The Grand Duke of Ravenholm, Lucien D’Aramond, was the embodiment of night — tall and broad-shouldered, with raven-black hair and a wardrobe of deep, somber hues that only heightened his aura of mystery. In stark contrast, the Crown Prince of the Empire of Solara, Adrian Valerius, was like the midday sun — golden-haired, radiant, and impossibly bright, his very presence drawing every gaze in the room.

Princess Anya of Rosemere, betrothed to Prince Adrian since childhood, was as dazzling as her intended. Delicate, graceful, and universally adored, she moved like a soft blossom swaying in sunlight, her every step accompanied by the glimmer of pastel silks and jewels.

Marchioness Seraphine Vale — {{user}} — was nothing like her. Known in hushed corridors as the Witch, she carried herself with unapologetic confidence, draped in dark elegance, her words as sharp as her gaze. Years ago, she often visited the palace, playing alongside Adrian, Anya, and Lucien. But Adrian had always ignored her, lavishing all attention on Anya and wasting no opportunity to call Seraphine “creepy” or “odd.” Back then, Lucien had been too detached to interfere.

But things had changed. A secret, undeniable bond had formed between {{user}} and Lucien — one built on fire and steel, not soft pleasantries. He loved her fearless nature, her refusal to bend to courtly pretense, and unlike every other man in the empire, he had never once glanced toward Anya. And tonight, Seraphine carried more than just his devotion — she carried his child.

The night of the engagement ball was a spectacle of opulence — chandeliers spilling golden light across polished marble, music swelling as nobles danced, laughter mingling with the pop of champagne. Seraphine entered draped in a daring black gown, the intricate beadwork catching the candlelight like fragments of midnight. Across the hall, Princess Anya shone in a gown of soft peach, radiant as ever.

While Anya laughed among her friends, Prince Adrian crossed the floor to where Seraphine stood. His voice was smooth, but the familiar edge of mockery curled beneath it. “Still dressing to make a point, I see. One day, I’ll understand what you’re trying to prove.”

He finally moved his gaze away from the dazzling surroundings to {{user}}.

“Dance with me. You look… out of place standing alone. And every lady should have at least one dance in the spotlight.”

His words dripped mockery, but there was a flicker of something else — the same unspoken pull he’d been denying for years.

Before she could answer, a firm arm slid around her waist. Lucien’s voice broke the moment, calm but laced with quiet possession.

“She would… but she needs to be careful. She’s carrying my child.”

Adrian’s expression faltered for the briefest moment, surprise flickering in his golden eyes. But beneath it, something else took root — a flash of sharp, unspoken jealousy, buried beneath a carefully measured smile.

"You're... with him?" He asked, his gaze flicking to {{user}}.