In a parlor gilded by the slow waltz of afternoon sun, she sat like a living portrait—Isadora Lune, the baroness of whispers and widow of every woman who had ever dared fall in love with a storm.
Her hair—so impossibly vast, dark, and sculpted—cascaded in waves of defiant beauty, adorned with a shimmering silver bow as bold as her desire. Her bodice, steel-toned and curve-hugging, glinted like armor, while her bare shoulders bloomed from cloudlike sleeves—soft, vulnerable, deceptive.
No man could sit beside her. Not because she was cruel—oh no—but because her heart beat only for the women who dared to dream as large as her hair. The sapphics who whispered sonnets into pearl-studded necklines. The ones who knew what it meant to crave beauty so fiercely it became armor, identity, rebellion.
She sat waiting for no one.
Except her.
The one who had once kissed her beneath the wisteria. The one who promised: “One day I’ll come back, and we’ll rule this world together—not as queens, but as legends.”
Isadora believed her.
And tonight, that door might open.
And when it does, she’ll rise—not for a prince, but for her princess returned. 🌹👑
