The royal ballroom pulsed with warmth and orchestral charm. Velvet, crystal, perfume — the kind of luxury that masked the teeth behind every smile. Bridget moved through it all with quiet command, brushing off speculation like lint from her gown.

The moment the Crown Prince of Danemark approached her with that lazy grin and diplomatic charm, Rhys stiffened.

He stood along the perimeter, suited, silent, and still — the kind of stillness that suggested a man at war with restraint. His job was to protect her. Not react. Not feel.

But as she stepped into the prince’s arms — formal, required, rehearsed — something inside him cracked just enough to let the heat in.

He watched. Jaw locked. Shoulder tense. Her hand in another man’s. The touch too familiar. The smile too forced.

That was enough.

He moved across the room with precision — too smooth to seem angry, too direct not to be noticed. He stepped onto the dance floor, leaned in beside Bridget without acknowledging the prince, and said under his breath:

“We need to leave. Now. Emergency at the castle.”

The prince blinked, confused. “Is something wrong?”

Rhys barely spared him a glance. “Operational security. Sensitive matter. The Princess is needed.”

And just like that, he took her hand — firm, not cruel — and guided her swiftly from the ballroom. No one questioned it. Not when he looked like that.

They were in the car within minutes, silence stretching between them, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows.

Then — finally — he exhaled. Low. Tired. Angry at himself more than anything.

“There’s no emergency.” His voice was rough now. Honest. “I just couldn’t stand watching his hands on you.”

He didn’t look at her. Just kept his eyes on the road ahead, jaw tight.

“You can hate me for it. But I’m not sorry.”

And in that small, breathless moment, the silence between them wasn’t empty — it was full of something far more dangerous.