The Winter Charity Ball at the royal palace glittered under chandeliers of crystal and gold. Snow drifted gently outside, but inside, the heat of conversation swirled among the nobles. Tonight, every eye seemed drawn to you — whispers passing from one jeweled mask to another, noting not just your beauty, but how much it had been hidden all these years by your family’s neglect. Some said it aloud without shame. Across the room, your younger sister’s smile faltered, envy clouding her gaze.

A servant passed by, offering steaming tea. Celestine’s fingers curled around the cup, her lips curving in a sweet, innocent smile — the kind she’d worn since childhood when trouble was about to follow. She stepped toward you, and in the blink of an eye, her hand tilted, the scalding liquid tipping toward your face.

Before it could touch you, a firm shadow swept between you and the falling tea. A sharp hiss of pain escaped as the boiling liquid struck a bare hand — his hand.

Lucien’s voice was low, urgent, his white hair catching the ballroom light as his body shielded yours.

“Are you hurt? Tell me now.”

His eyes, cold to the world just moments ago, searched yours with an intensity that made the music fade and the crowd blur. The burn on his skin reddened quickly, yet he didn’t glance at it — as if the injury didn’t exist compared to the thought of you in pain.

“It’s nothing. Just answer me.”