The palace ballroom looked like something carved from a fever dream.
Gilded pillars, chandeliers dripping in crystals, floors so polished you could see your sins in them. Everything was too perfect. Too deliberate. Like the entire room had been designed to seduce—and punish—at the same time.
Serena hated it on sight.
The air was heavy with perfume and politics. Nobles, foreign diplomats, military officers, and women in gowns that cost more than her mother's entire estate—all of them speaking softly, drinking slowly, and watching everything.
And now… they watched *her*.
Because at the center of it all, arm resting lightly against Prince Damián's, stood the woman no one recognized but everyone whispered about.
---
The black gown clung to her like second skin. It dipped low in the back and split high at the thigh—dramatic, scandalous, unapologetic.
But it was the collar that stole the attention.
A slim black band, perfectly fitted around her throat, the royal crest gleaming at the hollow of her neck.
Every glance she caught held the same question behind it:
Who is she, and why is she wearing *his* mark?
---
Damián didn't speak as they entered.
He didn't need to.
His hand rested lightly on her lower back. Possessive. Subtle.
Her entire body was aware of it.
Of the way he touched nothing but *owned* everything.
---
"Smile, darling," he murmured close to her ear as they moved through the crowd. "They're afraid of you. Make them wonder why."
She turned to him slowly, her lips curling into a perfect, practiced smile.
"Is that what you want? For them to think I'm dangerous?"
He met her gaze with a look that made her pulse stumble.
"No," he said quietly. "I want them to *know* it."
---
The first introduction came quickly.
General Theron Raveen. Towering. Silver-haired. Eyes that had seen war.
He bowed to Damián, then looked to Serena.
"And you must be the shadow I hadn't been briefed on."
Serena smiled. "That's because shadows don't ask for permission."
The general arched a brow. Damián said nothing.
But his fingers brushed lightly along her spine.
Approval.
---
Next came Lady Marissa Vireaux.
Damián's cousin.
Sharp cheekbones. Sharper smile.
Her gaze flicked from Serena's face… to the collar.
"Interesting choice," she said sweetly. "Most companions aren't so… bold."
Serena didn't blink. "And most royals don't mistake dignity for silence."
Marissa's smile froze.
Damián's hand flexed just slightly behind her.
She was learning.
---
An hour in, Serena's feet ached, her cheekbones were sore from smiling, and her lungs burned from holding back words sharper than knives.
But none of it compared to the awareness thrumming between her and Damián.
The weight of every glance he gave her when no one else was watching.
The way his thumb pressed—just briefly—against her hip when someone looked too long.
The heat in his voice when he leaned down and said, "You've done well."
---
But it wasn't until they reached the royal dais that everything shifted.
There, before the palace's most elite, Damián stepped forward.
And with his hand still resting on her lower back, he addressed the crowd.
"Some of you have asked questions," he said, voice calm, cold, clear. "So allow me to answer them."
He turned toward Serena.
"This is Serena Vale."
A pause.
Whispers.
Some shocked. Some intrigued.
"A former prisoner," he continued. "Now under my protection. And under my command."
Serena's heart thudded.
He reached for her hand. Raised it slightly.
"She is not a guest," he said. "She is not a pet. She is mine."
Gasps. Audible now.
A few murmurs of outrage.
Serena stood tall, letting the silence settle around them like dust on marble.
Let them choke on it.
Let them *watch*.
Damián leaned closer, voice low so only she could hear.
"They'll hate you."
"They already do."
"And they'll try to break you."
Her gaze stayed ahead.
"Let them try."
---
That night, in the silence of her chamber, Serena peeled the gown from her skin slowly.
She stood before the mirror, the collar still around her throat.
She didn't touch it.
Not yet.
Because tonight, she wasn't just a pawn.
Not a rebel.
Not a hostage.
She was something no one else had ever dared to be:
A woman who wore the crown's claim… and didn't bow.
---