Chapter 101

Chapter 101

"It's Claire, the Red Lane dancer! Haven't seen her in ages. Didn’t expect her to perform today—thought she’d quit dancing. But look at her now, her charm undiminished from years past. Wonder if she’s still... available?" Someone who recognized Claire exclaimed at the sight of her on stage.

A bystander, noticing the lewd expression on the speaker’s face, as if imagining something indecent, rolled their eyes in disgust. "What 'Red Pavilion dancer'? She’s a supervisor at the textile factory now, managing a whole team. What are you even thinking? Aren’t you afraid the guards will drag you off to write a confession letter?"

"Exactly! She’s just here to perform, and your dirty mind jumps to conclusions. Those days when people with a bit of status or money could act however they wanted are long gone." Once one person voiced their disapproval, others quickly joined in, calling out this vulgar attitude.

The rest, who might have harbored similar thoughts, stayed silent, afraid they’d be the next target of public shaming.

The murmurs from the crowd didn’t faze Claire on stage. She danced to the passionate music, her layered skirts fluttering like butterfly wings, her long, curly black hair undulating like black silk in the wind, leaving traces in the wind.

Once, she had been a socialite among nobles, a peony in full bloom on the surface—but only she knew how rotten she was inside, how one breath away from collapse.

Back then, many had admired her dancing, but few truly watched. They loved the decadent atmosphere, loved her body. Countless times, she couldn’t even finish a full dance before those men tore her beautiful gowns apart, made her their marionette to toy with.

She didn’t know whether her life was happy or miserable. She simply treated each day as her last, numbly marking time.

She would splurge on a single dress she fancied. She would deceive naive young men, laughing as they lost their hearts to her. When favored, she would casually humiliate nobles, reveling in their groveling faces.

Her beauty and talents were commodities. Only when those men fought over her, treasured her, could she vent in extreme ways—as if proving she wasn’t some lowly thing to be trampled, but some lofty madame standing above them all.

She thought her life would end in such wine-soaked delusions—whether through aging and being cast aside, or illness cutting her youth short. No good ending awaited her.

But who could have predicted that a group of people would arrive, tearing open that filthy world with new laws, dragging everyone back to reality?

When first warned that she could no longer "sell" herself that way, Claire had scoffed. Like I ever had a say?

Besides, without it, how could she afford her lavish lifestyle? The gorgeous dresses, the fragrant flowers, the servants attending her—wouldn’t they all vanish?

A gilded songbird like herself—could she even fly free anymore?

Yet, after the initial adjustment to a quieter life, she found true freedom, like being given a second life.

She could sleep when she wanted, dance when she pleased, do things she’d never dared before.

No one could force her into anything she disliked. And if they tried, she could call the guards, relying on the new laws for protection—those offenders would be the ones punished.

Even her ravaged constitution, under the care of the medic nuns, grew stronger. She had years left to live.

But after years of constant activity, the stillness chafed.

And though she’d amassed plenty of rewards from her patrons, her spending had been just as extravagant. Without work, she had to rely on fast-dwindling coffers and selling jewelry.

Just as she wondered what to do next, the royal city opened a textile factory, welcoming women to work.

Seeing how those who joined transformed—from sallow and hollow-eyed to rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, laughing about how happy they were—she grew curious.

When the factory later sought supervisors to help select designs and guide production, she saw her chance. After all, her fashion sense had long dictated the capital's fashions. Even the outfits she’d styled for her maids had won admirers. She could do this.

Besides, to mingle with nobles, she’d studied extensively—letters and arts—nothing was beyond her. She submitted her resume per the factory’s standards, aced the interview, and got the job.

Now, her days were packed: reviewing garments, consulting designers, chatting and dining with new friends. No room was left for romantic fantasies or outshining rivals. Life was fulfilling.

Later, once the factory stabilized, recreational pursuits took shape. Clubs formed, enabling the women to cultivate interests after hours.

Whether learning cooking, baking, literacy, or painting—as long as a group met the factory’s standards (ten members, lawful and ethical goals)—they could apply for official recognition. Approved clubs received professional mentors.

Those confident in their skills could even volunteer as mentors, qualifying for instructor stipends.

At first, they weren't interested in interest clubs, figuring their lives were just fine as they were—why waste time learning those things when they could go shopping with friends or spend time with family instead?

But when some club members mastered new skills, people noticed that some moved from factory floors to design desks, while others started street-side stands in their free time. Once the businesses stabilized and grew, they even resigned from the factory.

Seeing these people's lives improve, more chose to join interest clubs. As they learned more, they found their paths broadening, their options multiplying.

Claire joined several clubs, mostly for fun, but she stuck with the dance club the longest—she was one of its instructors. The students, with bright, eager eyes, learned her dances earnestly, soaking up every move and feeling she infused into them. She rediscovered the joy of dancing.

Three months ago, when the king summoned her to the palace, it freaked her out—had she caught someone’s eye again? Fortunately, she wasn’t the only one called, and it wasn’t some shady business—she was invited to dance at the royal ceremony.

Initially, Claire didn’t want to agree. She no longer wished to perform for outsiders—people who knew her might give her looks, and the thought disgusted her.

But the king had said it was voluntary. If she felt she couldn’t do it, she didn’t have to. He wanted the best dancers for the ceremony’s performance. Without passion, even the most skilled dancing was useless—he wanted no emotionless performances.

Well, that just lit a fire under her! In the entire capital, who could dance better than her? She was the queen of the dance floor—no one could resist her moves.

Yet, after being under Kane’s sharp once-over, even the confident Claire felt uneasy. What, had her dancing failed to impress him?

With other men, Claire might have relied on her beauty and talent to win them over. But facing a king more exquisite than herself, she wasn’t so sure.

Judging by his furrowed brow and cold expression, there was no sign of satisfaction.

Just as Claire grew anxious, he finally spoke. "Your technique’s decent, but the style needs adjustment. Can you try dancing with this kind of emotion...?"

Listening to Kane’s description, Claire lowered her head in thought, then looked up at him with shining eyes. "I can do it."

So now, she danced out her "past self," like the rose in her mouth, bursting into full bloom.

As the rose was removed and its petals scattered with a flick of her hand, she embraced a new life.

Her sweat-damp hair was tied up casually, the floral chain around her neck ripped off and flung away. The butterfly bow at her chest was undone, and the fitted gown, loosened by the removal of its ribbons, slipped into Claire’s hands before she flung it onto the stage.

Now clad in a sleek black tank top that accentuated her alluring figure, a crisscross of silver chains at her slender waist, high-waisted denim shorts, and strappy black leather boots that made her legs look endlessly long, Claire stood transformed.

"Wow!" The crowd let out a collective "Whoa!" at her quick costume change.

A mother who had covered her child’s eyes slowly lowered her hand. "That startled me—I thought... Oh well, my bad."

"What kind of outfit is this? It’s quite nice. Will Rainbow Threads sell it?" mused a woman already imagining herself in it.

"Hey, if it’s for sale, I’ll buy a set for my daughter—she’d love it," said a doting father, checking his wallet.

Though the outfit revealed much, surprisingly few harbored improper thoughts—their gazes were purer than before.

Those fair, slender legs were captivating, but the leather straps around her thighs held three daggers. Her delicate arms were beautiful, yet a miniature crossbow was strapped to one. And those lovely hands no longer held roses—instead, shiny silver needles twirled deftly between her fingers.

To those who had once eyed her with ill intent, Claire now seemed even more dangerous the less she wore.

After today, they’d think twice before guessing what’s under a woman’s clothes.