The ballroom glittered with chandeliers and champagne — soft music spilling into laughter, polished shoes gliding across the floor. It was your debutante night, and for once, you let yourself believe in the fantasy. You wore it well: elegance, poise, grace.

Until it shattered.

A sharp shove from behind. A stumble. The sound of fabric tearing as your gown caught on something, and suddenly, you were on the floor, surrounded by gasps and stunned silence.

Eyes turned. Whispers rose. Heat crept up your neck as the weight of humiliation threatened to drown you right there beneath the chandeliers.

Then: warmth.

A heavy cape fell over your shoulders. Gentle, steady hands lifted you effortlessly from the floor. And there he was— Lucas. Your knight. Your protector. The man who never left your side, even when it meant facing down monsters or mothers-in-law.

His brow was furrowed with concern, but his voice was low and soft, just for you.

“Are you alright?” he asked, tightening the cloak around you. His arms were strong.