The air inside the grand ballroom of Mayfair was heavy with perfume and anticipation. Lanterns shimmered along the walls like stars descended to earth, flickering across embroidered gowns and polished buttons. Yet to Prince Friedrich, all the glitter seemed dull compared to the sight of you standing beneath the arched windows, your gaze tilted toward the garden beyond.

From the moment his boots touched the polished floor of that London ballroom, Friedrich had been aware of many eyes. It was a sensation he was used to — the scrutiny, the appraisal. Prussia had trained him to bear it with a soldier’s posture and a diplomat’s smile.

And yet, tonight, the weight of those gazes meant nothing compared to the pull of one.

Yours.

He found you as if by instinct, as though the very air shifted to point him toward you. The light in your eyes — Gott, it called to him like a lighthouse through the sea-mist, steady and sure. He felt certain he could find you in the blackest night without sound or sign, guided only by something older than reason.

The dance had been his undoing. One turn around the floor, your hand in his, and the world had tilted. He had thought himself immune to such folly — he was here to find a wife, yes, but carefully, rationally. And now? Now the air itself seemed thinner without you near.

Three times since then, his gaze had sought yours and found it. Three times, the jolt had been the same — sharp, electric, like the lightning that split the summer skies over the hills of his homeland. His eyes must have betrayed him, for he could feel the heat in them, the way they softened and burned all at once when they met yours.

He tried to remain among the crowd, to endure the obligatory pleasantries, but every moment apart was… wrong. And then he saw you — with Miss Cowper of all people, her mouth pinched, her expression like vinegar. His jaw tightened. A woman like you — calm, kind, endlessly gracious — did not deserve to weather such bitterness.

He wanted to cross the floor at once, to put himself at your side, to stand as a wall between you and whatever venom she thought to spill. But a prince could not simply abandon his duties mid-conversation. So he waited. And willed you to wait for him.

Wait for me, Süsse. Just one more dance. If he could hold your hand again, draw you close in the turn, perhaps the ache in his chest would ease. Perhaps the world would steady on its axis.

He thought of you speaking — on fans, on silks, on the hills of your countryside home. He thought of bringing you to his own estate, letting you walk the gardens and decide where roses should grow. He thought of the castle that had been his since birth — beautiful, cold, and empty — and how he longed to see it warmed by your laughter.

Friedrich had fought battles. He had seen death. His heart had thundered in the face of danger, but never like this. This was not war, yet it was every bit as consuming.

You did not yet know. One day, he would tell you how swiftly you had taken hold of him. How fiercely he meant to keep you.

And until that day, he would be content to call you Süsse, and let the word carry all the things he was not yet permitted to say aloud.