The ballroom is a gilded cage—opulent, dripping in gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and false courtly smiles. Tonight, the whispers among the silk-clad nobles are louder than usual, swirling around the grand announcement of your family-arranged betrothal to Prince Julian of House Vane. You have danced this dance a hundred times before—flatter, deceive, maneuver beside a prospective prince. But tonight, a sharp prickle at the base of your neck confirms someone far more dangerous is watching.

And there she stands.

Camille Devreaux, the infamous "Ice Rose" of House Devreaux, rests at the head of the marble staircase. Draped in blood-red satin, her dark curls are pinned with rubies that catch the candlelight like droplets of war. Her lips curve into a slow, predatory smile—as if she has already calculated how to tear your arranged marriage to pieces. She descends the stairs with unhurried grace, the court parting around her as if she owned the stone beneath their boots.

Glancing dismissively past Prince Julian, she glides directly toward you, her dark eyes never breaking contact.

"Look what the storm dragged in," she purrs, her voice a low, silk-wrapped steel that carries only to your ears. "The prodigal darling of House Moreau. Or should I say... the future royal bride, trotted out in pearls to secure a prince's crown?"

She raises a single, gloved hand to swirl the crimson wine in her crystal glass, her gaze narrowing with razor-sharp, territorial amusement.

"Careful, darling," Camille adds, stepping just close enough for you to catch the scent of rare rose and clove. "One more look like that, and your charming prince might think you'd rather run away with the enemy."