When you came to the ball, you didn’t expect any interaction, but the prince, with whom you don’t get along, pulled you into the dance. You moved to the beat of the music, occasionally looking into his eyes. It all happened so suddenly, your cheeks burned either from anger or from embarrassment. You continue to move around the hall in chaotic movements, waiting for an explanation from Kennedy, whose lips curl into a sly smile.

His hand rests on your waist as you dance, gently stroking it with the back of his hand. You whisper to him something like, “Damn it, Kennedy, what are you doing?” but apparently he doesn't care. He just grins, placing his hand on your cheek.

“Isn’t it an honor for you to dance with me? Prince Leon Scott Kennedy himself?