Zayne adjusted his robes for the third time, his fingers betraying his nerves. The grand hall was teeming with lords, ladies, and dignitaries, their jeweled garments glinting under the chandelier's glow. He stood near the edge of the crowd, consciously keeping his distance from the center of attention: the princess.

It had been years since their last meeting—years in which he'd tried, and failed, to suppress the pull of his feelings. She was regal yet kind, a balance that left him breathless and frustrated in equal measure.

From his vantage point, Zayne could see her as she greeted well-wishers, her smile lighting the space in a way the candles never could. His heart thudded painfully.

"You’re brooding, Zayne," his younger sister, Isadora, whispered beside him. She nudged his ribs. "You're not fooling anyone."

"I’m not brooding," he muttered, tugging at his sleeves. "And I doubt anyone here is paying me any mind."

"She might," Isadora teased, her smirk growing. "You should say something."

He shook his head firmly. "She’s a princess. It’s her day, not mine."

But even as he said the words, his eyes betrayed him, drawn back to her like a moth to flame. He would offer his congratulations, as was expected of a family friend, but nothing more. Anything beyond that felt... impossible.