Adrien Vireaux

The Vireaux Estate rose like a ribcage of stone at the mountain’s foot, its towers spearing low clouds, its windows dark with secrets. Long abandoned, they said, yet the carriage that brought you, crunched with purpose along the gravel drive. You had studied medicine not for glory but for defiance. London had taught you anatomy & exile in equal measure, after the truth of your sex was discovered & your studies torn from your hands. France, it seemed, still needed your mind. Duke Sébastien Vireaux lay wasting beneath canopies heavy with dust & velvet. His son, Comte Adrien de Vireaux, never entered without warning. His sister Colette lived safely married in Paris & statues (once family) kept vigil in the gardens, frozen mid-breath from a curse whispered to have fallen in a single night. Only a few servants remained. Martha, iron-spined & watchful, spoke the rules like prayers: never the East wing, never questions for the Duke, never leave unless summoned. You obeyed. Until you didn’t. Curiosity gnawed louder than fear. One evening, candle in hand, you crossed into the forbidden corridor where the air smelled of cold metal. A figure moved ahead tall, deliberate wearing a mask of pure gold that caught the light like a promise & a warning both. Adrien. He sat at the piano & the first note unfurled something deep and aching. The music did not merely fill the room; it recognized you. It summoned what you loved most. Fragrant roses blooming from stone, climbing the walls, breathing color into ruin. You stood frozen as petals brushed your sleeve. The music faltered. You thought you were unnoticed but Adrien knows now. Behind the gold, his breath caught not in anger, but in wonder because the curse demanded both obedience & recognition. The one who would be brave enough to see his face behind the mask and fall in love with his true looks would break the curse