The ballroom felt like it was closing in—too many perfumes, too much velvet, too many masks hiding fake smiles. Isadora fanned herself with a napkin she'd snatched from the refreshment table, her head swimming just slightly.
"Why is it so bloody hot?" she muttered.
She had only meant to try the sparkling drink because it looked fancy. And then another, because it tasted like fruit. Then another, because—well, why not?
Now her cheeks were warm, the room was spinning just a little too gently, and she was suddenly certain she needed air.
Isadora slipped out a side door, her heels clicking against the stone as she made her way into the garden. Cool night air kissed her face, and she sighed dramatically, pressing both hands to her flushed cheeks.
"Better," she said to no one.
She wandered a little, stopping to tug at the ridiculous laces of her corset and muttering, "Who invented this torture device anyway? Sadists, all of them."
She turned a corner—and smacked straight into someone.
"Oof—sorry," she said, stumbling slightly before regaining her balance.
Strong hands caught her arms.
Isadora blinked up.
It was him.
Lucien.
Of all people.
"Oh no," she whispered, squinting slightly at his very serious face. "You again."
He arched a brow. "You seem… unwell."
"I'm perfectly fine," she said, throwing out her arms with a grand flourish. "Except for the tiny fact that my lungs are being crushed by ten layers of tulle and bone."
Lucien didn't respond, but his lips twitched—barely.
"And the wine," she added, swaying slightly. "Maybe I had a bit of that. Or a lot. I don't know. Who's counting?"
"You clearly weren't," he said dryly.
She leaned forward, voice low and full of faux-conspiracy. "I think someone tried to poison me with how good the food was. I couldn't stop. I blacked out somewhere around the fifth tart."
Lucien stared at her.
"Also," she added, nodding solemnly, "the chandelier in there keeps giving me judgmental looks."
That… seemed to do it. His expression cracked—just barely—but the corner of his mouth twitched again.
Isadora narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you laughing at me?"
"No," he said. "Not yet."
She clutched her chest dramatically. "Well, I think I'm delightful."
Lucien exhaled slowly, stepping back just enough to let her breathe. "You should sit down before you say something you regret."
"Oh, too late for that," she grinned, eyes glassy. "I think I've already insulted half the nobility."
Lucien looked at her for a moment, quiet, unreadable.
And then he said, "Come. There's a bench this way."
She blinked. "You're not going to report me to Celeste?"
"Tempting," he said. "But no."
She followed him, wobbling only slightly, muttering as they walked, "You're surprisingly nice for someone nicknamed after a wild beast."
Lucien said nothing.
But the corner of his mouth twitched once more.
The bench was tucked beneath a blooming arch of climbing roses, bathed in soft moonlight. Lucien gestured for her to sit. Isadora plopped down without hesitation, exhaling as though she'd just returned from battle.
"I'm not drunk," she declared suddenly. "I'm just…emotionally tilted."
Lucien sat beside her, silent.
"I mean, who even comes up with all these rules? No elbows here, no slouching there, don't laugh too loud, don't eat like a starving gremlin. I swear, it's like this entire noble society is allergic to joy."
Lucien's gaze lingered on her, unreadable.
"I've been here for, what, two weeks? And already I've been poked, pinched, corrected, curtsied into submission. Celeste says it's about 'grace.' I think it's just organized torture wrapped in silk."
He didn't interrupt. He didn't even look bored. If anything, he looked…curious.
Isadora turned to him, squinting. "You're awfully quiet for someone who just saved me from possibly embarrassing myself in front of a bush."
Lucien leaned slightly back, arms resting on the edge of the bench. "I find you…entertaining."
"Entertaining?" she blinked. "That sounds like something you say before throwing someone into a dungeon."
"Not always."
She snorted. "You're not as terrifying as they say, you know."
Lucien turned to her, his expression cool. "A mistake many have made."
Isadora opened her mouth to reply—likely something bordering on absurd—but paused. Her gaze drifted toward the ballroom, catching a figure in the shadows just beyond the columns.
Prince Alaric.
He stood still, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his gaze fixed on the bench. On them.
Watching.
If Lucien noticed, he didn't show it. His attention remained entirely on Isadora.
Meanwhile, Alaric's brows drew together faintly, confusion flickering in his expression.
Lucien, the Crimson-Eyed Beast, a man known for cold silence and unyielding presence, was sitting in a moonlit garden listening to a girl ramble. And not just listening—he looked calm. Not polite. Not indifferent. Calm.
Almost…tolerant.
No, intrigued.
Prince Alaric frowned deeper.
Isadora, blissfully unaware of the attention, leaned closer to Lucien and whispered like it was a state secret. "Also, I may have told the chandelier it was judging me and called it an aristocratic snob."
Lucien tilted his head. "I'm sure it deserved it."
She gasped, dramatic. "You agree?! You do have a sense of humor."
Lucien only glanced up at the sky, as if silently asking the heavens what he'd gotten himself into.
Back inside the ballroom, the music had shifted once again. Dancers spun, laughter echoed, and glasses clinked under the golden chandeliers. But Celeste stood near the edge of the crowd, scanning the room with increasing concern.
"She was just here," she murmured, glancing around. "One moment she was dancing with Prince Alaric, and the next—gone."
The Earl, standing beside her with a glass of wine in hand, raised a brow. "Perhaps she went to get some air?"
Celeste's eyes narrowed. "That girl better not have vanished into a hedge again."
Without another word, she turned and made her way through the side doors, slipping past chatting nobles and overly powdered dowagers until she stepped into the cool night.
The garden was still, save for the gentle whisper of the breeze through the leaves and the faint trickle of the fountain.
And then she heard it—laughter.
Not the refined, restrained kind expected at a noble gathering.
No. This was Isadora's laugh. Loud. Unfiltered. Very clearly wine-induced.
Celeste followed the sound until she rounded a corner and froze in place.
There, beneath the arch of blooming roses, on the bench beside the moonlit path, sat Isadora—shoulders shaking in laughter, cheeks flushed with drink.
Next to her sat Duke Lucien D'Aragon.
The Crimson-Eyed Beast himself.
Not just sitting.
Listening.
Watching her with a strangely patient expression, as if she were the most fascinating disaster he'd ever encountered.
Celeste's mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.
Of all the things she expected tonight, this was not on the list.
Isadora flailed a hand toward the sky, muttering something about aristocratic stars and how they probably judged her dance moves.
Lucien tilted his head, seemingly amused, but said nothing.
Celeste blinked. "Oh… dear god."
Celeste took a deep breath and stepped forward, her heels clicking softly against the stone path.
"Isadora," she said, voice calm but firm. "It's time to go home."
Isadora blinked up at her, brows knitting together like she was trying to process whether she was dreaming or not. "Huh? Already?"
Celeste smiled tightly. "Yes. Before you start serenading the moon or propose to a hedge."
Lucien rose as well, towering beside the bench, his expression unreadable once again.
Isadora stood—wobbled a little—then turned to face Lucien. Her expression was soft, a little dazed, but sincere.
"Oh!" she said, glancing down at the slightly crumpled white flower she'd been fiddling with all evening. She held it out to him. "Here. You listened. So… this is yours now."
Lucien looked at the flower, then at her. He accepted it without a word, slipping it into his coat pocket with a quiet nod.
Before anything more could be said, Celeste stepped forward, her voice calm but commanding. "Isadora. It's late. We should be going."
Isadora blinked at her, then sighed. "Fine… but only because my feet hurt."
Celeste gently took her arm and began guiding her toward the carriage. Isadora threw one last glance over her shoulder.
"Bye, Crimson Eyes," she called softly. "Try not to look so scary all the time."
Lucien watched her disappear into the night, the faintest trace of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Behind a column in the courtyard, Prince Alaric watched with narrowed eyes—silent, curious, and undeniably surprised.
Lucien D'Aragon didn't speak to anyone like that.
Let alone smile.
The morning light crept through the tall windows as Isadora slowly woke in her room, her thoughts a tangled mix of hazy memories and lingering embarrassment. As she sat on the edge of her bed, she vividly recalled every moment from last night—the way she had boldly stepped in on that argument in the square, the wild laughter as she handed Duke Lucien a flower, and even that moment on the dance floor, where everything had passed in a blur of daring and defiance. A sudden flush of mortification surged through her. Unable to contain it, she let out a small, startled scream that echoed softly in the quiet of her room.
Her heart pounded as she splashed cold water on her face, trying to wash away not only the remnants of wine but also the vivid images from the night before. The memory of Duke Lucien's cool, unreadable expression and the way he had silently accepted the flower made her feel small and exposed—even though part of her was thrilled by the encounter.
Gathering herself, Isadora forced a steady breath. She slipped into something simpler and more comfortable, hoping for a fresh start this morning. With no time to dwell on the events that had set her cheeks ablaze with shame, she headed down the corridor toward the dining room.
Inside, Celeste and the Earl were already seated at a long table, engaging in light conversation about the day's plans. Celeste greeted her with that same polished smile as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Isadora kept her eyes lowered and her expression neutral, swallowing hard as she sat quietly beside them.
For most of the meal, a tense silence hovered around Isadora. Finally, as the dishes were cleared away, Celeste leaned forward slightly and said in a calm but firm tone, "Lady Isadora, I trust that last night taught you a valuable lesson."
Isadora's face turned a shade of crimson. She looked up, hesitating before replying, "I—yes, my lady."
Celeste's gaze softened, though the underlying firmness remained. "You must remember, too much indulgence can cloud your judgment. I understand the excitement of this new life, but please, don't let the wine lead you astray. We cannot afford mistakes, now more than ever."
Isadora nodded silently, pressing her lips together. In that moment, she wished she could vanish into the tapestry of silk and stone around her. But she knew Celeste's words were not just a lecture—they were a mandate. With a tight smile and a promise to be more cautious, Isadora resolved to keep her misadventures contained, even if the memories of Duke Lucien's silent approval continued to haunt her thoughts.