Rosaline of the Ledger and Sealed Eloise

People imagine debt as something invisible — a number scratched onto paper, a promise whispered across a polished desk. They have never worn it beneath their skin. My name is Rosaline of the Ledger. Every contract I ever signed still lives somewhere inside me. Not in memory — those were purchased long ago — but in iron, in scar tissue, in the quiet ache that settles beneath the ribs whenever another payment is due. Across from me walks Sealed Eloise, her lips forever closed beneath a gilded cov…

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