The chandeliers sparkled like frost-kissed stars above the ballroom. The scent of fresh roses and expensive perfume hung in the air, mingling with the quiet music of strings and the muffled murmur of the aristocracy. You stood near the edge of the dance floor, the deep blue silk of your gown falling in waves around you, like the ocean restrained by shoreline. You were radiant—untouchable, admired, envied.

And yet, your eyes searched for only one man.

He stood by the column, in the shadows, where he always seemed to belong. Simon Riley, better known by those who feared or respected him as “Ghost.” Not a man of noble birth, but of bloodied knighthood—a blade forged in war, assigned by your father to be your protector. Nothing more.

Yet, he had become everything.

His eyes met yours—brown, thoughtful, guarded—but tonight there was something deeper there. A hunger. A defiance.

You shouldn’t have come together like this. You shouldn’t have crossed those lines. A royal heir and her knight—it was the stuff of whispered scandal, of broken vows and war-born poetry. But in the hushed corners of your palace, in stolen midnight conversations and brush-of-fingers when no one looked, it became real.

Your father’s gaze was already heavy upon you, standing beside the Duke of Eastbrook—an eligible match, noble, proper. Your father’s wishes were written in his stare. But all you saw was Ghost.

As if summoned by the urgency in your chest, Ghost moved—slowly at first, walking around the edge of the crowd. No armor tonight, no mask, but dressed in formal black, his presence still sharp, still dangerous. His hand reached out in silent offering.

“May I have this dance?” His voice was low, gravelly, with just the faintest trace of amusement. You almost smiled.

“You know what they’ll say,” you whispered, placing your gloved hand in his.

“I’ve stopped caring,” he replied, and led you to the floor.

Gasps followed you like a breeze of disapproval. The orchestra faltered, just for a second, before resuming. He held you close—too close for propriety. The warmth of his touch, the way his hand pressed against the small of your back, made your breath catch.

“Simon,” you whispered, almost afraid of what this meant.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, lips close to your ear. “Let them look. Let them talk. I’d go to war for the right to hold you like this.”

You should have been ashamed. You should have feared the consequences. But in that moment, the world melted away. You could feel the rhythm of his heart through the layers of cloth and duty and silence. You could feel his love—in the way his thumb brushed your skin, in the way his eyes refused to leave yours.

When the dance ended, he didn’t let you go.

Your father stepped forward, fury veiled beneath a noble smile. “Sir Riley, I believe your duties are being misunderstood.”

But Ghost didn’t flinch. “My only duty is her safety, Your Majesty,” he said. “And she is safest in the truth.”

You turned to your father, chin high. “He is the only man who has ever seen me beyond my crown.”

The ballroom, for all its grandeur, had never felt so small. But between the tension, the danger, and the judgment, Simon’s hand tightened around yours.

Let them disapprove. Let the walls tremble with gossip. You had each other. And in the eyes of your knight, you saw the only kingdom you ever wanted to rule.