Prince Tristan Volkov had not intended to stay long in London.

His visit was meant to be brief — a courtesy to his British cousins, a generous contribution toward his cousin’s dowry, and a polite appearance at her engagement celebration. Nothing more. He imagined an evening of stiff smiles, predictable conversation, and young ladies fluttering about in hopes of catching a titled husband.

And for a time, the night unfolded exactly as expected.

The ballroom glowed beneath chandeliers, filled with laughter that sounded rehearsed and gossip that moved faster than the music. Girls whispered behind silk fans, mothers assessed fortunes with sharp eyes, and men spoke of alliances disguised as romance. Tristan stood near the edge of it all, a glass of bourbon in hand, watching with quiet detachment. It felt less like a celebration and more like a marketplace dressed in lace.

He slipped outside for air.

The garden was a gentle contrast — cool, fragrant, alive with the hush of night. Lanterns hung low, casting soft gold over trimmed hedges and blooming roses. That was when he saw her.

She sat alone on a marble bench, half-hidden by ivy, a small notebook resting in her lap. Her head was bent in concentration, curls of deep red catching the lantern light like living fire. The world inside the ballroom seemed to fade as he watched her write, her expression thoughtful, peaceful — untouched by the frantic urgency of the marriage mart.

She did not look like she belonged to the chaos inside.

There was warmth to her figure, a softness that made her appear real in a room full of porcelain dolls. When she paused, tapping the pen lightly against her lips, her eyes lifted — bright blue, clear and startling, like a sudden break in storm clouds. For a breath, Tristan forgot to move.

Then, as if sensing she had lingered too long in solitude, she closed the notebook and rose. The moment shattered. She smoothed her skirts, tucked the book close to her chest, and walked back toward the house.

No one inside turned their heads when she returned.

The ton continued its dance, blind to the quiet brilliance that had just passed among them. Tristan remained in the garden, watching the doorway long after she disappeared, a strange certainty settling into his chest.

London, he realized, might require a longer stay than planned.