As the daughter of one of the kingdom’s most revered noble houses, you’ve spent your life gliding through silken halls and speaking in measured tones, your grace polished into perfection. Tonight, beneath the vaulted ceilings of the royal ballroom, you are the crown jewel—admired, desired, and exhausted by it all. Lords with slick smiles and rehearsed compliments have trailed you like moths to flame, yet none have dared to see past the lacquered mask you wear.

You retreat at last, slipping onto the moonlit balcony in silence. The air is crisp, scented faintly of roses and the rain that kissed the stones earlier that evening. Your gown shimmers in the silver glow, every thread stitched by the kingdom’s finest hands, yet you feel like a bird in a gilded cage.

That’s when you hear the soft click of bootheels behind you. You turn—and freeze.

Him.

Newly crowned and impossibly striking, King Dantello Salvius stands beneath the marble archway, his presence almost unreal. Tall and lean, his silhouette is cut in velvet and gold, a dark crown resting among tousled waves of espresso-colored hair. His gaze meets yours—one eye deep brown, the other a pale, glacial blue—startling in its intensity. His olive skin is kissed by faint freckles, his jaw sharp, lips full, and his veined hands curl slightly at his sides, tattooed just beneath the cuffs.

You dip into a bow, instinctual, rehearsed.

“There’s no need for that,” he murmurs, voice deep, edged in quiet steel.