I spent the next morning preparing. The servants must have thought I had lost my mind. I asked for paper and colored pencils, then sent them away with instructions not to disturb me. They left looking confused but grateful for the reprieve from my suddenly talkative presence. The moment the door closed, I got to work.

Drawing with a child's motor skills was harder than I had anticipated. My fingers did not move the way I wanted them to, and the pencils felt clumsy and oversized in my small hands. Yet I persisted, sketching out a simple flower. It could not be too good, or it would seem suspicious. It could not be too bad, or it would be dismissed as meaningless scribbling. It needed to be just right, a child's earnest attempt at art, the kind that might tug at a parent's heart. If that parent had a heart left to tug at.

I made several attempts, crumpling and discarding the failures. On the fifth try, I created something that looked appropriately childish but charming enough to be kept. It was a simple daisy, slightly lopsided, with "Papa" written carefully at the bottom in shaky letters. Looking at it made my stomach churn. I was manipulating a cursed man using his dead wife's daughter as a weapon. The thought was cynical and cruel. But the alternative was dying at seventeen, and I was not noble enough to choose death over manipulation.

I set the drawing aside and turned my attention to the larger problem of the meeting itself. In the novel, Charlotte had avoided her father at all costs, terrified by his cold indifference and the malice that leaked through the enchantment whenever they crossed paths. That fear had kept her isolated and had ultimately sealed her fate. If she had never existed in his mind, killing her had been easy. I had to be impossible to ignore, but in a way that would not trigger his anger or the curse's protective mechanisms. I had to be memorable.

The plan was simple in theory and terrifying in execution. I would "get lost" in the palace and "accidentally" wander into the south gardens during his morning walk. I would have my drawing with me. When he appeared, I would be startled but not afraid, curious but not demanding. I would be a child seeking her father's attention, not a political pawn or a painful reminder. At least, that was the hope.

I practiced in front of the mirror, trying different expressions. A natural childhood curiosity was the goal, something that could not be dismissed as scheming. "Oh!" I said to my reflection, widening my eyes in surprise. "Papa, I did not know you would be here. I made this for you."

The words felt strange in my mouth. I had never called anyone Papa before. My own father had been "Dad" in my previous life, a warm, loving man who had died when I was in college. This father was a stranger, a villain, and a man whose curse made him want to kill me. But he was also my only path to survival. I practiced until my voice sounded natural, until the surprise in my expression looked genuine instead of calculated. I even practiced what to do if he rejected it. "That is okay," I whispered to the mirror, forcing a small, brave smile. "Maybe next time."

The reflection stared back at me with those striking eyes, and for a moment, I saw the original Charlotte. The lonely girl who had tried so hard to be good, to be loved, to be enough. She had failed. I would not.

Dawn came too quickly. The maids arrived to dress me, and I let them choose the outfit, a simple but elegant dress in pale blue. I tucked the drawing carefully into a pocket where it would not crease. "Will Your Highness be needing anything else?" the older maid asked. I shook my head, not trusting my voice. My heart was pounding so hard I thought they might hear it.

They left, and I was alone with my fear. I waited until mid-morning, when I knew the Emperor would have finished his training and would be walking through the gardens before his first council meeting. I opened my chamber door and stepped into the corridor. No guards immediately appeared to stop me. Charlotte was forgotten enough that no one bothered keeping close watch on her movements.

The walk to the south gardens felt endless. Each step brought me closer to a meeting that would determine everything. The corridors were beautiful but cold, all marble and gold and empty space. I passed a few servants, who looked startled to see me but did not stop me. One even curtsied, which felt absurd given that I was five years old and completely powerless. The garden doors appeared ahead, tall and carved with intricate designs. Sunlight streamed through the glass panels, making patterns on the marble floor. I pushed them open and stepped into the morning air. The Emperor of Ice was somewhere nearby. Time to rewrite my fate.