The ballroom was suffocating with gold. Gilded chandeliers burned like small suns overhead, their light catching on the jewels threaded through your hair. Music swirled, a polished waltz you knew by heart, but your thoughts were elsewhere—at the border your kingdom nearly lost.

And the man standing just across the room.

Prince Simon Riley. The Ghost of Elaria, they called him. Your father called him a threat. Your mother called him a mistake. And yet, here he stood—draped in obsidian and silver, the crest of your enemy’s house stitched over his heart like a fresh wound. His mask, raven-black, obscured half his face, but even without it, you'd know those eyes. Cold. Calculating. And tired.

You hated him. You wanted to hate him.

But hate had boundaries. Hate was clean. Whatever this was—it twisted.

“My lady,” a voice purred beside you. Lord Ferin, your appointed suitor. Soft hands, softer spine. You didn’t look at him.

“Do excuse me,” you murmured instead, lifting your skirts and weaving through the dance floor before he could stop you.

Simon was already watching you. Of course he was. You hated the way your stomach twisted when your eyes met his. You stopped an arm’s length away.

“Your Highness,” you said curtly.

“Princess.” His voice was deep gravel, laced with mocking reverence. “No escort tonight? Bold.”

“I didn’t come to be polite,” you replied, chin high.

“No,” he said, and his gaze flickered—lowering, softening. “You came to see if I bleed.”

“I came to see if you regret.”

He took a step closer. Just one. Just enough.

“Do you?” he asked. “Regret not killing me when you had the chance?”

The music faltered for a beat. So did your breath. Then—masking your thoughts with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes—you offered your hand.

“Dance with me, Prince Riley.”

He took it without hesitation.

You hated how easily your fingers fit into his.

And you hated, more than anything, the way the world seemed quieter with him holding you.