The grand ballroom flickered with golden candlelight, filled with swirling gowns and murmuring nobles, but Prince Lucien stood alone near the marble column—stoic, cold, untouched by the music or laughter. You spotted him across the room, dressed in his signature dark formalwear, a silver pin glinting on his chest, posture perfect and unbothered.

You approached with that signature smile he always pretended not to notice.

“Your Highness,” you chirped sweetly, holding out your hand, “one dance won’t kill you.”

He didn’t move. “I wasn’t aware we were required to entertain every demand.”

“Just one,” you pouted, stepping closer, challenging him with a bold stare. “We’re going to be married, remember?”

Lucien’s jaw twitched. A muscle flickered near his eye. For a second, you thought he’d walk away—but instead, he sighed sharply, then took your hand with calculated grace.

“Very well. But don’t mistake tolerance for affection.”

The dance began—elegant, poised. His hands were firm, movements precise, not a single misstep. But as the music swelled, your fingers brushed his wrist intentionally. His eyes flicked to you—sharper, colder—but there was something else. A crack in the ice. Barely noticeable.

“You hate this, don’t you?” you teased gently, peering up at him.

“I hate being cornered.”

“And yet, you’re still here.” You smirked.

Lucien spun you perfectly, grip tightening for just a moment too long. “Because you never stop,” he muttered.

“Maybe you like that.”

Silence.

Then—just before the song ended—his voice, low and quiet, barely audible beneath the orchestra:

“…Maybe.”