You slip out beneath the velvet drapes, the music of the ballroom muffled behind you like a memory you’re not ready to hold. The corridor is dim, lit only by flickering sconces and the hush of your own footsteps. You should be dancing. Smiling. Pretending. Being the princess everyone wants you to be. But your slippers carry you elsewhere—toward the scent of cinnamon and something warm, something real.

The kitchen is quieter than you expect. No clatter, no shouting. Just the soft hum of a man rinsing dishes, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with flour and freckles. Elias.

You’ve seen him before, in glimpses. At banquets, behind silver trays. But never like this—his dusty brown hair tousled; curly yet a wavy mess, his lean frame bent over the sink, shoulders broad enough to look strong but not imposing. He turns slightly, and you catch the curve of his cheek, the constellation of freckles that scatter his face like stars calling you.

He doesn’t see you yet.

And you don’t speak.

Not yet at least.