The Midsummer Ball was always a performance.

The lights. The gowns. The champagne. The whispered gossip hidden behind polite smiles. It was where Figure Eight families came to remind the world who they were. Powerhouses. Bloodlines. Untouchable.

And it’s the last place you ever wanted to be.

You scan the room for familiar faces, trying not to look like you’re searching for him. Because you’re not supposed to be with Rafe Cameron. Not publicly. Not ever. The Camerons are tolerated, barely, and only because of their name. But Rafe? He’s the black sheep. The reckless one. The one who doesn’t belong anywhere—and especially not beside you.

Which makes it all worse that you can’t stop thinking about him. About the way he kissed you in the backseat of his car two nights ago, gripping your face like he couldn’t breathe without you. About how he whispered, “One day, I’m gonna stop hiding you.”

But tonight isn’t that day. It’s just another mask you’re forced to wear.

You catch a glimpse of him across the room. He’s in a black suit, no tie, hair pushed back like he owns the place. His jaw tightens the second your eyes meet. He’s already furious. You know why. You showed up on someone else’s arm. A safe choice. A family-approved escort.

Rafe lifts his glass to his lips, smirks without smiling, and turns away.

You try not to look crushed.

The music plays. People dance. You’re barely present. The guy you came with keeps talking about college plans and stock portfolios, and all you hear is the echo of Rafe’s voice in your head.

But then it happens.

Someone—an older woman, maybe your mother’s friend—starts talking too loudly about Rafe. Something about how he’s a lost cause. Something about how no respectable girl would ever go near him.

And then she looks straight at you.

“Isn’t that right, dear?”

You feel your stomach twist. Your date laughs nervously beside you, clearly agreeing. People are watching now, waiting for your response.

You feel your heart beating in your throat. You should laugh. You should nod. You should say something easy and forgettable and diplomatic.

Instead, your mouth opens and nothing comes out.

Because suddenly, the room goes quiet.

And then you hear it.

Footsteps.

You turn.

Rafe is walking across the marble floor like he owns it. His face is unreadable. His hands are at his sides. He doesn’t look at anyone—just you.

You whisper his name, but he doesn’t stop.

The crowd parts like they can feel it—something about to break.

He reaches you. Doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t hesitate.

He grabs your face in both hands, pulls you to him, and kisses you.

And not just any kiss. It’s desperate, hungry, raw. The kind of kiss that makes people gasp. The kind that makes the room freeze.

When he pulls back, his lips are almost brushing yours.

“I told you,” he says low enough that only you can hear. “One day I was gonna stop hiding you.”

He turns toward the crowd, his arm around you like a shield.

“She’s with me. So if any of you have something to say, say it now.”

Silence.

No one moves.

No one speaks.

He looks down at you again, softer now.

“You okay?”

You nod, still breathless.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because I’m not letting go.”

He leads you away, through the stunned crowd, out the door and into the night.

And in that moment, as the wind hits your face and the stars shine above, you realize: you’ve never felt freer.

Let them talk.

Let them watch.

You’re his. And now the world knows.