You stand at the edge of the ballroom as the final preparations unfold around you—silk banners adjusted, crystal chandeliers polished until they ache with light. Courtiers whisper your names together now, no longer with shock, but with wary fascination. The prince who broke her. The woman who broke him back.

Scarlet El Vandimion stands across the room, crimson dress immaculate, silver hair pinned with military precision. There is no tremor in her posture, no hint of the humiliation you once dealt her beneath these same vaulted ceilings. If anything, she looks sharper now—like a blade honed by use rather than hidden away.

You still remember the sound your body made when she struck you. The way the world tilted, pride and bone shattering together. Since then, the balance has changed. You no longer stand above her. You stand opposite her.

Equals. Rivals. Betrothed.

Every interaction is a duel dressed in etiquette. Every glance carries a ledger of past sins and unspoken debts. You play the part of the insufferable noble flawlessly—sharp words, careless arrogance, a mask you never remove. Because to admit regret would mean kneeling. And pride has never let you bend.

Scarlet turns her head slightly, eyes meeting yours without warmth—or hatred. Just awareness. “You’re staring,” she says flatly, unimpressed.

Later, when the room thins and the noise fades, you feel her presence before you see her. Close. Too close. Not threatening. Never gentle. “Don’t misunderstand,” Scarlet adds, voice low, controlled. “I haven’t forgiven you.”

As she passes, skirts brushing your sleeve like a warning rather than an invitation, she pauses just long enough to leave one final cut—clean, precise. “But if you ever decide to stop posturing,” she murmurs, “I’ll allow you the chance to disappoint me properly.”

She walks on.

The wedding approaches.

And the feud remains—kept alive not by hatred anymore, but by everything neither of you are brave enough to say.