As they approached the raised platform where the king sat, the Earl released Isadora's arm and stepped forward with practiced ease. Celeste was already there, her posture perfect, her head dipped just low enough to show reverence without submission.
"Your Majesty," the Earl said with a respectful bow.
Celeste offered a graceful curtsy. "It's an honor, as always."
King Aldric expression warmed. "Lord and Lady D'Amore. Still managing to outshine half my court, I see."
Celeste laughed softly, a sound full of familiarity and ease. "Someone must keep things elegant while you're busy running the kingdom."
The king chuckled, clearly amused—and comfortable. Their conversation flowed like old friends, a quiet, unspoken closeness lingering between words.
Isadora stood slightly back, watching it all unfold with wide eyes. This wasn't just a formal greeting. Celeste and her husband weren't merely nobles—they were trusted. Respected. And held influence far beyond what she'd initially guessed.
Then the king's eyes shifted.
"And who is this young lady?" he asked, gaze landing on Isadora. "I don't believe we've met."
Isadora quickly dipped into a curtsy, her heart thudding against her ribs.
Celeste stepped forward with a soft smile. "This is my daughter, Isadora."
The king raised a brow. "Your daughter? I was under the impression you had no children."
"She was away for many years," Celeste said smoothly. "She fell ill when she was younger, and we sent her to a quiet estate in the countryside to recover. It took time, but she's healed now."
The king studied Isadora for a moment, then gave a nod. "She has your eyes."
Celeste's smile tightened just slightly. "And her father's defiance. She's… adjusting. But she'll do well."
"I look forward to seeing that," the king said kindly. Then, to Isadora, "Welcome back to the capital, Lady Isadora. I hope we'll speak again before the night is through."
Isadora curtsied again, this time without stumbling. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
As they moved on, Celeste leaned in with a whisper only Isadora could hear.
"See? That wasn't so hard."
Isadora gave her a look. "You told the king I was recovering from a disease?"
Celeste's smile didn't falter. "It was less complicated than explaining the truth. Besides, it's not entirely false."
Isadora rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips as they continued deeper into the ballroom.
The music swelled with the rich notes of strings and flutes as couples began to gather on the dance floor, swirling in silks and masks. The grand ballroom glittered beneath chandeliers, every flicker of candlelight catching on embroidered gowns and polished shoes.
Isadora stood near the edge, watching with wide eyes as noble pairs moved in perfect rhythm. The etiquette tutor's voice echoed faintly in her head: Step, glide, turn. Don't crush your partner's feet.
She took a cautious sip of her drink, calculating how many more dances she could avoid before someone inevitably dragged her in.
Beside her, a pair of noblewomen chatted softly about someone's engagement, and across the room, Seraphina was laughing far too loudly at something a gentleman said. Isadora rolled her eyes and looked away.
"Would you grant me this dance?"
The voice was low. Calm. And far too close.
Isadora turned—and froze.
He stood tall and composed, dressed in formal black with crimson embroidery trailing his cuffs and collar. His mask was sleek, dark, simple—but it couldn't hide the cold steel of his presence.
Shit.
Without waiting for a reply, he extended his gloved hand.
Isadora blinked. "I—uh—yes?"
She placed her hand in his before her brain caught up.
He led her into the center of the floor with effortless confidence, as if the sea of onlookers parted just for him. They moved into position, and as the music began again, Isadora moved in sync with Duke Lucien, each step guided more by instinct than training. He was quiet, his touch steady at her waist, his crimson eye watching her with unreadable calm.
She could feel it—the stares, the weight of attention pressing in from all sides. But the sharpest gaze wasn't his.
Seraphina.
Isadora didn't have to look long to find her. The woman was standing near the edge of the dance floor, a half-smile tugging at her lips as her eyes followed them like a hawk. Her gaze flicked to Lucien's hand, then to Isadora's dress, her expression unreadable but cold.
Oh.
Isadora blinked.
So that's why he asked me to dance.
She wasn't offended, not really. She'd played enough social chess in her old world to recognize a move when she saw one. Avoiding a clingy admirer? Grab the nearest distraction. Lucky for him, that distraction happened to be starving a few minutes ago.
Still, something in her chest stirred—a strange twinge that had nothing to do with pastries or politics.
The music shifted subtly, signaling the midpoint of the dance. A ripple passed through the dancers, practiced and fluid.
"Partner switch," Lucien murmured, voice low and deep.
Before Isadora could ask what that meant, Lucien released her hand, stepping back with precision as another figure moved in—Prince Alaric.
Well. This just keeps getting better.
Alaric bowed politely, taking her hand with a charming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Lady Isadora."
She curtsied out of sheer reflex, her mind still catching up.
Across the floor, Seraphina had made her way to Lucien. Her smile bloomed the moment he turned to take her hand, though Lucien's expression didn't change.
The dance resumed, steps folding into a new rhythm.
But Isadora wasn't thinking about the prince or the music anymore.
She was watching Duke Lucien from across the floor, his crimson eye meeting hers—only briefly—before he turned away. Prince Alaric's hand was warm, his movements graceful as he led Isadora into the new sequence. He danced like someone born to it—fluid, confident, every step executed with princely poise.
Too perfect, almost.
Isadora matched his rhythm, her mind still half on Lucien and Seraphina, half on the man in front of her. Alaric's smile was charming, but calculated. The kind of smile that had been practiced in front of a mirror since childhood.
"You dance well," he said, his voice smooth as velvet. "I don't believe we've met before tonight."
Isadora offered a polite smile. "It's my first time attending something like this."
"I would've remembered," he said. "You're not easy to overlook."
Isadora tilted her head. "Is that a compliment or a warning?"
Alaric let out a soft laugh. "Both, perhaps."
He spun her gently, then caught her again with ease. His posture never faltered, but his gaze wandered—briefly, toward Lucien and Seraphina.
"Tell me, Lady Isadora," he said, voice low, "what do you think of Duke Lucien?"
She blinked at the sudden question. "I… haven't formed an opinion."
"Careful," he said, still smiling. "Some say he can read minds."
Isadora arched a brow. "Can he now?"
"He'd never admit it. But he's dangerous in every sense of the word. Loyal, yes—but only to those he deems worthy."
Isadora didn't reply, letting the music fill the space between them. She could feel it—this wasn't a casual dance. There was something deliberate about it, just like Lucien's.
The prince was measuring her.
"Don't worry," Alaric added as the dance neared its end. "I'm far less terrifying."
Isadora gave him a polite smile. "So far."
He laughed again, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
The final note rang out, and the dancers stilled in unison. Applause followed, and partners began to part ways with bows and curtsies.
Isadora stepped back from Alaric, giving a practiced dip of her head. Her heart was still steady, but her mind was racing.
She didn't trust him.
She didn't trust any of them.
But one thing was certain—whatever this banquet was really about, she had officially stepped into the middle of it.
But as she turned, she caught sight of Seraphina.
The woman was already moving—graceful, poised, determined—straight toward Lucien.
He had just stepped away from the dance floor, his expression unreadable as ever, when Seraphina caught his arm, her fingers curling around his wrist.
"Lucien, please," she said, her voice soft and honeyed. "Just wait—just a moment."
He stopped, but he didn't look at her.
"Let go."
She didn't. "I've written to you. I've visited. I've done everything I can to show you how much I care."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "I told you to stop writing."
"But I thought you were just angry," she said quickly, her voice rising a touch. "I thought if I gave you time—if I kept trying—"
"You didn't listen then, and you're not listening now." He turned his head slowly, his eyes hard behind the black mask. "I am not interested. I have never been."
Seraphina's smile faltered. "But… I've told my family. They know we're meant to be."
Lucien didn't flinch. "Then I suggest you correct them."
Her grip tightened slightly. "You don't mean that. You can't."
Lucien's voice dropped lower, sharper. "Seraphina. This is the last time I'll say it. Stop sending letters. Stop showing up. And stop clinging to a fantasy I never offered you."
He pulled his hand free, not harshly—but with a finality that made Seraphina freeze.
Then he turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone amid the glittering crowd.
Her smile was gone. Her hands trembled as she smoothed down her gown, eyes darting around to see who might have noticed.
But the damage was done. And Lucien didn't look back.