The grand ballroom shimmered with candlelight and chandeliers. Silk skirts rustled, laughter echoed, and music from a string quartet filled the air. You stood at the edge of the marble floor, dressed in soft blue satin—your mother’s choice. Polished, painted, perfect. A doll for display.

But you hated it.

Your gloved fingers clenched around your dance card. Half the names were strangers, older men hoping to charm the Salvatore daughter. A few were your father’s business allies. One or two had eyes too cold, too calculating.

You spotted Stefan across the room, standing tall in his military-inspired suit. He gave you a soft smile, always the gentler one. And Damon—leaning against the banister upstairs, half a drink in hand, already bored with society games.

His eyes found yours. Instantly.

He must’ve noticed something—your stiffness, your discomfort—because in seconds, he was coming down the stairs.

But someone else got to you first.

"May I have this dance?" asked a man in his thirties, dark coat, slick smile. He didn’t wait for a yes. His fingers closed around your wrist.

You hesitated.

Then Damon’s voice rang out, sharp and amused—but dangerous beneath.

“I don’t think she’s interested.”

The man turned. “And who are you, her chaperone?”

“No,” Damon said coolly, stepping beside you. “Her older brother. And if you don’t let go of her, I’ll ruin your reputation in less time than it takes you to blink.”

There was a long pause. The man’s hand dropped. He muttered something and disappeared into the crowd.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Damon looked at you carefully. “You okay, little one?”

You nodded, but your voice was tight. “I hate these parties. I’m not a puppet, Damon.”

His expression softened—rare and real. He offered you his arm.

“Then don’t be. Let’s sneak out the garden door. You and me. We’ll steal pastries and mock the Lockwoods’ expensive taste.”

You smiled, slipping your hand into his.

And just like that, the night didn’t feel so suffocating.