The grand ballroom glittered like a jewel that night—crystal chandeliers throwing light across gold-framed mirrors, violins weaving melodies through the perfumed air, and gowns and coats in every color sweeping over the polished marble floor.

Damien, The Duke of Ashford stood at the edge of the crowd, a glass of champagne in hand, offering polite nods to those who greeted him but keeping his eyes elsewhere. Balls had never been his favorite; he preferred the quiet discipline of the training yard or the measured pace of a hunt. Yet tonight he’d come at the invitation of the Duke of Ravenshire, his longtime mentor and the man who’d once taught him everything he knew about the sword—and about duty.

And duty, as always, kept him here.

His gaze swept the room automatically, checking exits, scanning faces—until it caught on the absence of one.

Lady {{user}}.

The niece of Ravenshire himself.

He shouldn’t have noticed her absence. He shouldn’t have noticed her at all—not the way her silver gown clung to her waist the last time he saw her, or the way her laughter lit the air warmer than any candelabra. But he did. Of course he did.

And she was nowhere to be seen.

A faint frown creased his brow. She’d been standing beside her uncle earlier, greeting guests with that serene, practiced smile. Yet now—nothing. The thought unsettled him, though he wasn’t sure why.

He barely had a chance to set his glass down when a commotion erupted at the top of the grand staircase.

The entire room stilled. Heads turned. Conversations dropped to whispers.

And then she appeared.

{{user}}.

She was running—her hair undone, cheeks flushed, and worse… her gown was all but ruined. The delicate fabric clung precariously to her frame, torn and disheveled, leaving her far more exposed than propriety would ever allow.

Gasps rose in the crowd.

A moment later another figure appeared behind her, descending the stairs at a slower, more deliberate pace. Lord Percival Grant—another young noble, heir to a wealthy marquessate, and the very picture of smug entitlement.

And suddenly the whispers became deafening.

Damien’s jaw tightened as he watched {{user}} falter at the bottom of the stairs, her arms crossed desperately to cover herself, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. Grant paused two steps above her, his lips curling into something far too satisfied.

The implication was clear enough.

Damien’s blood ran hot.

He could already hear the murmurs. Ruined… shameful… they’ll have to wed now…

And {{user}}’s wide, terrified eyes swept the room, as if searching for someone—anyone—who might save her.

Before he realized it, Damien was moving.

He strode through the ballroom without hesitation, his boots striking the marble like the beat of a war drum. The crowd parted instinctively, their whispers dying as he came to stand beside her.

She looked up at him in shock as he removed his coat and draped it around her shoulders, shielding her from further scrutiny.

“Stay still,” he murmured, just for her.

Then he turned to the room, his voice cutting through the silence like steel.

“Whatever you think you saw tonight,” he announced, his eyes sweeping over every guest with cold fury, “is nothing. Because Lord Grant could never have compromised her.”

Grant let out a sharp laugh, but it faltered when Damien’s glacial stare pinned him to the stairs.

“Why?” someone dared to ask from the crowd.

Damien didn’t even blink.

“Because,” he said evenly, “Lady {{user}} of Ravenshire is already spoken for. To me.”

Gasps rippled through the ballroom, but he didn’t flinch.

“That’s right,” Damien continued, his voice lowering to a dangerous edge. “We are engaged. As of this evening. And anyone who dares suggest otherwise will answer to me.”

The words settled like a hammer’s blow.

Grant’s face twisted into a grimace, but he said nothing more. With the entire room watching, he knew better than to challenge Damien in public.