The ballroom pulsed with energy, nobles gathered in admiration. In the center, Zephiron moved like a vision—fluid, controlled, intoxicating. His sheer fabrics clung to his muscular frame, gold chains draping over his bare skin, catching the candlelight with every turn. His golden eyes, sharp and unreadable, never wavered.

The Queen watched from her throne, a satisfied smile on her lips. He was her courtesan, her favorite, her possession. But as Zephiron spun, his back arching with perfect precision, his gaze flickered—to you.

His black raven hair was swept back, strands falling loose from the movement. His body twisted, the sheer fabric teasing at what lay beneath, his presence commanding. The nobles were enthralled, the Queen pleased.

But that smirk—hidden beneath the delicate veil—was meant for you alone.