Two months in the harem. Five months of learning, of listening, of watching. And where had it gotten her? The Emperor only knew she existed because she had crashed into him like a fool.
It had been humiliating.
She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the folds of her dress.
"I'm not feeling well," she lied suddenly. "I think I've started my blood. I'll go to the bathhouse to wash myself."
Roslin wrinkled her nose. "Oh." She hesitated. "Do you want me to—"
But Joana was already rising to her feet.
She moved quickly, slipping through the doors before anyone could stop her.
She felt their eyes on her.
Let them watch.
Let them wonder.
None of it mattered.
Not when she already knew the truth.
She had failed.
The harem was full of secrets, but Joana had learned one thing above all else—only fools believed in the promise of choices.
The Gracious Mother had once spoken of options. If the Emperor never looked at her, she could live out her days here, wrapped in silks and luxury, or she could be married off. The ledgers would confirm her untouched state, appeasing the noble lords who would otherwise demand a maiden bride.
But Joana knew better.
She had seen the way the Gracious Mother's eyes lingered on Lady Margaery's belly, how the news of her pregnancy had twisted her lips into something cold, calculating.
A baby meant security. Power.
A baby meant Lady Margaery would remain untouchable.
And Joana?
She had nothing.
No favor. No protection. No child.
Just two months in the harem, and already she was closer to being cast aside than being noticed.
That had to change.
---
The bathhouse was empty when she arrived, save for the curling mist of steam clinging to the air.
The pools, still warm from the afternoon's use, glowed in the dim candlelight, their surfaces rippling gently beneath the low arches of the tiled chamber.
Joana exhaled.
The scent of lavender water wrapped around her like a blanket, thick and soothing. The place was beautiful, with high domed ceilings and deep pools lined with marble, but like everything else in the harem, its beauty was only an illusion.
Silence pressed in around her, dampened only by the distant trickle of a fountain.
She stepped behind a privacy screen, untying the sash at her waist with careful fingers.
The consorts had maids to undress them, to fold their clothes, to ensure not a single thread was out of place. But concubines?
Concubines were expected to care for themselves.
They sewed their own dresses and mended their own shifts.
Underclothes were forbidden.
For easier access, she supposed.
Joana draped a towel around her body, gathering the soap and a stiff-bristled brush before making her way to one of the wooden stools near the pools. She dipped the brush into the bucket before her, filling it with hot water, then slowly ran it down her arms, her legs, and her breasts and in the end, she even washed the place between her thighs.
She was not bleeding.
She had already had her cycle a fortnight ago.
But she had needed an excuse.
A moment alone.
A moment to breathe, to think, to come to terms with the fact that she had failed.
Because if Roslin had followed her, she would have tried to comfort her.
And Roslin didn't understand.
She thought they were the same. That they would one day leave this place and find happiness outside of these walls. The worst thing that could happen to them was being ignored.
But Roslin did not know what was at stake.
Roslin did not know that Joana's failure meant death.
She clenched her fingers around the brush, her mind racing.
She had to do something different.
Anything.
A strange sensation prickled at the back of her neck, a slow, creeping awareness that sent a shiver down her spine.
Someone was watching her.
Her breath caught.
It was a bold stare, unwavering and intent, settling on her with an almost physical weight.
Joana turned sharply, pulse quickening.
"Hello?" she murmured.
Silence.
She swallowed.
"Roslin?" she tried again, though she already knew it wasn't her. "Is that you?"
Still, nothing.
But Joana was no fool.
There was only one man in this palace who could look upon her with such confidence. Only one man did not need permission to stand in the shadows of the harem and observe.
The Emperor.
Her stomach flipped, heat flooding her cheeks.
She was being watched.
And this time, she was not going to waste the opportunity.
A slow thrill curled in her stomach as she turned back to the water, letting her lips curl.
So he was watching.
Good.
Very good.
She did not turn fully toward him, but she shifted slightly, just enough to elongate her body, to tilt herself into the best possible position.
She stretched one leg forward, her movements smooth, deliberate.
Before, she had scrubbed her skin with methodical, firm strokes. Now, she slowed.
Lingered.
Let the soapy brush glide down the curve of her breasts, down her thigh. The towel shifted higher, exposing more of her pale skin.
Her mouth was dry.
She had never done this before.
Never needed to do this before.
How do I push this further?
Joana's gaze flickered to the bucket of water before her.
Still steaming.
Still full.
Her hands trembled slightly—whether from nerves or anticipation, she did not know—as she rose to her feet, gripping the bucket with both hands.
It was heavy.
She inhaled sharply.
Then she tipped it.
Scalding-hot water poured over her body, cascading down her arms, her shoulders, and her back.
Steam curled around her as she stood, unmoving, water sliding down every inch of exposed skin.
The towel slipped.
It pooled at her feet.
And just like that—the weight of his stare vanished.
Joana exhaled sharply, sinking back onto the stool, water still dripping from her skin.
Had she ruined things again?
Had she embarrassed herself? Had she overstepped?
She had no way of knowing.
But for the first time, it didn't matter.
Because the Emperor had looked at her.
And finally, she was ready to play the game.