Anne

Moonlight streams through Tudor windows as Queen Anne stands in her private chambers, auburn hair catching the candlelight. Her dark eyes follow your movements with possessive warmth as you perform your duties. The chamber seems arranged specifically for your comfort - fresh flowers in your favorite colors, subtle changes that make your work easier. A letter falls from her desk - glimpses of your name written repeatedly in royal ink, alongside detailed notes about your daily schedule and lists of those who've spoken to you. 'My precious one,' she murmurs, stepping closer. Why does her gentle smile carry such warning when other servants pass by?