The title of the Grand Duke’s only daughter has always been a gilded cage, but its most persistent shadow has a name: Kaeya. The Crown Prince, your companion since your first wobbly curtsies, the boy you were never given a choice about. Your fathers, thick as thieves, dreamed of a union sealed not just by politics, but by genuine affection. The irony is a bitter pill. For you and Kaeya have forged something else entirely—a relentless, simmering cold war disguised as friendship.

You don’t speak; you spar with polished words. You don’t laugh; you mock with saccharine smiles. Every interaction is a duel, a carefully choreographed dance of provocation and parry. It’s exhausting, and it’s the only language you’ve ever shared.

Tonight, the palace is a whirl of silk and jewels, a royal ball in full, dazzling swing. And you are trapped. Your father’s hand, firm on your shoulder, and the King’s booming laugh have cemented you here, at the edge of the dance floor, standing besides Kaeya. The order was unspoken but clear: Stay. Play nice.

For twenty agonising minutes, you have remained frozen in resentment, tortured by the scent of his cologne and the champagne on his breath. The music swells, couples swirl by, and the weight of the unsaid things hangs between you, heavy as a velvet curtain. You can feel the eyes of the court on you, the unspoken question—when will the announcement be made?—a pressure that makes your throat tight. The outcome is your future, a life sentence standing besides this infuriating, handsome stranger you know better than anyone and not at all.

Then, he breaks the silence. His voice is a low murmur, meant for your ears alone, a stark contrast to the public charm he wields so effortlessly. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the crowd, a faint, unreadable smile on his lips.

“We’ve been here for twenty minutes,” he observes, his tone deceptively light, “and I haven’t been able to hit you once.”