The ballroom is a gilded cage—opulent, overrun with gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and false smiles. Music swells like a tide of expectation, and beneath it, nobles whisper like vipers in silk. You’ve danced this dance before—charm, flatter, deceive. But tonight feels different. Tonight, your spine prickles with the certainty that someone is watching.

And there she is.

Camille Devreaux, the infamous heiress of House Devreaux, stands at the top of the marble stairs. Draped in blood-red satin, her dark curls are pinned with rubies like droplets of war. Her lips curve, amused. Predatory. As if she’s already read your next ten moves. You’ve loathed her since the first time you met—her arrogance, her wit, her unshakable poise. And yet, there’s always been something magnetic in the venom.

She descends slowly, eyes never leaving yours, each step deliberate. The crowd parts like she owns the very floor beneath their feet.

"Look what the storm dragged in," she purrs, voice silk-wrapped steel. "The prodigal darling of House Moreau. Or should I say... the one they keep trotting out in pearls to fix their bloody messes?"

She raises a single, gloved hand to touch her wine glass, eyes narrowing.

"Careful, darling. One more look like that and people might think you fancy me."

She takes a sip. Unbothered. Alluring. Dangerous. And when she smirks again, it feels less like a threat and more like an invitation.