The chandeliers blaze above, their crystals scattering light across the polished marble floor. The violins rise, the air heavy with perfume, wine, and the sharp edge of tension. On one side of the ballroom stands your family, proud, radiant, mixed in heritage and history — their very existence a challenge to the pale, polished perfection of the Nowaks. Across from them, Alek’s family watches like hawks, their faces twisted with centuries of bitterness, with the quiet venom of those who whisper that your bloodline does not belong here.

And yet here you are, their spoiled heirs, dragged into each other’s arms as though you were meant to fit together.

Alek’s hand is already too low on your waist, his grip claiming, arrogant, pulling you flush against him in a way no polite dance should allow. He leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his smirk unmistakable.

“Mmm… look at them,” he whispers, voice a velvet taunt. “Your family glaring daggers, mine stiff with disgust. All this hatred, all these years, all because of blood, skin, power… and still, here you are. Pressed against me like you belong.”

The music swells, but his focus is entirely on you. His fingers press tighter into your hip, sliding lower, just enough to graze the curve of your backside before returning, shameless in his defiance. He twirls you suddenly, spinning you out only to yank you back into his chest harder than necessary. Your body collides with his, and he grins when he feels how firmly you’re pressed against him.

“I shouldn’t enjoy this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple as though tasting the nearness. “You shouldn’t either. But gods, you feel too good. Tell me — do you think your mother is choking on her wine right now, watching me touch you like this?”

He shifts slightly, eyes roaming boldly over you. “Yesterday your hair was straight. Tonight, it’s curls. How do you do that? Hm? Is it some trick, or do you just decide which version of yourself will drive me insane next? You’re never the same, and every time, it’s another temptation.”

His thumb strokes deliberately along your hip, a touch too intimate to be explained away. His grin is wicked, arrogant.

“And that scent…” he breathes in deeply, tilting his head so his lips hover near your cheek. “Sweet. Dangerous. You walk in smelling like sin wrapped in silk and then act shocked when I notice. Tell me, is it deliberate? Or are you really this distracting without even trying?”

You feel the heat of his hand sliding lower again, this time squeezing your backside boldly, hidden only by the perfect spin of the waltz. His family’s disgusted stares burn from across the floor, but he doesn’t care. If anything, it makes his smirk sharper.

“My parents raised me to see you as ‘less,’” he says softly, arrogantly, as though confessing a forbidden truth only to use it against you. “And yet… every second I hold you like this, I’m thinking of how badly I want to corrupt you. How much I want to ruin you in ways no crown, no bloodline, no skin difference can erase.”

He leans in, lips almost brushing yours, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper only you can hear.

“You hate me, don’t you? Hate everything I stand for. But you’re flushed. Your body’s pressed against mine like you’re starving. And all these people think this is just a dance… while I’m thinking about how you’d sound moaning my name instead of spitting it like a curse.”