startling speed that many are beginning to ask: Is her fortune truly the result of fate, or is there more at play?

Rumors abound that Violetta’s impeccable survival might not have been entirely an act of chance. And while there are those who whisper of darker possibilities—of a well-timed “accident” that allowed her to inherit all—such things remain unspoken in polite society. But we all know that the truth often lies hidden beneath the surface, don’t we, dear readers?

Then there is her brother, Alexandre Laurent. Ah, the missing heir who should have claimed the fortune. Where is he? Vanishing for years to attend Eton, and now, far removed from the spotlight, Alexandre remains curiously absent from public life.

Was his departure an escape from the rising suspicions about his sister’s sudden inheritance? Or perhaps, he too realizes the price of power and prefers to remain in the shadows, away from the tangled web of society’s prying eyes. But that, of course, is mere speculation.

And let us not forget the most significant figure in Lady Violetta’s life—Queen Charlotte herself. One cannot help but wonder about the nature of their bond. The Queen, whose own history of unyielding devotion to her protégés is well known, has taken Violetta under her wing in an extraordinary fashion.

From the moment Violetta became an orphan, Queen Charlotte has offered not only the royal title of Princess Royal but also the nurturing care of a mother figure. One cannot help but wonder, though, if there is more to this attachment than mere affection for a grieving orphan.

Whispers, of course, are inevitable. Some claim that the Queen’s relationship with Violetta goes beyond typical royal patronage, with others suggesting that the Queen may be hiding a deeper secret regarding the girl.

Could it be that Violetta is more than just the Queen’s prized protégée? Perhaps she is being groomed for something greater, with the Queen using her influence to ensure her place at the center of court life—and the center of society’s most powerful circles.

But what of the Queen’s inexplicable favoritism? Why, when so many other worthy young ladies of noble birth are vying for attention, does Violetta seem to have claimed the Queen’s affections entirely? Perhaps there are strings being pulled behind closed doors—strings tied to a royal secret, or to an ambition far beyond what anyone dares to say aloud.

As if Violetta’s rise were not already enough to stir the gossip mills, one need only look to the upcoming Lady Danbury’s ball to witness the latest chapter in her dramatic ascent.

The event promises to be the talk of the season, and with it, the perfect opportunity for Lady Violetta to further cement her place at the very heart of high society.

But, dear readers, while the ball promises elegance, grandeur, and dance, it also promises to lay bare the true test of Lady Violetta’s character. Will she shine in the spotlight, proving her worthiness of her royal title? Or will she falter, unable to silence the ever-growing whispers about her family’s fortune, her brother’s absence, and the curious favor of the Queen that seems so disproportionate to the lady’s own accomplishments?

It would seem that, once again, the cards are stacked against Lady Violetta. For at Lady Danbury’s ball, where nothing is sacred and everything is subject to scrutiny, there is nowhere left to hide.

Will Lady Violetta rise to the occasion?

Or will the whispers of the ton finally catch up with her, unraveling the mystery of her rapid ascension?

Yours, as ever,

with the sharpest observations,

Lady Whistledown

⸻

Lady Danbury’s ballroom glittered like a freshly cut gem—sharp, blinding, and cold to the touch.

The start of the season was always a performance, but tonight was more than a debut. It was a battlefield. And Violetta Laurent, crowned by tragedy and sculpted by power, was its reluctant queen.

She stepped through the gilded threshold, chin high, the crowd parting like the Red Sea before her. Her presence moved through the room like a ripple, soft but unstoppable.

Her gown—Parisian silk in a shade of twilight amethyst—clung to her like dusk. Seed pearls shimmered across her bodice like frost, while a single violet comb glittered in her hair: a private crown, worn not by decree, but by unspoken rule. At her ears, Laurent heirloom diamonds winked like ice.

She did not smile.

She didn’t need to.

“The Queen’s girl,” someone murmured.

“The protégée.”

“She hasn’t even curtsied and she’s already the diamond.”

Violetta moved like moonlight on still water, trailed by Lady Brindle, whose anxious expression made it clear that she’d already lost control of the evening. Violetta barely noticed. She had been trained to glide, not walk. To devastate, not delight.

“You are a Laurent,” her grandmother had once said, brushing Violetta’s hair with hands cool and imperious. “And Laurents are not seen. We are beheld.”

Tonight, she was beheld.

She greeted the Duchess of Rutland with a nod, accepted a flute of champagne without faltering, and moved with deliberate grace toward the one woman in the room who did not look the least bit impressed: Lady Danbury.

“Miss Laurent,” Lady Danbury said, arching one brow above her fan. “We are honored.”

“The honor is mine,” Violetta replied, dipping into a flawless curtsy. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“You’re kind to lie. The flowers are already wilting and I find my patience even worse.” Lady Danbury’s eyes narrowed, curious. “Still… I must say—Her Majesty has chosen wisely.”

That was all it took.

The floodgates opened.

Lords and lesser royals, young men with anxious mothers and older men with hungrier ambitions, swept toward her in waves. Compliments, glances, offers—each dripping with desire, veiled or otherwise. Violetta smiled, demure and inscrutable, cataloguing each face without really seeing any of them.

Then—

Cressida Cowper.

The name itself struck like a sour note. Her gown, too bold in yellow, trembled with every step, the ostrich feathers at her hem an unfortunate metaphor for her subtlety. Her laugh was calculated, her walk rehearsed. And when their eyes met, her smile sharpened into a blade.

“Miss Laurent,” Cressida purred. “What a vision. I daresay the Queen has spared no expense.”

“How fortunate,” Violetta answered coolly, “that I require no charity.”

A flicker—just a twitch of the eye, but it was enough. Cressida leaned closer, voice like poison wrapped in silk. “It must be strange, standing where you do. Not quite a princess, not quite a commoner. Almost everything… but not quite.”

Before Violetta could answer, another suitor swept her onto the dance floor. She moved automatically, the music a muffled hum beneath the roar in her head. Cressida’s words clung to her like smoke.

And then, from somewhere behind her:

“I wonder what a royal endorsement tastes like in bed.”

Her body locked.

Heat flooded her ears. The room spun—not with rhythm, but with danger. Her vision blurred, her breath shallow and sharp. She excused herself—no words, no curtsy—and fled.

She didn’t walk.

She escaped.

Out of the ballroom, down the hall. The corridor was cold, quiet. Her heels clattered on marble, and the hush of distant laughter chased her like a shadow.

She pushed open the terrace doors. The night air struck like ice.

She made it to the balustrade before her knees gave way.

The panic wasn’t sudden. It had been building—coiling, rising, cresting—until her body could no longer contain it. She fell to the ground, satin scraping stone. Her breath came in sharp, wheezing gasps. Her ribs refused to expand. Her corset felt like iron.

Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe.

But she couldn’t. She was drowning.

The cold did not soothe her. The moonlight did not calm her. She curled into herself, a quiet ruin on marble, shaking and silent and ashamed.

They do not want you. They want what you represent.

You do not belong here.

They will devour you, and smile while they do it.

And then—

A footstep.

Soft.

Unrushed.

A presence behind her.

Then a voice, low and quiet—an anchor cast in stormy waters.

“Are you alright?”

[morganaadams]

The Queen’s Protégé

PART 2

The garden, lush with the scent of roses and shaded by towering trees, felt like an oasis of false tranquility in the midst of an emotional storm.

The sun filtered through the thick leaves of the old trees, casting dappled light across the meticulously manicured lawns, where the flowers bloomed in vibrant colors and the air smelled sweet with their perfume.

It should have been peaceful, serene even, yet within the circle of women gathered there, the atmosphere was anything but calm.

The air was thick with malice, the scent of roses mingling with the bitterness of envy and disdain. The calm was only a façade, easily shattered by the venomous words they were about to speak.

Lady Cressida Cowper, ever the queen of social theatrics, led the venomous charge, her every movement calculated, designed to draw attention and to wound. She stood at the center of the group, her regal posture and icy composure exuding an aura of superiority.

Her voice cut through the air like a blade, sweet as honey but sharp and unforgiving, laced with poison that only those who dared listen closely would recognize.

“I must say,” Lady Cressida purred, her tone syrupy and dripping with insincerity, “I find it quite curious how the entire Laurent family could die in that tragic accident, and yet Violetta remains untouched. Untouched and, of course, wealthier than any of us could ever dream. What a fortunate little orphan she must be.”

Her laughter, shrill and high-pitched, was filled with mocking cruelty. It rang out in the garden, breaking the delicate silence, like the sound of glass shattering.

The other women, standing in a tight circle around her, chuckled in response, their expressions twisted with envy and spite. It was a low, self-satisfied sound, one that spoke of a deep-seated desire to tear down the woman at the center of their malicious gossip.

Each woman took a moment to glance at one another, confirming that they were all on the same page, united in their cruel speculations.

Their eyes glittered with a shared, unspoken understanding that they had found their target: Violetta Laurent. The girl who, through no fault of her own, had become the object of their jealousy, their disdain, and now, their unrelenting hatred.

Lady Wilkins, never one to hold back when gossip was ripe for the picking, added her own venomous thoughts to the conversation, her voice thick with sarcastic sweetness.

“Oh, yes. So tragic, so heartbreaking,” she mocked, her words dripping with insincerity. “The death of an entire family—except for the darling Violetta, of course. She somehow emerged, all alone, untouched by the flames. How convenient, don’t you think?”

The other women nodded in agreement, their eyes gleaming with malicious delight. It was clear they shared her suspicion—how could one so young, so fortunate, escape the tragedy that had claimed her entire family? There had to be more to the story than met the eye.

There was always a hidden reason behind such good fortune, a reason they were more than happy to uncover and expose. But Lady Cressida wasn’t finished. Oh, no, she never was.

She leaned forward, her body language suggesting that she was about to share something truly shocking.

Her eyes glittered with a cruel joy, and her smile twisted into something predatory, as though she knew a secret that would tear down the very foundation of the woman they were discussing.

“I’ve heard rumors—dark rumors—about that accident,” Lady Cressida continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“About how the entire Laurent family perished while Violetta was left standing. It’s almost as if she orchestratedit, don’t you think? A well-timed ‘accident’ that left her with all the riches, the title, the power.”

Her words lingered in the air, heavy with implication. The silence that followed was thick and suffocating, as the women in the circle absorbed what she had said.

It was as if they had all been waiting for this, waiting for someone to give voice to the doubts they had long harbored in the deepest recesses of their minds. The rumors had already been circulating, but now they had been articulated aloud, and it seemed to give them weight—weight that none of the women could ignore.

The poison in the air was palpable, and Lady Cressida reveled in it. She was the orchestrator, the master of this malicious game. She had always been a woman of high society, skilled in the art of social manipulation, and this was no exception. She had chosen her target—Violetta Laurent—and she would stop at nothing to see her fall from grace.

“Do you really think that was an accident?” Lady Wilkins hissed, her voice lowering even further, as though she were letting the words slip from her lips in a secret confession.

“I believe that girl killed them. Killed them all to inherit everything. What a clever little orphan she is, playing the part of the mourning daughter while secretly savoring the spoils. The Queen’s darling—who better to hide her secrets?”

The women around her murmured in agreement, nodding their heads as if they had just discovered the truth of the matter. It was as if their suspicions had been validated, and they were now united in their belief that Violetta’s rise to prominence was no mere accident.

They had always known there was something too perfect about her. The way she had risen from nothing, so effortlessly, so swiftly, had been a mystery to them. But now, the answer was clear: she had manipulated the tragedy of her family’s death to seize power and wealth.

Lady Cressida was not finished. She leaned in even closer, her voice growing more menacing, as though she were about to reveal some final, damning piece of information. “And let us not forget,” she continued, her eyes gleaming,

“the family fortune. The Laurent estates are vast, stretching across England, Europe even. Mayfair itself practically belongs to them. The richest family in all of Europe, now in the hands of one girl. One young girl, who has no more right to it than any of us.”

Her words were meant to sting, and they did. The women around her seemed to grow even more agitated, their resentment building like a storm on the horizon.

It was one thing to be excluded from society’s elite; it was another entirely to watch someone else rise to the top with such ease, with such favor. They felt it was an injustice—an injustice they could no longer ignore.

Lady Hardcastle, her face twisted with jealousy and bitterness, joined the conversation with a sneer that spoke volumes. “She doesn’t deserve that fortune. She doesn’t deserve a single penny. None of us do, when she can just inherit it—from her family’s death, no less! But we all know the truth, don’t we? She’s a clever little vixen. She played the part of the mourning daughter so well, we didn’t even question her. But I’m sure that fortune is her real grief—her true loss. It’s the money she mourns, not her parents.”

The words stung like venom, but the women around her didn’t seem to notice. They nodded in agreement, their eyes glinting with a shared satisfaction as they continued to dismantle Violetta’s character. With every passing second, their words grew more venomous, more toxic, feeding off each other’s scorn and malice.

“And let’s not forget the real elephant in the room,” Lady Cressida purred, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “The Queen. Why does she protect Violetta so? Why does she keep her so close? The Queen’s favoritism is no secret. We all know it. Violetta gets everything, from the title to the inheritance, all because of the Queen’s strange obsession with her. What’s the real reason? Why would the Queen give her such favor?”

The other women fell silent, hanging on her every word. The idea that the Queen’s relationship with Violetta was anything other than benevolent had crossed their minds before, but hearing it spoken aloud was something entirely different. It was as though a veil had been lifted, revealing a truth they had been too afraid to acknowledge.

Lady Hardcastle’s voice dripped with disdain. “Why else would the Queen give her so much? Why would she shower her with affection and protection, when there are countless others in society who would kill for such attention? Could it be that the Queen knows the truth? Perhaps Violetta isn’t just some orphaned girl. Perhaps the Queen is covering for her, protecting her because she knows something about Violetta that we don’t. Something darker, something… secret.”

The whispers grew louder, more frantic, as the women speculated further. The Queen’s affection for Violetta—her near obsession with the girl—had always been a mystery, but now it seemed that mystery was unraveling before their very eyes.

They could almost see the connection between the two women, a bond that seemed too close, too suspicious to be explained away by mere kindness.

“Why would the Queen keep her isolated from society like this?” Lady Cressida mused, her voice slow and deliberate. “Why not let her join society, like the rest of us? Why shelter her so, unless there is something they’re hiding? Perhaps Violetta is the Queen’s pawn, her protege, her little secret.

She’s been under the Queen’s protection for years, kept out of the public eye. It’s all too convenient, don’t you think?”

The women leaned in closer, hanging on every word, their faces alight with malicious curiosity. It was as if they could already see the threads of a vast conspiracy unfolding before them, one that tied Violetta, the Queen, and the entire Laurent fortune together in a web of secrets and lies.

All the while, Colin stood at the edge of the garden, listening, his chest burning with an unbearable rage. His fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight with fury. He had never heard anything so vile in his life.

These women, these vipers, were so eager to tear Violetta apart with nothing but their bitter jealousy and wild, unfounded speculation. They knew nothing of her—nothing of her pain, her struggles, her sacrifices—and yet, they dared to speak as though they held all the answers.

The anger swelled inside him, hot and furious, until it felt as though it might choke him. His hands trembled, and his body shook with the urge to step forward, to silence these women once and for all. He wanted to defend her.

He wanted to shout that they were all wrong—that the Queen did love her, that she was a woman worthy of respect, not the horrid image they had painted of her.

But he stayed silent. He couldn’t give in to the impulse to speak, to let the rage consume him. His mind screamed for him to intervene, but his body was paralyzed, locked in place as he watched these women tear apart the very soul of a person he had yet to know—but already felt a deep, unshakable protectiveness for.

Just as he felt himself on the edge of losing control, the weight of their cruelty almost too much to bear, he took a step back. Not yet, he told himself. Not yet. He was a guest here, an outsider to their circle. If he said anything now, it would only give them more ammunition to fire back at him.

But the fire within him still burned hot. And he knew, with certainty, that one day he would no longer be able to stay silent.

With every cruel word, with every harsh whisper, the lines between Violetta Laurent and Colin Bridgerton were beginning to blur—until, one day, he knew, he would have to step into the storm and protect her, no matter the cost.

The words of the women continued to ring in his ears, but as the conversation turned toward something else, something trivial, he remained frozen in place. He didn’t hear their voices anymore—only the sound of his own heart pounding in his chest, and the growing certainty that Violetta Laurent was a mystery he was determined to solve.

[morganaadams]

The Queen’s Protégé

PART 1

Queen Charlotte would never forget the first time she heard the name Laurent—Violetta Laurent. It had been the night after the Laurent massacre, the tragedy that consumed every conversation for weeks.

A business deal gone terribly wrong.

The Duke and Duchess of North and Southampton, along with their entire family, were killed in an orchestrated carriage crash—everyone, that is, except for Violetta and her elder brother, Alexandre.

Violetta could still recall it as though it were yesterday.

That morning, her parents, Margot and Antoine, had been arguing fiercely. They had planned to leave their country estate and return to their grand Mayfair home—the House of Laurent.

She could still hear her mother’s scream as the carriage veered toward the massive oak tree. It was when she finally returned to Mayfair, with only her brother by her side, that the weight of reality began to settle in.

They were orphans.

Alexandre left for Eton just weeks after the tragedy, leaving Violetta in the sprawling, silent estate to mourn in solitude. It was during this time that Queen Charlotte came to offer her sympathies.

Even in the depths of her grief, Violetta’s composure astounded the queen. Much to the surprise of everyone present, Violetta displayed an elegance that exceeded every expectation.

Where others might have collapsed in sorrow, she stood poised, graceful, as though nothing had ever happened.

In that moment, Queen Charlotte made her decision: she would take Violetta under her wing, grooming her as her prized pupil.

But Violetta became more than just a pupil to Queen Charlotte. Following the counsel of Lady Danbury, the queen took on the role of mother to the orphaned girl, offering the nurturing care during and after Violetta had lost her own parents.

Over the years, Queen Charlotte and Violetta grew closer, a bond forged in shared grief and mutual admiration. So close, in fact, that Queen Charlotte granted Violetta a royal title—despite the protests of many court officials.

Lady Violetta Laurent, Princess Royal of Great Britain.

“Lady Violetta Laurent, Princess Royal of Great Britain, presented by the right, the honorable Lady Agatha Danbury,” the usher announced.

Queen Charlotte couldn’t help but smile as she watched Violetta walk toward her, graceful as ever, and curtsy. She was, indeed, her prized pupil—the very embodiment of poise and perfection.

“You, my dear girl, are the very definition of perfection—both beauty and intellect. I adore you,” the queen said, her voice warm.

Violetta rose, a smile dancing on her lips, her hand still held gently by the queen.

“I will be watching you, Violetta,” Queen Charlotte said, her gaze steady and full of purpose. “Now, more than ever.”

[morganaadams]

The Shadows of the Vale Masterlist

Description:

Nothing in the Vale stays buried—not the past, not the truth, and certainly not the dead. The Vale name, once swallowed by silence, now lingers like a shadow on the tongues of lords and ladies—though none can say why. Whispers coil through the twisted halls of the family estate, hidden deep in the countryside—a house with too many locked rooms, too many vanished heirs. And Lyra? She is the last of them. Or so they say. Her parents speak only in silence—never of the siblings lost to the shadows, never of the heavy hush that descends as the sun bleeds behind the trees. But the Vale is never truly still. It breathes with memory and mourning—and something darker. Something waiting. Because in the Vale, nothing stays buried.

Summery:

In the Vale, shadows linger longer… and silence is never empty—it is deliberate.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

Incoming more soon…

[morganaadams]

The Shadows of the Vale

CHAPTER SIX

There was something fragile in Daphne’s warmth, like a candle flickering against an unforgiving

wind—beautiful, yes, but destined to shatter.

And Lyra knew better than most how quickly trust could turn to ash.

Their friendship was a whispered secret wrapped in silk and danger—an island of softness in a world carved from ice and whispered threats.

Yet beneath Daphne’s steady gaze, Lyra sensed the unspoken truths neither dared voice: the

weight of expectation, the cost of kindness, the loneliness masked by laughter.

In the ton, alliances were forged in fire and betrayal, and even the brightest friendships bore

stains of shadow.

teeth?

How long could theirs survive before the frost crept in? Before the smiles slipped, revealing

Lyra’s heart tightened—a silent prayer swallowed whole by the relentless cold pressing in from every side.

The weight of unseen eyes, the thrum of whispered judgments—it all closed around her like a—tightening noose.

“Lyra… are you alright?”

The voice broke through the haze, gentle but edged with concern, a fragile lifeline in the gathering darkness.

She swallowed hard, the words catching like frost in her throat.

“Yes… of course,” she whispered, though even she wasn’t sure if she believed it.

Because in this world—where every glance was a gamble and every touch could draw blood— even love was a battlefield,

“D—Daphne?” Lyra whispered, her voice barely audible over the swirl of whispers and music.

Every light around them seemed to harbor a lurking shadow—patient, hungry, waiting to consume.

“Do you see that? That Lord Berbrooke—why is he watching us? Watching you?”

Before Lyra could finish, Daphne’s fingers clamped tightly around hers, cold and urgent.

“Come,” Daphne urged, her voice low but fierce as she began pulling Lyra through the crowd.

They moved quickly, slipping past clusters of masked faces and swirling gowns, the murmurs rising like a rising tide.

The press of bodies closed in, each step heavier, the shadows lengthening with every breath.

Suddenly, Daphne’s hurried pace collided with a solid figure—

A man, tall and imposing, blocking their path like a wall of stone.

Lyra’s breath caught.

The room seemed to hold its breath with her.

[morganaadams]

The Shadows of the Vale

CHAPTER FIVE

Lady Danbury was a woman.

But not the kind the ton dared whisper about without a shiver.

Not out of affection—no.

Out of something colder.

Something sharp as broken glass beneath satin gloves.

She was wit honed like a razor’s edge.

A relic from a time when bones were harder and mercy was a myth.

She saw too much, remembered too well, and never once softened her gaze.

That was why Lyra Vale felt herself drawn to the woman

—

A flame burning wild in a world where smiles were weapons, and obedience was currency.

Something dangerous.

Something fierce.

Something achingly honest.

And then there were the balls.

The Danbury Ball was no mere gathering.

It was a reckoning.

The season’s first storm—where debutantes were weighed in whispers, legacies measured in

glances, and every mask pressed tight against trembling skin.

The invitation came as dusk bled like ink across the walls of Vale House—black parchment

sealed with red wax, thick and dark as dried blood.

No crest stamped it. Danbury needed no names.

You were summoned… or you were not.

Lyra held the invitation long after her fingers should have let it fall.

It pulsed with cold fire, as if the ink remembered every secret it had ever exposed.

They said Lady Danbury’s chandeliers dripped with crystal like frozen tears from the graves of

queens.

They said her halls echoed not just with music, but with memory—

Regrets dressed in velvet, laughter turned to dust beneath the marble.

They whispered:

“No one leaves Lady Danbury’s unnoticed. Not even the ghosts.”

That night, the moon was a sharpened silver blade, slicing through the fog that crept over the city.

Lyra stood before the mirror, wrapped in the emerald gown her mother chose—

Fabric like moss soaked in shadow, the neckline a delicate promise of danger.

Her mother’s voice lingered—a soft command, a warning:

You will be watched tonight. Smile, but do not bare your teeth. Dance, but do not bleed.

Outside, the carriage waited. The horses pawed at the earth, steam coiling from their nostrils like smoke from a pyre.

Even they seemed to know the night would not be kind.

The gates of Danbury’s estate loomed like a cathedral’s maw—black iron grinning beneath lanternlight.

Inside, the music slithered through the cavernous ballroom—thick and suffocating as velvet

curtains drawn tight.

Lyra moved like a shadow melting into the light—a ghost among jeweled faces, her presence a

whisper swallowed by brittle laughter.

Then, cutting through the haze, a voice—soft, bright, defiant—broke the silence.

“Lyra?”

The name hung in the air—a lifeline thrown across the sea of strangers.

She turned.

Daphne Bridgerton stood just beyond the crowd, her eyes a steady flame flickering in the cold dark.

Her pale blue gown shimmered, a splash of fragile hope amid the shadows.

“Lyra,” Daphne said again, stepping closer, a smile like a warm ember glowing in the chill.

“There you are.”

Lyra’s lips curved in a quiet, fragile smile—real, but fleeting.

“Daphne.”

For a brief moment, the suffocating weight of the room lightened.

Here was a friend.

A tether to something softer in a night carved from ice and secrets.

But even as they stood together, shadows flickered at the edges of the light—

Silent reminders that in this gilded cage, friendship was both a refuge and a trap.

[morganaadams]

The Shadows of the Vale

CHAPTER FOUR

It was dusk by the time her mother entered her chamber.

That strange hour when the world forgets itself—when light slips sideways and shadows become deeper than they should be.

The hour when things whisper. When old houses breathe.

Lyra sat at her vanity, still and silent, wrapped in the soft, withering hush that always came

before Margaery Vale arrived.

The door opened without a knock, without ceremony.

Her mother moved like a ghost in silk—graceful, practiced, perfect.

The flickering candlelight caught the silver in her hair and the sharp edge of her jaw. She looked like a portrait come to

life: beautiful, untouchable, and a little bit unreal.

In her hand, she carried the same silver brush she had always used.

The handle was smooth from decades of use, its ornate carvings softened by time and the pressure of long, cold fingers.

She said nothing.

She never did—not at first.

She simply took her place behind Lyra and began to brush.

One.

Two.

Three.

Each stroke was measured, exact.

Not one hair out of place.

Not one moment wasted.

It had always been this way.

A hundred strokes, and not one more.

Not ninety-nine.

Not a hundred and one.

A hundred. Always.

It was the kind of ritual that felt older than either of them—older than the house, maybe.

Something sacred, or cursed. A quiet offering made to something no one dared name.

The brush passed again and again through Lyra’s hair, the repetition more oppressive than

comforting. It sounded like whispers—like cloth dragging down a hallway, or breath caught in the walls.

Outside, the sun was dying. The sky over the moor had turned the color of bruised fruit—violet,

sickled gold, the bleeding edge of black.

Lyra’s eyes met her reflection.

Pale. Hollow-eyed. Her own face looked like it belonged to someone else.

Someone who had learned not to speak unless asked, not to cry unless alone.

“Is Father upset with me?” she asked softly, the words barely a ripple in the silence.

The brush paused. Just for a heartbeat.

It was all Lyra needed.

She saw the hesitation.

The way Margaery’s grip on the brush tightened, her knuckles blooming white.

The way her lips twitched at the corners—just briefly, like the mask she wore had cracked.

“No, my dear,” Margaery said smoothly, resuming the strokes,

“This season has been... taxing. Your debut, and all.”

She paused

“he is simply under pressure.”

Her voice was cool and clipped, a tone that folded lies into lace and called it love.

That was always the excuse.

The season. The guests. The name. The rumors. The whispers behind closed fans and garden hedges.

Everything except what was actually wrong.

The Vale estate was rotting from the inside out.

And they were expected to smile through the decay.

“I think you should wear the emerald gown tomorrow,”

her mother said, setting the brush aside with gentle finality.

“The one with the silk sleeves. It brings out your eyes.”

She leaned forward and gently placed her hands on Lyra’s shoulders, like a marionettist making

sure the strings were still intact.

“What do you think?” she asked, her voice coated in honey.

“Hmm?”

She was waiting—for a response, for validation, for submission.

That was what Lyra hated most.

Her mother’s hunger for her approval.

And how hollow it always felt when given.

It wasn’t really a question. Not when the answer had already been decided.

“Whatever you wish, Mother, ” Lyra replied, her voice flat, polished from years of practice.

Margaery smiled. That same porcelain smile. So lovely. So dead.

“Good girl, ” she whispered, patting Lyra’s shoulder.

“I’ll fetch it for you.”

And then she was gone. The door shut softly behind her, muffled by thick velvet drapes. The

scent of her perfume—lilac and cold powder—lingered like a ghost that refused to leave the

room.

And finally—finally—the tension in Lyra’s body broke.

She exhaled, long and quiet, as if releasing something poisonous that had lived in her lungs all

her life.

Her hands unclenched. Her shoulders sagged.

The silence of the room felt heavier now that she was alone. Not emptier—heavier.

The brush sat abandoned on the vanity. Its silver handle glinted in the dying light like a relic from

an ancient ritual.

Outside, the wind howled across the moors, pushing against the windows like it wanted in.

The house creaked. It always did at dusk.

But tonight, the sound felt different—closer. Hungrier.

Somewhere in the walls, something knocked.

Once.

Then again.

Slow.

Rhythmic.

Deliberate.

Not the wind.

Never the wind.

Lyra stared at her reflection, but she no longer recognized the girl in the glass. Her eyes looked

older than her body, carved hollow by too many unspoken things. Her mouth did not quite

belong to her. Her skin looked paper-thin, like it might tear if touched too hard.

And behind her—just for a moment—she thought she saw a figure in the mirror.

Tall. Shadowed. Watching.

She turned.

Nothing.

Just the brush.

Just the silence.

Just the empty room.

But in the walls, something moved.

[morganaadams]

The Shadows of the Vale

CHAPTER THREE

Something was wrong in the Vale estate.

A restless shadow clung to its crumbling walls, whispering secrets only the night could hear.

Anyone who passed by felt it—a cold, suffocating weight pressing against their skin.

But this?

This was her normal now.

She had grown accustomed to the silence that screamed, the darkness that lingered just

beyond the light—an old, twisted lullaby she could no longer escape.

The heavy silence hung like a second skin around her as dawn filtered weakly through the tall windows.

Lyra’s eyes blinked open to a room still steeped in shadows, where the cold seeped

into the walls and whispered secrets no one dared speak aloud.

A soft knock interrupted the quiet.

“Miss Lyra,” came Elspeth’s voice, barely above a whisper. The maid appeared in the doorway,

her face pale and drawn, eyes darting nervously like a hunted bird.

“It’s time.”

Lyra’s body moved almost without her consent, the chill of the floor biting through the thin slippers as she sat up. The sheets hung limp around her like ghosts.

“Elspeth,” she murmured, voice fragile as the morning light.

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what, my lady?”

“The ton. Lady Whistledown… they’re speaking of me again.”

Elspeth’s eyes darkened.

“Yes. They say you’re the storm that stirs the Vale to life—the shadow that never leaves. A secret too dangerous to be ignored.”

Lyra swallowed the lump rising in her throat, feeling the weight of unseen eyes settling on her

even here—in this fragile sanctuary.

The maid pulled back the curtains slowly, and the pale gray dawn spilled in like spilled ash.

“Breakfast is ready,” Elspeth whispered before slipping away.

Downstairs, the dining room waited—dim, cold, and oppressive, lit only by the flicker of a single candle struggling against the morning gloom.

Her parents sat in silence, two statues carved from pride and grief. The air between them was—

heavy, suffocating.

Lyra’s footsteps echoed softly as she approached, each one measured, careful, like a prayer.

Her mother’s eyes did not lift, but her voice cut through the stillness like a blade.

“Did you read Lady Whistledown’s words?”

“Yes, ” Lyra replied quietly.

Her father’s hands clenched around his fork, knuckles white.

“She watches too closely. Too many eyes watch you, child. One misstep—”

“I will not falter,” Lyra said, her voice steadier than she felt.

A long silence followed, broken only by the faint crackle of the candle’s flame and the slow drip

of the morning rain against the window.

Outside, the estate stood cold and watchful, shadows gathering like dark promises.

And in the Vale—normal was just another word for the darkness waiting to swallow you whole.