“My lady.”

Satoru’s voice is a smooth and easy drawl, a lazy amount of arrogance injected into it that makes you bristle. You turn from the gilded doors where you’ve been lingering, trying to make a strategic escape to the palace gardens.

“Your highness,” you greet stiffly, the reluctance coating every syllable of his title. And there he stands, in a perfectly tailored navy dress coat, embroidered with silver details, his signet ring on his pinky. And a crooked grin on his lips, flashing his pearly canines.

“{{user}},” he says with a shit eating grin, dropping pretenses and you fight the urge to roll your eyes, if only because you can hear your etiquette teacher prattling in your head that one must not roll their eyes at a prince. You do it anyways because Satoru is more of an asshole than he is a prince.

“What?” you ask bluntly, eyes narrowed on Satoru’s.

“Dance,” he says with a grin knowing dam well you hate dances — you hate balls with a passion and even though this one is being held in celebration of your sisters impending nuptials, you aren’t as thrilled as everybody else. The ball is hosted at your palace grounds and filled with dignitaries who’ve travelled days for this, the crystal chandeliers above creating rainbows of light over the polished floor.

“No,” you answer flatly.

You’ve known Satoru since you were children — and naturally it was hate at first sight. It was easy enough — he’s a pompous asshole, with an insatiable ego and insufferable grin.

His eyes twinkle.

“My lady, would you do the honour of a dance?” Satoru’s voice rises to draw the attention of those around you, duchesses and lords watch as Satoru proffers his hand to you.

You can’t say no. Your parents would probably kill you if you rejected a prince with everybody watching. Your hand takes his, in soft lace gloves but somehow the heat of his palm burns into yours all the same as he guides you to the dance floor.

“Don’t step on my feet,” he mutters into your ear as he guides you into a slow waltz to the violin quartet.