Annabelle awoke to a humming vibration in her limbs—the thrill of a hunter preparing for the chase. She spent an hour before her vanity, meticulously checking the girl in the reflection. Her eyes were bright, her skin glowing with a feverish anticipation. "You can do this, Anna," she whispered, her voice a sharp contrast to the silent, suffocating manor.
The plan was a reckless masterpiece of desperation. She would use every weapon in her arsenal—her smile, her status, her beauty—to ensnare the blacksmith. If she could make Miguel fall for her irrevocably, she would have a weapon to wield against her parents' ambitions. A scandal with a commoner would shatter the Beaumont contract like glass. No man had ever turned away from her, and she was certain Miguel, despite his walls of iron and soot, would be no exception.
She applied a subtle tint to her lips and pinched her cheeks until they bloomed with a flush. As she hurried toward the grand foyer, Sara's shadow lengthened across the floorboards.
"Miss? Where are you headed in such a rush? Your father expects you for a fitting this afternoon."
"I'm meeting Rita and Veronica," Annabelle lied, her voice a practiced melody of innocence. "We're going to look at the new silks for the gala. I won't be long."
"Very well. Just don't stay out past the ringing of the bells," Sara warned, though her eyes lingered on the girl's radiant, over-prepared face.
Annabelle didn't wait for a second lecture. She slipped out the gate and hailed a passing carriage. "To the market square," she commanded, tossing a silver coin to the driver. The man's eyes widened at the sight of the currency—enough to feed his family for a month—and he gave her a toothy, grateful grin.
The market was unusually quiet that day; the usual roar of commerce had settled into a low, rhythmic thrum. Annabelle stepped onto the cobblestones, her heart drumming a frantic beat against her ribs as she moved toward the rising plumes of black smoke.
"Ah, the young miss returns!" the old master smith greeted her, wiping grease from his palms. "Back so soon? Have you already dulled the edge of that decorative piece from yesterday?"
"Not quite," Annabelle smiled, her eyes already scanning the dim, orange-lit interior.
And then, she saw him.
Miguel was positioned near the back, his powerful frame silhouetted against a spray of sparks. He was hammering a glowing orange rod, the rhythmic thud of his work echoing through the space. Annabelle felt a surge of triumph. She straightened her posture, tossing her hair slightly to the side to expose the elegant line of her neck, her lips parting into her most devastating, practiced smile.
Miguel paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, his dark eyes drifting toward the entrance. For a fleeting, electric second, their gazes locked. Annabelle's breath hitched, her heart stopping in expectation of his reaction.
But Miguel's eyes were like flint—hard and cold. He looked right through her, as if she were nothing more than a stray shadow on the wall, and turned back to his anvil without so much as a nod. The heavy clang of his hammer resumed, louder and more aggressive than before. He had dismissed her as if she were invisible.
The rejection hit Annabelle like a physical blow. Her cheeks burned, not with attraction this time, but with a stinging, hot embarrassment. She felt like a ghost in her own silk dress, a high-born girl made small by a man who refused to see her.
"Miss? Did you hear me?" The old man's voice pulled her back to the dusty reality of the shop. "Is there something specific you're looking for today?"
Annabelle's pulse hammered in her ears. She couldn't leave—not like this. She needed to force him to acknowledge her. "I... I'll take that one," she stammered, her finger trembling as she pointed blindly at a heavy, unpolished iron rod sitting on the workbench mere inches from where Miguel stood.
She stepped closer, the heat of the forge and the heat of his body radiating toward her, waiting for him to look up, waiting for the crack in his armor but he never did.