The ballroom is unbearable.

Not because it isn’t beautiful—it is. Crystal chandeliers, polished marble, gowns that cost more than most people’s rent. It’s all very perfect.

That’s the problem.

Renée Devereaux looks like she belongs here.

She just doesn’t act like it.

Tailored suit instead of a gown—sharp, intentional, every detail curated within an inch of its life. Dark velvet, clean lines, cufflinks that catch the light just enough. Old money, reimagined.

Your parents noticed.

Everyone noticed.

You, meanwhile, are exactly what they expect.

Elegant. Poised. A vision in silk and structure, every movement practiced, every smile placed perfectly. You could glide through this night without a single misstep if you wanted to.

And you do.

Because you know how to play the game.

Renée?

She knows the rules. She just doesn’t care to follow all of them.

“You’re staring,” she murmurs, stepping up beside you with a glass of something expensive she probably didn’t pay for.

“I’m assessing the damage,” you reply smoothly.

She huffs a quiet laugh. “And?”

“You’re causing a scene.”

“Good.”

You try not to smile. Fail—just slightly.

Across the room, Lennox leans against a column like she’s watching a show she’s already seen before. She debuted last season—perfectly, of course—and now she’s just here for entertainment, her own girlfriend tucked neatly at her side.

She lifts her glass toward Renée in acknowledgment.

Renée does it back.

“Traitor,” you murmur.

“She gets it,” Renée replies.

“Because she already survived this.”

“Exactly.”

There’s a pause.

Music swells softly in the background—another waltz, another round of carefully orchestrated introductions and expectations.

You feel it before she even moves—Renée stepping just a little closer, her presence cutting through all the noise like something real.

“You’re doing that thing,” she says quietly.

“What thing?”

“The perfect daughter thing.”

You glance at her. “It’s expected.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “But it’s not you.”

You hold her gaze for a second longer than you should.

Then—

“It’s part of me,” you correct gently.

Renée studies you like she’s trying to decide if she believes that.

“…You look good,” she says finally, softer now.

You raise an eyebrow. “I always do.”

She smirks. “Yeah. But tonight—”

Her eyes flick over you, slower this time.

“—it’s different.”

Your heart stutters, just slightly.

You recover quickly, smoothing it over with a practiced smile. “Careful, Renée. People are watching.”

“Let them.”

“That’s not how this works.”

She tilts her head. “Then how does it work?”

You gesture subtly around the room. “We smile. We dance. We say the right things to the right people.”

“And then?”

“And then,” you say, quieter now, “we don’t ruin it.”

Renée hums, like she’s considering that.

Then she sets her glass aside.

“Dance with me,” she says.