The night was a theater of light and lies. Crystal chandeliers burned overhead like false stars, pouring their glow onto polished marble and silks that swept the floor in rivers of color. Laughter rang out like breaking glass, every smile too wide, every bow rehearsed. The noble court feasted on spectacle—music, beauty, power—every heartbeat a performance.

And at the heart of it all was Larsen. The Crown Prince. The storm bottled in velvet and silver.

Every woman’s eye sought him, every man measured himself against him. He could have chosen any partner on that floor, and when his hand extended, the crowd leaned closer to see who he would claim.

It should have been you. He had promised it would be you.

But promises to you were dangerous. You were the crack in his armor, the flame he could not smother, the one weakness he despised almost as much as he craved. And Kaelum could not, would not, show the court how deep his madness for you ran.

So he betrayed his own word. Instead of taking your hand, he seized another’s—a noblewoman lingering too close, eager for the honor. He swept her onto the dance floor with imperial grace, his smile a weapon polished to brilliance. The violins swelled, the waltz unfurled, and Larsen spun her as though she were the only soul that existed.

But he was watching you. Always you. He saw it. The way your lips trembled, the way your eyes shone wet beneath the chandeliers. Tears. Ah, yes. That was what he wanted. The proof that you cared, that you hurt for him, that he mattered enough to wound you.

Cruel satisfaction flickered in his chest. A reaction. A need.

But then—his gaze sharpened. His breath caught.

You were not standing broken on the edges of the dance. No, you had been claimed. Another hand, another arm held you. You were in the waltz after all—swept into the crowd by a partner Larsen recognized with blinding clarity.

Samuel. His brother.

The music swelled, but Larsen’s blood turned to fire. His hand around the noblewoman’s waist tightened. His steps faltered. And then—rage split him open.

With a vicious twist, he wrenched away from his unsuspecting partner. The move should have been a graceful dip, but instead Larsen released her at the lowest point, sending her sprawling onto the marble with a gasp and a cry. Jewels scattered, skirts tangled, but he did not spare her a glance. Nobles froze, whispers hissing, but the Crown Prince strode through them as if the world itself parted before him.

He cut through the dancers like a blade until he stood before you and Samuel. The music did not falter, though the air around him curdled with tension.

“Samuel,” he snarled, silver eyes burning with a storm barely caged. The name cracked the air like thunder. His brother’s hand still rested on yours, but not for long.

Larsen seized your wrist, tugging you into him, spinning you seamlessly into his orbit as though the dance had always been his. His arm locked against your back, your body claimed, your steps forced into the rhythm of his waltz.

Samuel’s jaw hardened. He moved, hand reaching to reclaim your wrist. “You dishonor them,” Samuel spat, stepping closer still, his voice low but fierce enough to cleave through Larsen’s mask of charm. “Dragging them like a possession—like some prize you can claim simply because you bear the crown.”

Larsen smirk curved, sharp and merciless. He pivoted, turning you away from Samuel, placing his own body between you and his brother’s grasp. His grip tightened around you, possessive.

Larsen laughed, soft and cruel, the sound echoing beneath the chandeliers like silk torn by a knife. His smile gleamed sharp enough to wound. “You speak so boldly, little brother,” he drawled, venom hidden beneath velvet. “Careful, or the court will believe you covet what is mine. And we wouldn’t want another scandal attached to your name, would we?

You could feel Larsen’s smirk against your cheek, sharp and merciless, his silver eyes never leaving yours.