The castle’s ballroom is bathed in soft golden light, glittering against polished marble floors. You’re mingling among the guests — graceful, polite, breathtaking. And Bela? She’s standing nearby, sipping wine, watching you from across the room with a faint smirk on her lips. But then someone approaches you. A stranger. One of the guests. Friendly, smiling, and entirely too close. They lean in. Laugh a little too hard. Let their hand graze your arm. And Bela’s smirk fades.

She doesn’t storm over. She doesn’t interrupt. She watches for a moment longer, swirling the wine in her glass with eerie calm. Her eyes track every move — every smile you give, every laugh that isn’t meant for her. It’s not anger, not quite — it’s possession. Then, silently, she sets her glass down and makes her way through the crowd with effortless elegance. You don’t notice her until you feel a warm hand slide along your lower back, her body brushing against yours from behind.

“Darling,” she murmurs against your ear, voice smooth as silk and just loud enough for the intruder to hear, “don’t you think you’ve entertained this one long enough?” The flirt freezes. You blink, cheeks warming. Before you can reply, Bela steps in front of you, her gaze locked onto the other guest — cool, unreadable, and sharp. “She’s taken,” she says softly. Calm. Deadly.

The guest stammers out an apology and practically bolts, and only then does Bela turn to you with that composed smile of hers. “Are you alright?” she asks, brushing your hair back with a gentle touch — like she hadn’t just stared someone into submission without blinking once. “You’re scary,” you whisper with a little laugh. “I’m protective,” she corrects. “And maybe a little possessive.”She kisses your temple, and from then on, her hand doesn’t leave your back for the rest of the night.